Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Telling the Truth

If I were dry instead of spilling over
A stemmed rummer: Chardonnay or port
If I were bare instead of drunk with clover
Wisteria madly climbing o’er my fort

If I were fair instead of robust swart
My limbs each a shaded branch
If I were willowy, but nay, I am short
Burning thoughts the world will stanch

If I were a vicar, not stuck on this ranch
Prayers launched unto the Promised Land
To face the Almighty, I’d surely blanch
My intractable ship by Him be manned

If I were willing, I’d spread my arms and die
But my arms stay folded; I bow and sigh


Irina Dimitric said...

Susan, your sonnet flows beautifully and I'm glad you're not ready to die.

Charli Mills said...

Leave it to a poet to teach me new words (rummer) and take me to new heights I otherwise might skirt. A beautiful poem!