Fruitful to be

My soul, my Lord, is pleasure found
in tastes few, and all around.
My soul, my Lord, goes not to waste.
I cherish it. It is my taste.

And in the autumn mist and grief,
a berry set to make belief,
delicious, fragile, and so sweet,
encourages, called love and treat.

Forbidden fruit will be the young,
the fancy one to look and throng.
It is by fall we get it right.
We get it what is really might.

From being young I vanished too,
and made my grade in subjects few.
Though, what I am is never mind.
That berry, to me, is just kind.

.·: † :·.

A link to this poem is posted on the blog hop of dVerse Poets ꜛhere.

By Now I Am in Love

I See The Drawing I Just Made.
The Girl I Made To Hit The Grade.
The Girl was What I Tried To Glove.
By Now, My Lord, I Am in Love.

A Year for Many, Making Her
Was To Let Missing Link Occur,
As If to Hawk She Was The Dove.
By Now, My Lord, I Am in Love.

Desire Was Not Lacking When
I Drew Her Face, And Always Then
Proportions Were Not from Above.
By Now, My Lord, I Am in Love.

.·: † :·.

Fidelity I Praise

There Are So Many Smooth Appears,
So Many Creatures Matching Fears.
A Way of Man Is What Such Raise.
Fidelity, My Lord, I Praise.

There Are So Many Needs of Rule,
So many Ways To Be A Fool.
Such Will, They Say, One Cannot Chase.
Fidelity, My Lord, I Praise.

There Are So Many Offerings,
So Many Lame Beginnings!
So Little Courage To Find Place …
Fidelity, My Lord, I Praise.

.·: † :·.

The Child - My Lord

A Boy of Five Laid at My Door
A Stick He Had And Had Cared for.
He had Removed The Bark All through.
The Child, My Lord, May Have The Clue.

I Took It Up And Made It Clean,
for Him And Any To Be Seen,
And For To Show What Children Do.
The Child, My Lord, May Have The Clue.

The First of All, That Boy Me Showed,
The Pointing Stick, was, To Be Owed,
Was What He Made, That Little New.
The Child, My Lord, May Have The Clue.

I Made A Ladder of That Thing
He Found it Fit to Me To Bring.
I Thought, Man Needs A Table Too.
The Child, My Lord, May Have The Clue.

And It Took Off, by Senses, Which
The Adult Had, on Seconds Rich.
The Stick He Made My Made A View.
The Child, My Lord, May Have The Clue.

.·: † :·.