It must be Spring! [poem]
It must be Spring!
In reservoirs of lusty not so laissez-faire
placenta-shaped parenthesis
[whose skin I yearn to kiss],
I search incessantly for loveness in the air.
My well of sap (no more dried up)
is rising through my veins with Spring-tide-
superfluity (no more the incongruity
of wasted nakedness), while all of me
is songing-longing to be (w)hol(l)y shared
within the juicy temple of a goddess
(though [so far] she’s never there).
It must be Spring!
I fall in love with everyone and everything
and long to spread my sprightly seed.
I’m broody like a clucking hen —
mad as a March hare on the moon [again]!
If you who’s reading this, right now,
made love to me, we’d soon be 3 (or more!)
after our melee on the floor
and on my roof and in my bed
or in my car or in my dreams
(for love defies all bound’ries, places,
worlds and firmaments, it seems).
It must be Spring!
For even flying birds and jumping spiders
flirt with me as if they scent my sap.
Their females lift their tails to my face,
fluttering their feathers in a mating spree,
while skipping spiders wave their arms.
The whole world is my wife, who charms me
as I watch her dance with fourteen veils
falling from her skin, until I see WITHIN.
There’s nowhere else I’d rather look in lovers’ lives.
For me, all breasts and thighs
and vulvic pheromonal sighs will summit there.
It must be Spring!
My cobra rises from its customary basket
with hypnotic moves to prove its point.
A choir forged from maidenhair
parades itself, conjoined with cobra’s hood.
Those two, I understood, have now become
the new epitome of March’s springtime flames.
I sing to gain their trust. A voice entreats:
“Love’s so much more than lust!”
And so, the cobra, choir & I were locked in song;
for music’s all there is (at Spring or any other time),
from which are all things made and all things rhyme.
© Alan Morrison, 2017
The Naked Troubadour 