Nor is she a raisin, as if
Her feelings were some unexpressed bowl
of cosmic oatmeal, all dried up.
She is ever full and luscious
She is ever beyond the need for rationalizations,
for explanations,
for obvious trumpets.
The mystery of woman moves beyond
the simple minds of men
and dried-up logic.
If this world be barren, 'tis by irreverent men
Lacking reverent attitudes,
unmoved by prayer and care and gratitude.
A woman's far from some instant cereal
—Just add hot water and plump the raisins—
She's far too intricate. She's "just enough" brazen.
And if a man grant not Her latitude,
And call her dried-up, surely he is crazed! - And -
Make no mistake about a woman's empathy
She needs not your platitudes, just some understanding
- sometimes, some sympathy -
That from Her womb came the callous men
To try to hold Her to Her place
- that strive to withhold Her fitting praises -
Men who continually react without "amen."
So here's my prayer and joyous grace
I'll gladly sing to Her evocative face:
She's like the reins which nourish
some fearless flight of men's rushing haste,
She's the liquid love to balm their sorry soul.
And if you are that deep purple plum of woman,
You're the flowing color which collects the dew —
You are wet with fervent feeling,
Merely needing outlets to mine
the nectar of your compassion,
To express essential passion,
To plumb the pure magnificence
of No Regrets! And —
Even in this man's loneliness,
We'd be empty without you.
(Peom and Photo Copyright 2001 by Darius Gottlieb - No reproduction without express permission from the author)
