Love Poems of the Good Doctor 3

14 January 2013


A thousand nights, I lay
upon coverlets of Chinese silk and gold,
laid over ancient woolen carpets
woven on the looms of Persia’s past,
colored geopatterns, an oasis spreading
over cold silica, Arabian desert sands,
all enclosed within a Sheik’s Bedouin tent.

All this land was mine,
east as far as the Indus River Valley,
west into the Mediterranean Sea,
south to Arabia and North Africa,
north to the hyperborean tundra.

No army could withstand my advance,
not Greek, not Persian, not Hindi,
even the Olympians stood back,
for the son of Zeus was invincible.

At last, I rested for a thousand nights,
being sent the daughters of once upon kings,
peace offerings and treaty inducements
of radiant maidens from all of my lands.

Under an umbrella of stars twinkling
within a vast sea of onyx blackness,
I ravished one maiden after another.

Arabian beauties with jet black hair
and deep-well eyes.
Fair-haired, Valkyries burning for the thrust.
Oriental princesses, moist furrows longing for the plow.
Endless pleasures had I and them,
but, each I sent away at orange morning’s dawn,
for none had been the One.

On the night of one and one thousand,
the night air was unusually crisp,
ones breath generating swirling clouds,
the desert wind had nothing to share this night,
so silent, one could almost hear the moonbeams
striking the silica sand.

I was lost in random thoughts
and heard not, her grand entrance,
but there before me, stood a maiden
wrapped all around in shearling fur.

I asked who she was,
she replied,
I am from the land
where the Dnieper River flows.

My first thought, was she an angel,
come to tempt my soul?
Or perhaps, she was death,
showing me that my fame was naught?

With pursed lips, she spoke,
as if she could read my mind,
words flowing like honey through
lips stained with red rose blush.
I am no more than a physician’s daughter,
though for you, I am your medicine.

Her hair, red-gold yarn,
framing her high cheeked face,
gleaming in the flickering lantern light,
seemingly forged by dwarfs deep
within some mythical mountain.

Her eyes, lime green irises,
like those of the cat-goddess Bast,
calling onto my secret name,
sweet words, pulling me
as the lodestone pulls iron.

Without a word or sound, this cat-goddess
let her fur slip to the floor,
standing naked before my eyes,
her virgin loins as a child’s,
nipples firm from lust, not cold.

Alabaster skin, untainted by imperfections.
Ripe for remodeling with a potter’s hands.

I asked her name, she replied,
I am yours, my love to be,
called by your heart’s deepest yearnings,
I am your Calliope.

Moving gracefully, as the cat she was,
she came to me, sparkling sunlight
moving on the surface of still water,
her skin was light itself.
She knelt in front of me, smiling,
her face radiant with love’s pureness.

She leaned forward, her lips near my ear,
her exhalations, warm and moist,
she whispered, her words compelling,
take me my lord, I am yours
as you are eternally mine.

Bringing her lips to mine,
her heart spoke to my heart and
I knew she was the One,
and I loved her for I remembered her.

When the orange desert dawn came once again,
Calliope I kept, for she had conquered
he who had conquered the world.


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