PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You are seventy-three or seventy-fours years old by now.

I hope you are alive (if not, I hope you died in Grace

received by Faith; perhaps even the Orthodox Faith); and if

alive, I pray that old age's afflictions have not

compromised your health in any way (unlike so many who

feel the relentless lash of physical decrepitude.  September

nineteen-seventy-one, I saw a photograph of you in the

local newspaper, not their own original, of curse, but a

wired item:  the photograph, taken on the campus of some

Ohio university, accompanied an article about protests

against the War in Viet Nam sweeping across several

Ohio colleges.  You were, therein, depicted:  seated on the

exterior sill of a fourth or fifth floor dormitory window,

next to adjacent windows from which a large white cloth,

assembled from bedsheets, with one of the prevalent anti-war

slogans painted on it in large, and unignorable letters.

Next to the main feature, you sat, legs dangling:  thankfully

no editor or clerk had bothered to crop the photograph more

closely.  You appeared to be nineteen or twenty years old,

your long hair was quite conspicuous, definitely cascading

below shoulder length.  You had put on a sleeveless tee,

and what I assumed to be denim bell-bottoms (fairly large

flares), from which your slender bare feet seemed to emerge.

I clipped the whole article---my inquisitive mother assuming

I needed it for some academic purpose in one of my classes

(eighth grade).  I had recently learned how to pleasure

myself---thanks, in small part, to the Boy Scouts' Handbook,

retained after quitting that estimable institution just

three months previously; and in larger (and more engorged and

erotic) part by the chestnut-haired beauty who lived five

residences south of my home.  When alone in my bedroom, I

gazed deeply, and for a prolonged amount of time, because I

already knew how profoundly I wanted you---to love you, to be

loved by you.  Can a thirteen year old boy really feel that?

Juliet was twelve when she sought Romeo's intimacy, and I

knew I wanted yours.  I was illegal to you, according to the

clodhopppers, in the state legislature, who had enacted such

restrictive and harshly enforced laws (so I thought, then).

But those same ditch-hoppers could not regulate my fantasies

about you, and the postures of all the intimate positions you

taught me when, naked with you in my imagination:  tumescent

close to the seven-fold surge; panting wildly, I offered

myself to you.  And you received my offering with the tenderest,

but very obviously aroused and eager, regard.

Starward-Led