Oh, really now

All readers are welcome,
I say, amused at the point

of view that what I write
is cynical and self absorbed,

or misogynist. Lovely, I am
delighted. I embrace

the broken hearted, the laid
low, those caught in the undertow

of life, the bruised, the abused,
the lost and lonely. Who hasn't

been there for a moment at some
point, and if not, they are blessed

beyond belief. If they want
nursery rhymes about flowers

and love, then open just about
any book on the shelf. It's

usually covered in dust
and hasn't been touched in decades.

Bring a dictionary to look up
all the words you won't understand.

If you want pretension and posing,
if you want to dance around

the point trying to be made,
then it's all there for you.

How do I love thee, let me count
the ways. For God's sake, stop

the babble and just say it. I like
your lips, your legs, the way you

bite my neck when we make love,
I love the way your hips move

and your toes curl when you
melt in my arms. Please.

Poetry should not just be for
all the little girls in school.