By David Palmer
13-February, 2017
Maple Valley, Washington
The god of love was out of sorts, mischief
In very short supply: “Shooting arrows
Into bumbling, fickle, inconstant hearts
Depresses me greatly! Where have the great
Lover’s gone? Cleopatra, Antony?
Bogie and Bacall? Tracy and Hepburn?
Who loves today with imagination
Skill and verve? Who yet woos their lover’s soul
With more than greeting cards and chocolate?”
But then, when hope seemed all but play’d out
And ready was he to smash his bow down
Upon the ground, he spotted you and me.
“Great lovers walk this earth once more,” cried he,
“These find the way to convey love in verse.”
©2017 David W. Palmer
Poem Only
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