A Peeping Poet

paul-chabas-september-morn-the-metropolitan-museum-of-art.jpg!Large

It’s a crisp fall morning
As she carefully dips her toes
There’s a hidden alcove there
Where nobody goes

The water is calm
So very peaceful and serene
And she washes discreetly
Mindful she isn’t seen

A sudden splash and ripple
Quickly catch her attention
And she shields her breasts
In modest apprehension

But it’s only just a loon
Seeking out its prey
And her fear subsides
As the majestic creature flies away

Back to her bathing
She becomes lost in introspection
So she bends down slowly
To look at her reflection

She sees a stubby little nose
With wide blue eyes
And there’s a small pointy chin
Which she’d like to disguise

Her blurred image
Stares back for quite awhile
And something about it
Suddenly makes her smile

She lets out an embarrassed giggle
After realizing she’s been seen
She happens to notice a poet
Has come upon the scene

I’m so sorry I reply
To disturb you in the nude
I wanted to capture the moment
Even though I see it was rather rude

Please go on with your bathing
And I’ll return from where I came
And next time I see you
I’ll try my best to refrain

© 2018 Michelle Cook


The Painting is, September Morn.  By Paul Émile Chabas

Advertisements

This is love…

sun-3082625_960_720

As I sit here and ponder
There’s life all around
Though hardly any
Ever makes a sound

Grown up so handsome
Exquisite and tall
Each one is there
To watch over us all

If only these beauties
Could somehow speak
And give us the answers
We so desperately seek

However, a tree
Could never talk
It’s seen merely
As a perch for a hawk

And yet it really is
So much more
A lovely place
To go and explore

Its branches always
Spread so wide
A real haven
In which to hide

The perfect place
To lie under and exist
Its outstretched arms
So hard to resist

Each leafy canopy
Has seen it all
Leaves delicately spread
To cushion our fall

Can anyone imagine
A more perfect place to be
Other than inside the crook
Of an old oak tree

I can hardly think
Of any other
As it whispers softly
Like the voice of a mother

And I get lost
In the day
As every branch
Begins to sway

This is living
This is life
This is love…

© 2018 Michelle Cook