Poem Hunter
(04 October 1943 / Germany)


It's half past nine now, getting lonely at the beach.
She must be taking special care in preparation
of all cosmetic signs that can be yet enhanced.
Though if she asked me, nothing need be done.

'Twas one of those quite mind-pleasing occasions,
a human being simply wanders into view.
Your eyes decide within a fraction of a minute,
that this one needs to, wants to be somewhat near you.

It's not the looks so much, although that is the trigger.
Communication does occur at lower levels.
You want to know the soul that lives behind the pleasant face.
You need to touch her hand because you crave her warmth.

Each person has a group they call support,
plain-chosen through the circumstance of life.
I don't conform there, as my simple, reptile mind
finds and detects them, reasons quite obscure.

On sad occasions when my courage lags behind,
I let the chance to say Hello pass by forever.
And dream for months and years, how strange, yes I agree.
Thus to avoid this I went up to her, to ask.

The usual dumb stuff, don't think I am clever.
About the weather and her origins and the tsunami.
Her name's Renata and she's lovely just to talk to,
Canadian accent but of Carribean roots.

I felt like saying 'lovely maiden, you are perfect,
if I were twenty years my junior I would try
to do most all the things that duly might impress you,
I'd bring you flowers to the beach and pat you dry.

Applying sunscreen to your softly tanning skin,
play in the water like two happy, healthy children,
exchanging anecdotes from childhood and the present.
With hungry eyes I'd be adoring all of you.

But, failing that, to turn the clock back's what I mean,
I'll be content to share your space just now and then.
Though I'm in love with some of you, is it your soul?
It will not matter to the world except confirm
that kindred spirits do exist and will be known
to those whose door is open to their holy inner sanctum,
so that our separated souls can find each other.
To be united in the harmony of all.

Yes, I would like to kiss your lovely lips today,
each day thereafter, also, that is very true.
But I can dream about a compromise tomorrow,
they say that faith is all the things one dearly hopes for.

I'm a philanderer in strange platonic ways.
The word called 'chaste' has been applied behind my back.
Sometimes I wonder if it could perhaps be panic,
the fear of closing doors that ageing did invent.

Meanwhile I must admit the entity of pleasure,
a gene that all of us are given by the angels,
is more pronounced in ancient poets like myself.
It makes for cloudless skies and sunshine for the soul.

Well, here she comes, the queen of all our sandy beaches.
I almost blush when she sends greetings with her eyes.
Am I in love today with one of God's creations,
or is it what they call conversion of a subtle kind?

Identical in age and other features,
are feelings transferred onto lofty planes.
Perhaps that's all and sundry to the pimply pale observers.
I'll have the pleasure of her smiling company.

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