IF I DON’T DESERVE A NOBEL IN THE ART OF LOVE THAN I DON’T KNOW WHO DOES
My love for you comes galloping in
every time I hear your voice or see you—
even if you are fully clothed,
without as much as a nipple in view.
I’m in awe of your present perfection,
smitten by your elegance, charm
and the elan vital of who you are.
You have the brains of Madam Curie,
creative imagination of Georgia O’Keefe,
and the classic beauty of Cleopatra.
You are a butterfly in flight,
and I’m firmly on the ground.
I built a permanent bridge
from me to you.
We mesh seaseamlessly.
My love for you plays show-biz tunes
that makes me want to dance,
even though I’m too shy to let go
an any ballroom dancing floor,
let alone join a Hora or tag along
on a Conga line.
I caress your body and soul
until you sing love’s sweet song.
You’re as delectable as a bunch
of Medjooli dates, and ripe Turkish figs
on top of ruby-red pomegranates.
All you Swedish judges—forget about dynamite,
and see if I haven’t earned a Nobel in the art of Love
before I seque in to the immensity of the world beyond.
Milton P. Ehrlich 199 Christie St Leonia,