Stopping by the Bed
This is based, or a kind of adaptation of "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Frost.
Admittedly, someone asked me what I thought of the poem... this is what first came to mind:
Whose bed this is I think I know
his wife is in the talent show
She will not see me there
To watch his head fill with dew
My throbbing button must think it odd
To focus so near on stupid clod
From her to him I feel dark
The most insignificant kind of nod
He flashes that familiar smirk
To confirm the same cloudy murk
A quiet still tunnel forms
Of focused moment they both partook
The bed is soft, warm and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep
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Re: Stopping by the Bed
Supreme Master,
Now that is a great image painted in my head!!! I don't remember ever meeting Frost, not even in my dreams but have no doubt, this will perhaps show up in mine.
My adaptation of "Stopping by the Wood" has become more and more irksome as I read it, but it was a change of pace with the poetry. So nice to read what's been written to inspire the loins, even if my interpretation took the road less traveled
Your sharing of this poem I hope gets some creative and erotic juices flowing in others too.
A funny side note: did it harken in any others minds, the images of the giant in Gulliver's Travels? But of course way hotter
hugs and kisses Supreme Master. Always a pleasure to read your comments and opinions!!
Re: Stopping by the Bed
Very nice my sweet little Petunia. Something tells me RF
had you in mind when he wrote this:
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She is as in a field of silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
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