Aubade

It is a sort of sport –
a mind game,
useless but also
giving strange
satisfaction –
I have you beg
and plead –
on bended knees –
for the love
you never wanted.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Aubades are poems begging and tempting and pleading with a lover not to leave. Since that hardly ever works anyway and has been written about far too often throughout the history of poetry, I’m offering another exercise … of similar futility.

Suitable for Totally Optional Prompts’ Aubade as well as Sunday Scribblings’ Sports.

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About James Steerforth

I am an author of poetry and fiction, translator and painter who loves to have fun with borrowed feathers.
This entry was posted in Bland observations, Creative writing, Life, Literature, Love, Poetry, Writing and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Aubade

  1. Linda Jacobs says:

    Oooh, I like this! I hate what he does but the poem is great!

  2. I like the clever weaving of thoughts here –

  3. I like the way you compare it with sports.

    It is.

    naisaiKuing

  4. suburbanlife says:

    The ‘turn’ in this poem s brilliant. The whole has a very cold tone. G

  5. Tumblewords says:

    Sport, it is. I never learned the rules. Good post…

  6. stan says:

    Often the case – make it sound better than possible, and see the reaction. Of course, it always ends in tears.

  7. camtodd1846 says:

    Well done.

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