My Captain Is A Mountain

My captain is a mountain o’er his cavalry
As he crashes like a wave on the strand
On the green sporting field with great chivalry
And I, his private, start a cheer in the stands.

His shoulders are a broad barrage of fortitude,
Flanked by sturdy posts, tan and unbreakable.
His legs are pillars, pale-sculpted with aptitude;
They are slender like a deer’s—a lounge-table’s.

His voice is deep like thunder, but with smallest cracks,
Like those in an ancient Greek idol, timeless.
No words proper can describe it, for they all lack
The beauty of his words, as they are rhymeless.

His brow is like a wheat-field, soft and golden toned
With fine dark grains which may all sweet brows surpass.
They frame two lapis-lazuli, set in white stone,
And are poised by the wisps of autumn grass.

His locks are as a mixed barley field, dark and light,
Dewed with body’s-rain that trickles down his crown.
Those beautiful, fine-carved posts like battle rams fight
To repel the losing forces of foreign towns.

I run my finger down his thin, petal-shaped nose
Which is bordered by two rosy gardens
And a bow-like mouth to the south upward grows,
Accented by saplings that sprout up so ardent.

He has won the battle long, triumph is his wine.
He drinks in winning draft, and I drink as well.
Our shy-eyed first embrace, my captain now is mine,
And no competition could my love now quell.

A gold carriage rides us off to rejoice in feast
For his salvage of our scholastic honor.
Captain, my captain (and Whitman I repeat),
I embrace his awesome form, the helm-donner.

Though all girls cheer his name, and all scholars praise
His mighty brow, his graceful build are my prize.
Those mixed-grain locks are still locked in my gaze
I wrote this for you, for my first true love’s eyes.