You asked for a poem

And a poem is fine

When it sings of love

Oh, Jackie of mine.

Mine, that is to say,

For snipping my hair;

Life to an Oldie

Is pretty unfair.

Whilst your “Little Detective”

Fondly detects

Delights of your body

Without defects,

All I can do when

You flit through my hair,

Mutter to myself:

“Life’s bloody unfair!”

So this little poem

Will not sing of love

That flies to the heart

Like white turtle-dove,

With melodies sung,

Never yet heard;

For love – my dear Jackie –

Is a four letter word.

When sighed between sheets,

Or sung in love-song,

That four letter word

Really sounds wrong.

So, if this wasn’t a poem

And wasn’t from me

A message of love

It truly could be,

Direct to the Soul

And not for the ear:

“Be happy and loved

Jackie my Dear.”                        

© P. J. Oszmann (September 1988)

© Illustration created in Photoshop (2008)

Footnote:

Jackie – a “drop dead gorgeous” young woman - was a visiting hairdresser, who came regularly to attend to my wife’s hair and – whilst with us - she also cut mine.

She was a true romantic; head firmly in the clouds. One day whilst cutting my hair she sighed, saying how she always wished and dreamt about someone writing a love poem to her. I could not resist, I offered. She – on the other hand and despite my gallant effort – could resist and never did…

The “Little Detective” referred to in the third stanza was a young CID officer in the Metropolitan Police, who was Jackie’s sweetheart. I believe they eventually married, after which Jackie gave up hairdressing and I – finally - gave up offering to write “love poems” to younger women.

I found the original recently amongst my junk.