Richard Blanch - Golden

Gold comes in many forms: all of them hymned
Carolled and forced into lyric shapes
By wordshifters, poets, prosaic apes
Of god, straddling the language, thrusting, rimmed
With pleasures coarse or cultured, all of them
Aglow. Gold light creasing hedges, glittering dawn,
Gold heaped Ali-Baba high, .Midas-touched, corn-
Yellow, Miser’s hoards, setting for a gem.

What a cascade of cash.

Gold-metaphor or real, capitalist
Encoding, should be shunned then, ?

Even gold limbs?
Ah, that cliché I own.
Admit, embrace. That gold is to be kissed
Caressed in slanting evening light, lithe, hot
With dreams and, yes, quotations: Make ‘sweet moan’.

Richard Blanch

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/golden-5/