I need to confess:/
Today was strange for me. /
You inspired, I guess,/
substantial creativity./

More than I usually get,/
at least in Proseaic form./
You gave verbal fodder to vett –/
much more than the norm./

And when that Muse strikes me/
so strongly it can’t be ignored,/
I must obey, wrong or rightly,/
and write down every word./

But be at peace and know you, though confused and bemused,/
are not the object of the story (sorry!), but only the Muse.

You found it? You see
it? My canoe key?
I keep my canoe
over by Red Hook Brew
ery.
And I lost the key
to the paddlock.
No, I’m not stuck
(I have an spare).
So, if you care
to dare
to paddle with me,
meet me near the brewery
with the found canoe lock key.
We can then tour the slough
if that’s what you want to do.

Your “wish list” profile fits me
better than the lost canoe key
fits the lock.
I know we’ve talked
before.
You didn’t want more
then, but I did. And do.
And maybe, rereading my score,
you might, too!

What’s on my mind?
You.
At least to find out about
You.

A good way to do
that
is to IM
or chat.

Doesn’t have to be
Yahoo.
Any IM thingy
will do.

Gmail.
MSN
I suppose a call
now and then
would do
too.

Or texting.
Or I guess email
would work as well.
From what I can tell.

What are we looking for?
Pen pals?
Friends?
Super-friends?
More?
Lovers?
Companions until the bitter end?

If you were interested in a guy,
and you emailed him,
and you didn’t know why
but on a whim
he didn’t email back for … several days,
would you forget him?

I’m movin’ on! Tough!
Or would you think:
Nah, he’s just not interested enough
to jump off the brink.

Maybe the real question we all have to ask us
is this: how interested
in being interested
are we…
really?

When your sniffles are gone
it would be fun
for us to meet
for a tea or chowder treat
out in the sun.

Romance is not about buying things.
Instead, it’s more of doing,
And the emotion two can bring
With just Being.
It’s a gentle caress;
A compliment in earnest.
A held hand’s power.
A plucked wildflower.
An opened door.
Sticky note poems on a mirror.
A breath on her back
Under the shining full moon,
To softly stir her, but not awake,
From her deep slumber too soon.
Just enough
To let her feel loved,
And safe, and so the protected her,
Sleeps on, knowing she is two, together.
How does it come to this?
Such tenderness and romantic bliss?
Decades of desire
fuel the fire
long smothered
but at last uncovered
and, given fresh breath,
roars to life, from near death.
And to her invited
to fan the flame,
poetic romance, now requited,
will never be the same.