In National Poetry Month,
I’ll have written 100 rhymes.
And I’ll have thought about you
at least one thousand times.

Around April 1st I was a fool:
Insecure, self-conscious, and whiney.
And when you read my words aloud
it was all you could do to remind me

that I shouldn’t beg, nor complain, nor whine;
refrain from all those Eeyorian traits.
So I did as you suggested, and became confident.
I act as I feel: first rate.

It hasn’t changed my ability to see you,
but at least I’m doing what I need to.

I’m not Eeyore/
anymore./
But I cant be Piglet/
either, I bet,/
who just does a very noble thing/
regardless of his own feelings./
I miss U, and/
I own that stand.

85 percent right/
is still wrong. Being nosy/
won’t help me get you.

The only reason I go to sleep
is because when I slumber deep
I hear your voice.
It’s not by my choice

that, in dreams, I see your face.
It’s just what fills the space
where Tinkerbell did once reside;
when I, as Peter Pan, cried:

“I don’t want to grow old!”
And now, sans mold,
when I retire,
my dreams are inspired,

in a fairy’s place
by your face.

Today thoughts of you/
helped me write improv haiku./
And now you have it.

I skipped church to go to His cathedral:/
a place my father’d often gone before./
I’d never understood how he could worship/
without walking through an entrance door./
But now I do,/
because I did, too.