I’ve mellowed my romance,
yet I’m still too intense.
In baseball parlance,
I keep swinging for the fence …
and striking out.
I’m not certain what I want;
I’m not certain what that’s about.
I guess I should (mixing metaphors) just punt.
I once knew a woman
who was as enthused as could be.
Sometimes I think about her. Damn!
She was intense about ME!
The women I meet lately claim they have dreams;
But no one wants to put the effort in, it seems.
How many times a day/
may/
I say/
that Ur groovay?/
And remember, no answer is confirmation,/
substantiation,/
and subtle affirmation,/
not rejection,/
of my affection!
How do I read negative in?/
Such heartfelt gloom?/
I hear scolding again:/
“U heard it wrong! Go to yer room!”/
So, confident,/
I repent/
and flaunt/
I’m what U want!
I think about you/
arguably all day. Do/
you still think of me?
We don’t take/
time to call,/
email, write a note, small/
things that would make/
a huge difference./
In our defense/
we claim/
we have no time./
Are we insane?
We make time to shout/
at our walls, but won’t take time/
to break through to you.
Original alternative
We make time to shout/
out to air, but wont take time/
to connect to one.
———-
At 11:20 a.m., after seeing a friend posting their Facebook “Wall”, I wrote this (and posted it on my Facebook Wall)
Friends say
“I don’t have time to write today,
Or call
at all.”
Yet I see them writing
on their wall
and it’s frightening
to see
how we’re forgetting
our “personal we”.
We see it. Feel it. But,/
like frost, miracles can melt/
If we’re too busy.
First (original) alternative
We saw and felt it./
Like frost, our miracle melts./
We are too busy.
Second alternative
We see it. Feel it. But,/
like frost, miracles can melt./
Are we too busy?
I guess that it’s true./
There is no time for our growth/
if we dont make time.
No matter how deep/
like the sea I want to know/
you, waves don’t return.
If Michael Buble/
wore a toupée,/
would you still at his songs sigh?/
Would they still make your soul fly?/
You make me feel the same way.