She, feeling the poet’s creative glow,/
wanted to read more of his words’ flow./

“Now” (he thought to himself)/
“if only she’d take me/
and not just my poetry/
off the shelf,/

and turn the pages there/
and open up and bare/
my soul to her view./
That’s what I’d like her to do.”

But she, instead,/
was more prompted/
to refer him on/
to another one./

Which always struck the poet as strange/
that desired women should arrange/
for their friends a proposed match,/
when they, themselves, were the hoped-for catch.

My friend returned from a self-discovery trip to Italy. About a week later, she took down the profile photo of her lounging by the pool, and posted her business photo… so I wrote this.

Is this again
who my friend is?
A trimmed, pruned, perfectly-in-place
Rose, sitting in a manicured garden?

The Rose I know
is a flora bunda,
throwing herself
with passion and gusto
hither and yon,
first straddling,
then climbing over garden walls,
exploring, untrained, places
outside her artificial limits;
destinations where her gardeners,
in their stiff shoes and mucked-up boots,
say she shouldn’t go.

But she escapes her artifical confines anyway,
because she knows that,
by thrusting off those fake constraints,
the freedom causes her to radiate blossoms continually.
It’s as though her growth freeds her roots,
which then let her produce new blooms,
almost so many that you can’t count.
And they are rich and deep:
When people pass by this Rose, the scent
permiates the air
and makes them glad they are present.

No, this visage is not my friend.
The Rose I know is not tidy,
not pruned,
not controlled,
nor kept.
But her wild exuberance
makes her all the more
lovely.

I hope yer walk/
back 2 Church and God/
has been going as U thot/
and as it ought./

The path we tread/
isn’t always lite,/
but is always right./
There’s no instead.

I hope the forgotten orifices/
that you’ve opened wide/
2 my touch, words and kisses/
can capture and retain/
peace and joyfulness/
that you can use again.

Tho U don’t c/
my newest poetry,/
just means U miss/
thots that still exist./

They r words/
spoken 2 the earth,/
captured by the wind,/
fueling your inner fire again.

Canoe?
At 2?
Me and you?
Red Hook Brew
ery?
Incredible day.
What do you say?

When my poetry/
is like foreplay to her,what/
more is there to say?

Please,
stop dying.
I want
to take you
dancing.

She’s seeking
someone she’s already met.

So there was a guy, see,/
who met a woman so intelligent and witty/
that, like Windsong, he couldn’t get her off his mind./
She was intelligent, interesting,/
and, like Muriel, oh, so refined….

What she didn’t know about him was he could float/
his watercraft, as well as her boat./
Pitch a tent and not perspire;/
with one match create a bonfire;
Hike to Rattlesnake Ledge … and higher;/
He’d learned to alpine ski/
when he was barely three,/
but t’was in flat Wisconsin,
where he learned again
to cross-country ski
at ten.

As a professional writer and communicator,
he’d learned of the power of words, and more;
but he also learned to be romantic
in a gentle, not frantic
way;
to say
words which were kind;
thoughts which caressed the mind
and heart.
Because that kind
of caring
and soulful sharing
is a big part
of what the email’s receiver will find
if she’ll take a chance here,
and answer.