Gardeners/
learn/
2 work harder/
2 earn./

The sweetest rose petals/
get their mettle/
tested/
b4 proving they/
r the best 2/
smell and view./

She, 2,/
needs work 2 bloom.

Like women, flowers/
that struggle to open give/
the sweetest rewards.
OR
the greatest rewards.

Top down. Full moon out./
Otis cranked up. I’m solo./
It gets no better!

If I was there
I’d be laying,
soul bared,
next to you,
not trying to do
you,
or anything
you didn’t want me to.
But just hold you
hear your voice,
sail on versper’d aires,
because you’d have the choice
to say all
or nothing at all.
Your call.
But when your mind got in gear,
I’d hear.
Not saying
anything.
Just listening
to your heart sing.
And as you poured
out your soul,
and lost
emotional control,
my arms would enfold you,
tight,
as though they might
control you.
But it’s only me
letting you
let go
and be.

You’re gotten
by no one?
Do I now
count
as no one?

Nobody can do
the boogalo
like I do,
but it’s no fun
to be someone’s
no one.

Shall I now regret
that we ever met?
That I ever heard you vet
“wow, you really get
me.”

See?
Though you’re lonely
you’re not so undone
as to have no one.
You still have me.

It’s not just romance
that makes the connection.
It’s a verbal dance
not seeped in false perfection,

But the unified ability
expressed mentally and verbally
of both parties
to really listen and see.

And when we find
we touch each other’s minds,
our brains expand
and we fully comprehend.

And when we, then, clearly understand
Who we each are, the connection is grand.

As I stare again at the blank blog screen
and post for the thousandth time,
I wonder what I should make it mean?
What sort of message deep and sublime
should flow?
Where should I go?
(Or should I even rhyme?)

In two years I’ve written
romantic poetry;
complaints about people.
Thoughts revolutionary.

I’ve taken a thought
and tried to cram it
like hot metal wrought
into a form iambic.

Or sometimes it’d do
to raise words like winter’s first
crocus: write haiku.

Or a slant
rant.
No rhyme.
Angered words
rage,
spewed forth
on a slam’s
stage.

Dark.
Beat.
Black.

Words captured snowflakes.
Rain.
Sunbeams.
Osprey.
Curry.
Blondes.
Children, parents, family.

Social situations that seem so complex as to defy all logic yet somehow sometimes I’m able to laser-clearly see and cut through all the crap and dross and rhetoric and just
explain.

All these have been written about.
All these forms were used.
And I am, this early Friday morning,
tired.
Not thinking as sharply
as I have.
As I could.

But I want to finish.
Want to post.
Want to pass that milestone,
and maybe boast
a little.

Those who have read
know I write, often,
of love.
Usually unrequited.
Sometimes fulfilled.
Often wah wah wah
as when I started this journey
five years ago.

(She
who inspired me
won’t even know.
She never thought I’d go
this far.)

I thought I might
write
again
of that love,
and thank all the muses.
But I won’t.
They’ve received their thanks
(when they’ve recognized it was for them
the words flowed).

Love
is
what I’ll,
at last,
write of.

Love and gratitude.
Though some may not approve,
to me,
He exists:
My Father.

He lit the fire.
He gave me belief.
Courage.
Conviction.
Strength.
Inspiration.

He opened my eyes
to see,
again,
a world fantastic
beyond measure;
a world I’d always seen,
but never chronicled.

But then
He gave me pen,
and said “Dream.
And write your dreams.”

And I have.

And my heart has pumped blood onto the page.
And my mind has seen visions I never imagined.
And my soul has been twisted and shaped and opened and moved and grown in ways painful and strange and wonderous and wonderful and fulfilling.

And I am grateful.

I’ve posted one thousand poems.
Now I am going to go shower.