Is wanting to see/
someone earlier and more/
obnoxious or sweet?

Bean enchaladas/
the night before a meeting?/
A bad idea.

Will women always/
want and need wine to fall for/
and deeply want me?

Just when I thought
it would be ok
to look at photos brought
and sent during past days
when my soul
and my muse
were confused;
when the pictures
I collected
and reflected
on
brought such deep
feelings
that I filed them
away,
safe.

I was thinking I could risk
bringing them out;
that maybe things had
changed
in some strange
way
to make the exposure
of exposures
ok.

I was wrong.

My helping hand has always been extended
(unlike others, who frequently intended
to reach out to you for their own gain).
My purposes have always been the same:

To support and uplift you
where I could;
To encourage you onward
to your greatest good.

As she stands
at such a precipice,
dare I extend my hand
at a risky time like this?

Is she dangling
dangerously?
Or merely trying
a better view to see?

Will my reaching out
block her enthusiasm
as she removes her doubt
and leaps across the chasm?

I will retreat and offer no assistance
until I’m certain I’ll meet no resistence.

Whilst I dwelled
in her land of nativity,
she, from far away,
unleashed a bomb on me.

It was, as often is
in times of peace,
completely unexpected,
and the power it unleashed

flowed out and washed over
grey matter, heart and soul too,
and the feelings it uncovered
brought moistening eyes to view.

And then, like the sound of one escaping bomber plane,
she fell silent, and her words were not heard again.

There is this woman
who has, from day one, intrigued me,
but who said from day two
there was no “we” that could ever be.

Does she now, at last,
let tender, caring words slip?
Let feelings escape her grasp,
just as I prepare for a trip?

The words and thoughts
I’d always waited in vain for,
now are finally brought
as I head out the door.

Yet though these words come at last as a surprise,
I take comfort knowing: Such a feeling never dies.

Dare I always be the one
who reaches out on-line first?
Dare I be again the one
who writes in metered verse?

Dare I hope she hasn’t gone
into her deep dark dwelling place
so the computer glow illuminates walls,
but doesn’t shine upon her face?

Dare I, driven by memories past,
and what yet may be,
write verses quick and fast
that flow improvisationally?

Yes, I will take that writing dare again,
for she will answer, though I don’t know when.