I warned her: “I’m intense.”/
Silent moments pass and say/
how silly that is.

I picked up beer cans,/
crushed, from the gutter, and left/
my heart there instead.

I never know/
how it goes/
2 take it slow./

I’m not fond/
of waiting 2 respond,/
but most say I
should,/
that waiting’s good./
I don’t ever know/
how that will go.

I never know/
how it goes/
2 take it slow./

I’m not fond/
of waiting 2 respond,/
but most say I should,/
that waiting’s good./

I don’t no y./
So she finds a guy/
mo fly?

You can only deem me silly/
since you don’t know how you’ve thrilled me./
If you only think that I amy forlorn/
because I’m missing out on your kettle corn.

You can’t imagine how frequently/
my memory goes back so completely/
to when you and I shared burnt rhubarb,/
and I felt, that evening, more like the Bard

than I had for a long time, and rarely have since./
So certain am I that I’d make you wince/
if I divulged the deepest feelings in my heart,/
I’ve decided to keep them buried in the dark.

Where I can view them from night ’til morn,/
while you think it’s silliness about kettle corn.

I’m a curriculum developer and trainer.
Perhaps I could write training for you.
Or, in a romantic no-brainer,
Maybe just poetry will do.

Or witty, intelligent, well-written prose.
That’s probably not something you see much of.
Emails with depth and feeling or, I suppose,
even talk that won’t leap right to love.

But what I’d instead prefer,
on a bright blue day such as this,
is that we avoid the demure,
and make a lake walk into bliss.

On a mundane Monday, this sonnet’s kinda silly.
But you still can respond. Come on. Thrill me!

More fridge commentary
Even folks you don’t/
like have hearts, souls and feelings./
Sad that you, rude, don’t.

The closets we hold/
closed/
with our memories/
and regrets/
and pain/
and anger/
and ‘what if’s’/
and “I should have’s”/

choke us,/
like an albatross/
around our neck,/
like a millstone tied,/
weighing us down,/
like a bad meal/
returning again/
and again/
and again;/
sour burning/
into our throat./

And when we dare/
swallow deeply,/
gulp,/
and open/
the closet,/
face our fears,/
disgard the distrust,/
harness our hurts,/
tame our trash,/
and purge our past,/
it’s not just spring/
cleaning./
It’s our spring/
board./
We jump./
We leap./
We soar.

I keep calling U./
Ever wonder why?/
I’m trying 2 tell U/
I cleaned my pigsty,/
and Y,/
and how U/
were an inspiration/
and helped me do/
what I should have long ago done.

Often, people have groups of words/phrases in little magnets on their refridgerators, which they then form into interesting, sometimes insightful, prose or poems. I met someone who was fond of that “fridge genre” … after I wrote this, I realized it could also apply to how I’d felt during my marriage. There are 3 alternative endings to the first line.

She could have wisdom (or romance, or Poe’try,)/
on her fridge. Instead, she chose/
to have yardwork done.

OR
She could have wisdom/
on her fridge. She chose getting/
her lawn mowed instead.