I never thought I’d be
asking someone out from PT!
It does, after all, seem
to be so far away, so like a dream.

And yet, her profile captivates me,
and her smile blazes like a light on the sea.
So I, interested, read what she wants
and think about dining in her restaurant.

I wonder if she has wireless there,
and if she, as the owner, would ever care
if a writer and consultant came over the waves,
walked in, sat down, and said “Hi. I’m Dave.”

If he proceeded to make himself at home there,
would she be interested? Would she care?

Oh, I know… /
we’ve danced before/
or flirted, /
or something similar,
of that I’m sure…
and now, like a cheesehead /
drawn to frommage,
I must confess to admiring/
your decoutage’ …
and your profile.

With her, I’d have to agree:
She of the raven hair,
subtle smile, piercing stare,
is an enigma, somewhat, to me.

She is thus self-professed,
and seems to feel that way,
so I’m not sure what to say
that would turn her head best.

I could, I suppose, compliment
her beauty, wit, and grace.
But women are more than their face,
and she’ll tire of praise too often sent.

So I’ll simply ask her: “What do you think a man should do,
to avoid disaster when he finds an enigmatic woman to woo?”

Reading social cues/
that she’s not that into you:/
Like reading संस्कृतम् Sanskrit.

It seems everyone, these days, has a Bucket List: A pail full of large dreams they want to accomplish. Go to Tibet. Parachute. Scuba dive. Climb the Great Pyramid. Swim with whales. Sunbathe under the Tuscan sun.
Those are all great, but I’m getting a lot of enjoyment out of my Sandpail List: A pail full of small things that fill in the cracks between the big bucket list items. The analogy comes from the fact that, if you fill your bucket with large rocks, you can still pour an entire bucket — or two — of sand in between the rocks.
Sand represents things like: canoe with the salmon on the Sammamish. Feel fresh cheese curds squeek on my teeth. Karaoke “Born 2B Wild” at a biker bar. Film my daughter holding her mom’s hand. Make fresh apple cider on a cider press with wormy green apples. Admire blonde hair shimmering in the fall full moonlight.
These are things I can find — and do — every day, so my life is not just a continual Waiting for Bucket List Godot Moments, but a continual revelation and enjoyment of the small but wonderful moments that make up a good life.

—————–
Addendum: Adding droplets of water June 7, 2011, 15:15 p.m.
A friend reminded me of the rest of the analogy. Even when the bucket is full of stones (the large, bucket list items), and sand (the smaller, sand pail list items), there is still room for water. Drop by drop, water fills the bucket to overflowing… even when it’s already “full” of large stones and sand.
But what are the water droplets that fill our pails? This was the question I kept asking myself. The small, sand pail items that make up a wonderful life … they seemed to be the things that were in my life daily, the “small and wonderful moments”.
And then it hit me: The droplets of water is everything else that makes me smile. But, more importantly, it’s looking at everything else so it DOES make me smile. Today is a rainy, cold Seattle summer day. At 3:20 p.m., there is no sand pail list item to bring me joy, and certainly no bucket list “big ticket” item to rock my world… yet I look out my window and see the American flag on my neighbors house, fitfully blowing in the afternoon breeze. I’m reminded of what a great country we live in, my heart is warmed, and a teardrop moistens the corner of my eye … and falls into my bucket. And the leaves are green, and the air is scented and misty, and my bucket begins to fill even more, drop by drop, grain of sand by pebble by stone by rock.
Life ebbs, flows, drifts, and rocks.
I just have to see it, and let it fill up my bucket.

You aren’t erotic/
as you once were. Do I no/
longer stir longing?

If I asked you to/
dance softly, slow and gently/
in the rain, would you?

Good Sabbath!/
I’m frequently confused/
about who should call who,/
so if U missed me yesterday,/
all I can say/
is I’m sorry I bailed/
and failed,/
but will repent.

Thanks 4 dancing/
with no romancing./
I’d love to do more/
than hit the dance floor/
with you,/
hot blonde that can move!

Most women are a bit freaked out by getting poetry/
immediately./
I have a theory about that,/
but since you asked:/
Behold! A sonnet!/
Extemporaneous!/
Just for you, to show my wit/
(and if you’re truly smitten, you do have my digits.)
————-
Ah, to be able to indulge you on a whim
with my writing prowess.
You haven’t learned, I guess:
A poet needs muse to inspire him.

Could you potentially be
the song’d siren who brings
the verse musicians will sing?
My poetic muse for me?

It’s hard, right now, to say.
I tend to be more restrained
before I am moved to break into refrain.
We’ll have to meet someday.

Sooner rather than later would be my choice.
Then we’ll discover if your muse gives me voice.