Skinny dipping in/
cool lake water. My big … Fear?/
A northern pike’s teeth.

Would it offend you/
if i said i didn’t do/
booty calls at all?

A friend wrote a poem in a new blog, and then wondered about her poetic ability. This sonnet is in response (and is also on the comment page to her poem).

To a Rose At Last Blossoming

Roses don’t blossom
quickly, like the daffodil, tulip,
or dandilion,
only to fade just as quickly away.

Instead, they rise from a bushes,
born years before.
The older the rosebush,
the sweeter and longer lasting the blossom.

People glance at rosebushes in winter,
comment on their plainness;
their brown sticks protruding through dead mulch;
their ugliness, deadness, and thorns.

But when rose blossoms at last spread their color’d fragrance,
Humankind is blessed, touched and inspired by true beauty.

Sand exfoliant./
Seaweed and black mud skin pack./
My Wisconsin lake.

I’ve much 2 offer;/
much 2 share./
I come with full coffers/
2 hearts pained and bare./
If no1 wants/
kind laughs ahead,/
I’ll punt/
and watch dad’s football instead.

Sweltery full moon’d/
summer night. Lake breeze fans me./
No one to share with.

A ConTEXTing Response Poem in Two Parts:
9:46 a.m.
Wouldn’t it be fun/
if you’d find someone/
who thought 68/
is great?

(Response:) They usually/
only/
want the/
“I owe you one”
fun.

10:05 a.m.
You just have’t yet/
met /
the right kinda guy who has fun/
’til UR done!

A gentle summer breeze flows like gentle, lapping waves over me, ebbing, flowing, and cooling the bright sun streaming through thick-leaved trees from a cloudless azure sky.

Tanned, chemisette-wearing women float by like the undulating colors of a rainbow after a sudden August downburst at sunset. Their long, limber arms and legs, their dancers’ hips, rhythmically sway to the gentle salsa, samba and jazz beats that flow over the orange stucco portico where I observe, write, and inwardly dance.

Across the median’d, deeply-shaded street, a European trolley clangs its familiar bell as it, too, sways past ornate, wrought-ironed passenger stations and street lamps. I smile at the statuesque blonde eating her passion fruit next to me. A lone, glistening, drop of juice glides unnoticed (by her) down her bronzed decoutage’ as a foreign, yet familiar, song from long ago tells of similar beauties on a Brazilian beach. A dozen foreign tongues from low-slung chairs seem to harmonize as the gentle saxophone tones make love in low moan.

It seems so … cosmopolitan.
So … continental.
So …
Salt Lake City?
Really?