First you tempt me/
with brain surgery;/
then you write me/
just to excite me;/
then you vanish … /
and my muse disapears./

What do you write?/
I write, right?/
We could write/
and delight/
some night/
together/
whenever/
we felt the muse/
to amuse/
(or confuse…)/

Dang!/
Don’t leave me hang/
in’!/
Please write again!/

I wrote a quick poem for a friend (in an email), taking about … 3-4 minutes. She responded with the question: “Just for me? Or is this your standard fare?” Implying, perhaps, this question which others have asked: “Do you just pull poems out of your toolbox and send them to your friends whenever you need them?” This was my (original) response, AND an edited version I posted on a blog elsewhere:

I don’t keep poems/
in my box./
I don’t pull rhymes/
out of my sox!/

They aren’t pre-done/
for others to view!/
They’re just for fun,/
from me to you!

Because I hope, and think/
a creative rhyme/
flirts better than a wink/
any time!

So I create new poems, again and again,/
Just for you, because I can!

————
An Anti-Wink Sonnet:

I don’t send winks/
to your inbox./
Such pokes stink/
worse than my sox!/

Poems aren’t pre-done/
for others to view!/
I write sonnets for fun,/
from me to you!

Because I hope, and think/
a creative rhyme/
fits better than a wink/
any time!

So I create new poems, Seussian,/
Just for you, because I can!

I have legs, too, two!/
AND am funny ..
like vous!/
Care to chat/
about dogs and cats/
and act not our age!/
(’cause that’s/
where it’s at!)

I am aspirational still.
Isn’t that a thrill?
Otherwise why
would I
contact someone again?
Isn’t meetibng all about aspiration?

Come, talk to me October-birth, as we together aspire
to find something Libra-ting
which will fuel
our mu
tual fire,
and carry us
ever higher.

Ask, and ye shall receive.
Seek, and ye shall find.
Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.
Wer klopfet an, den wird es aufgetan.

And Elijah went upon the mount, and a strong wind came and rent the rocks asunder …
but The LORD was not in the wind.
And after the wind came a fire …
but The LORD was not in the fire.
And after the fire, an earthquake …
but The LORD was not in the earthquake.
And after the earthquake,
a
still,
small
voice.——-
You have asked.
I’ve given.
You’ve sought.
You found.
You’ve knocked.
I’ve opened.

And after the wind,
the fire,
and the earthquake …
a still,
small
email.

Your turn.

Why do I persist?
It’s like this:
You seem amusing,
though slightly confusing.

You seem intelligent
(although
I never seem to know
where you went!)

Your smile, your hair
your face seem pretty.
Yeah, I care
that you’re in my city.

And I will not, unlike lesser chaps,
be discouraged by a simple “Perhaps”.