I wrote you a sonnet.
Some called it my best yet.
But still,
when last night’s thrill
had faded away
the next day,
instead of saying something engaging,
it seemed you were bent on raging.
“You’re emotionally driven”
was what you said,
and I could imagine eyes rolling
back in your head.
And your face turning red.
And I’ll tell you the truth (if I dare):
I wanted to disconnect right then and there.

The dew shimmered
on a rose’s petals pink.
It gathered there
as he made her think.

His words reached her deep reality,
and brought her to the brink
of a shuddering finality
with dew-moistened petals pink.

And the poet surprised her
with his words and feelings new,
whispered deep inside her,
where they, moistened, grew.

Could he, through word and letter,
be the only one who’d get her?

[In response to an email]

Dancing with our eyes closed/
is better than dancing idol-y,/
for the visions viewed with those/
optics allow us to see/
what your life, Rose,/
can truly be./
Now that I’ve reached back,/
what will be your track and and tact?

She responded:
Moses supposes
that roses were for noses/
and he did suppose this erroneously./
For Roses love roses/
for Cyrano imposes/
his prose upon her so romantically./
If Rose would propose/
that a time for some prose/
would give her delight most joyously./
Cyrano would woo her/
with roses and proses/
to tell her his dreams in varying degree./
Then Rose she would dispose/
herself most attentively./
To listen and laugh/
To share unabashed she supposes/
an interesting meeting would be.

Ah, could this nose/
sniff such a tender Rose!/
Then we would both suppose/
that the path we chose/
kept us on our toes/
whilst waiting for the close/
of the non-prose/
was the correct one,/
and that would be fun.
(Your poem, by the way? Nicely done!)

Rose blushes and glows/
at the knowledge that her prose/
received accolades so readily.

(Why thank you kind sir, it is the curse/blessing of many years of reading Dr. Seuss. Greatly enjoyed your response and felt that your missive should be equally met. Best response EVER!)
Merci beaucoup.

Thank you, dear Rose,
for your kind accolade.
Just this past summer
in the Fremont Parade,

I was Sam.
Sam I was!
I worked hard
there because

That Solstice Parade,
Whether in shade
or sunny,
required cops to get paid!

Yes, that funny
parade
cost money!

What does that
have to do with you?
Nothin’ much,
save your wit beaucoup
should, agreed,
be equally met.

But now what?
A verbal pet
though we haven’t yet
met?

And what does that get
either me
or you?
A rose wet?
Petals moistened with dew?
Merci beaucoup
indeed!
What do you now need?

I think I was mauled
at the mall.
I tried call
ing you twice.
No dice.
It seemed a mistake
(or the number is fake).
Either way
it’s now your turn to say
what you want.
I punt.

“Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a far and distant land, unbeknownst to you and I, there lived … ”
Oh, wait. You asked me to TELL you a story, not write one. Sorry.

Storytales to be told/
require the teller to be bold/
and regale face to face/
at someone’s home/
(or, in technology’s case/
over the phone)/
the story interesting and witty/
to the audience fair and pretty.
Without a phone number/
or a place to meet,/
I can’t give the requested/
storytelling treat.

But if you’ll provide the information/
I’ll tell you a storytelling sensation!