As you prepare to enter,/
take a breath/
and imagine me there./
Picture me near you,/
sitting in that chair./
I’d hug you if I could./
I should.

A friend wrote a blog posting about shoes. This was my improv sonnet response.

As with every walk
you talk
about,
you leave no doubt.
With your pointed
solefulness,
and well-heeled tongue,
one
never has to guess
where
you’re going on life’s journey fair;
just what you’re wearing to get there.

Am Morgen frueh/

I’ll IM vous/

far away/

in Italay./

When you/

request/

a verse or two/

I’ll try my best./

(Now I’m through;/

how did I do?)

I, brave,
try to visit your cave.
There,
at the entrance,
entranced,
I feel the air
rush past
and, holding fast,
I let it carry me, aware
that what I’ll see
will be
memory;
knowing the words I gave
will lay on the floor of your cave.

She might mistake my self-control and patience
for kindness and saccharin sweetness.
 
I don’t expect the woman to hold back.
In fact, I beg her to release, to relax,
to accept, to experience the shiv
er of all that I have to offer, all that I can give.
 
I want her to feel the intensity I can provide
with one brush of the tip of one finger
for just the right length, as it glides
to just the right place, where it patiently lingers.
 
And when she’s sent to another planet,
I want to be on that ship and man it.
I want to put her in orbit there,
or continue the journey with her elsewhere.

Gaze at my blog:

(My heart’s log)

since we met.

I’ll bet

you’ll get:

You are the muse.

Bad,

sad,

good,

misunderstood:

It’s youse.

Mon sanctuaire petit/
por vous, mon Cheri./

Suite/

poems replete/

from Rhome`/
e’ Burgundy./
Touche’ !

Are you

not going to

talk to me

any more, 

now that we

slept, and you’ve discovered

I snore?