She leaned back
having dined,
and whined
the wine
of the Proletariat.

“Clients!” said she
(somewhat mystically):
Can’t live with ’em;
Can’t pay the mortgage without ’em!”

“Amen!”
murmured her friends
as they again
laughed
and quaffed
the wine
of the Proletariat.

Reading prose in a mirror
is like reading mine, only clearer.
You’re a much tighter
writer.
I recognize everything you say, in me,
yet would have said it differently.
But I like the way
you articulate
what you have to say:
It’s great!
(Ok. That was fun.
Now I’m done.)

A long look at a while
back, made me smile,
and wonder, again
if another contact would offend.

I suppose there are poets
aplenty, but I don’t know it,
nor know any who are published, I guess,
and have a career they call a success.

Curious about what you think in your mind;
the types of motivation and inspiration you find.
I still want to discuss the poetry you write;
the thoughts that have you reaching for a pen at night.

And now my curious sonnet is through;
and I shall, hopefully, again hear from you.

The memory photo enchants
like the setting suns rays
on the waves
as they, lapping, dance.

And I sigh,
and smile, and watch,
enthralled, mezzmerized,
wanting to touch,

Yet, recognizing that out-reaching,
can often break the trance
of the waves lapping, crashing, beaching,
I quietly watch them dance,

until, at last, reach out to you I must,
and hope your response is kind, gentle, and just.