Isn’t romance sometimes
the slightest of feelings;
the most sublime
way of dealing
with what we are dealt?
The way of controlling feelings
we maybe shouldn’t have felt?

O fair one!
When willst thou ‘rise
with sun’s rays in thy hair
and dreams’ mists in thine eyes?
Would that I were there
to kiss away thine every care!

There is a place
along your back
where breaths gently flow,
where nothing attacks;
where butterflies land
and their gentle wings flutter;
where moist kisses fall,
and tenderly make you shutter.

Where quiet, solitude, and bliss
all combine,
intertwine,
and are felt
with a kiss.

To gain that spot on your back,
though,
the rider, searching that destination
must go
slow.

For tenderness and passion
from such cold Siberian depths upwelling
are often hid, and only revealed
by the master’s gentle telling.

And the visions your eyes alone see,
cannot, of themselves, bring you to your knees.
But the sum of all your tender senses
will rip down those cold winter fences,

and let the warmth glow
and grow
exactly
where it should go.

The unmade bed/
is not messy; instead/
it’s a happy/
memory/
of the love tussle we had,/
and how you touched my head!

The temptation
and frustration
that you give

are like libation;
hibernation
because you live

so far
from where we are
able to reach sedation…

And you know
how the song goes
I wanna be…

Cheese pizza (Chicago style) and hot
chocolate in the snow …
live not far away from each other
on this interesting street I know!

Why is it
that a woman with heart pain
can, from the healing,
touch and laughter, refrain?

That she can turn her back
on the smile and the mind
who would never attack,
but instead, treat her kind?

That she, instead of salving
her torment and pain,
returns to the types that hurt
her again and again?

That she continues to reject
that gentle heart, tender hands, kind eyes,
sweet words, laughing voice that help heal,
(much to her surprise!)

That she can’t believe in a guy who could care?
That she still searches, when she should just dare?

Another IMprov Poem

Mussed Muse

Usually I try
being romantic
with my rhymes.
If she acts frantic
then the paradigm shifts –
and the muse
is mussed.

Another IMprov poem; this was written around Dec., 2005

On IMing Goodnight

I think about you often
of holding you close
and then
I wish I could be closer to you
and off I go again.

Off to the neverland
of dreams
of passions new and fresh
of desires and yearning
and insides turning
as you take away my breath.

A proper goodnight?
A proper farewell?
There is none in sight!
Nor could I ever tell
how hard it is to
bid adieu;
to once again say goodbye.
I only can hope that,
when I do—
you’ll consider it a lullaby.

Goodnight, sweetest lips
gentle caress
soft fingertips
flashing eyes
lightest hair
I hear your sighs
as you picture me there.

Goodnight.

Back in high school I read a science report that stated that radio waves coming from Pulsars, Quarks, and other astrological entities portrayed very sophisticated Jazz beats and rhythms. I wrote a poem, then, which I can’t find… but this is a rewrite that still asks the same question.

The Quasars
and Pulsars
from dying sparks
of Quarks
playing in the dark
form bang, bang,
do wop, bang
rhythms
and be bop bang
syncopated rhymes
in do wop, bang re bop
three-quarter time
on radio
do whop bang discs
in bang bang do whop bang Puerto
Rico
and New Mex
ico.
So …
What if God
bang bang do whop bang
IS a Jazz Musician?
Man?
AND
the Universe
Is His Big
Gig,
Dig?