Whilst I dwelled
in her land of nativity,
she, from far away,
unleashed a bomb on me.
It was, as often is
in times of peace,
completely unexpected,
and the power it unleashed
flowed out and washed over
grey matter, heart and soul too,
and the feelings it uncovered
brought moistening eyes to view.
And then, like the sound of one escaping bomber plane,
she fell silent, and her words were not heard again.
There is this woman
who has, from day one, intrigued me,
but who said from day two
there was no “we” that could ever be.
Does she now, at last,
let tender, caring words slip?
Let feelings escape her grasp,
just as I prepare for a trip?
The words and thoughts
I’d always waited in vain for,
now are finally brought
as I head out the door.
Yet though these words come at last as a surprise,
I take comfort knowing: Such a feeling never dies.
Dare I always be the one
who reaches out on-line first?
Dare I be again the one
who writes in metered verse?
Dare I hope she hasn’t gone
into her deep dark dwelling place
so the computer glow illuminates walls,
but doesn’t shine upon her face?
Dare I, driven by memories past,
and what yet may be,
write verses quick and fast
that flow improvisationally?
Yes, I will take that writing dare again,
for she will answer, though I don’t know when.
A friend said “Thank you for being so kind about my silly poem.” I responded:
The only silly poems
are the ones we are ashamed of,
so we hold them
inside
and they grow
and fester
and give us ulcers.
And that’s silly.
Another in a series of Improv veggie poetry I made up for my kids when they were much younger. By the way, gurken, gherkin, gherken, etc., is German and sometimes Yiddish for pickle.
There’s a gurken lurkin’
on my plate!
A gurken lurkin’;
it looks great!
A gurken lurkin’;
I can’t wait
to eat my
lurkin’ gurken!
A long, LONG time ago, when my children were very small, I wrote this for them (part of a vegetable series)
Peas,
please!
I like peas!
I like peas please me!
If you’d stop being so inspiring,
then I’d probably stop writing!
But every word that you write or speak
falls like water on a barren and bleak
desert, and has the creative power
to make the desert bloom
and my mind’s prairie flower.
So think not that I’m conspiring
to better you, when you’re inspiring!
Yes, I sent you
a hidden haiku
late last night.
I hope it was alright.
You don’t have to wonder,
as I drifted off to slumber,
what it was about, or who.
The subject and object? Yeah, it’s you.
Not that you’re objectified
when I gaze at the inside
of my eyelids.
I felt inspired to write, so I did.
Why do I never send these to you directly?
Keeping them hidden leads to romantic subtlety.
If I text her as/
I go to bed, sometimes it’s /
as if she were near.
I’m sorry for keeping you up so late.
Thanks for all the verse your muse helped me create.
Some feelings were deep
and some thoughts were sweet,
but you listen, and that I appreciate.