You COULD call me and not miss me so much.
My fingers aren’t the only things that touch.
My voice sometimes breaks through the shrouds,
caresses your heart and mind, lifts the clouds.

But now … ?
I’m recovering from the silence,
from wondering where you went.
For when you converse and wonderfully flirt,
then disappear … it’s gonna hurt.

And I’ll need time to recover
before I can again be a lover.

She said she liked me;/
stays within her triangle./
It’s called Bermuda.

My battery died,/
but I read your dashboard note all nite,/
thinking of how it’ll b/
2 meet/
some1 as romanticly,/
tenderly,/
intelligently/
funny/
as me./
Let’s c,/
si?

He finally understood:/
She didn’t like him that way,/
and never would./

As long as he’d help her,/
they’d be friends,/
but nothing further./
That’s where it’d end.

After writing a woman the previous “beer buzz” haiku and receiving no response, I wrote this as a follow-up
She said: “Do not do/
anything dumb.” Writing her/
haiku was, i guess.

Those closet poets/
might never show it, but they /
should, trusting they’re good.

His main hope was that/
when her beer buzz wore off, her/
desire for him stayed.

It’s suddenly clear:/
She prefers toxic men./
She goes 2 them again and again./
It’s so queer./

The dregs she quaffs/
should make me laugh./
Instead I,/
antidote,
cry.

He’d watched the sunrise/
streaming over the Grand Canyon. /
He’d watched eagles soar mid-morning in the craggy peaks./
He’d seen river otters dance and cavort at noon,
and been amazed at salmon spawning at dusk./
When the sunset flashed red and gold and green /
over the ocean, he’d smiled and held out his hands to capture its warmth./
He’d wept watching the full moon rise, discovering Saturn’s rings;/
Galalean moons;/
a shooting star./

And he’d always been amazed,/
turning back homeward,/
when miracles/
didn’t seem to matter/
to others.

He stood, /
hesitant, /
and wondered, would/
she be redecent, /
like others before/
to the beauty/
and mystery/
of his poetry?/
He wasn’t sure./

But because/
he, as a poet, never was/
sure of anything/
except hearing his heart sing,/
and writing it /
and verbalizing/
and not being ashamed of it,/
he let fly/
with words/
she’d often heard,/
but never in that sequence,/
nor had they ever made sense/
as they did that day/
when she heard him say:/
“It both frightens me/
and delightens me/
to create these words for you.”/

And he smiled,/
because he knew/
she was not beguiled,/
but was fully there, too.