As I sit in church/
next to my goodly parent/
I feel gratitude.
Or
My spirit’s grateful.
Don’t ask me to come/
back if you don’t know where I’m/
joyfully going.
Fill is a middle-aged wordsmith who wasted his passion for words writing romance poetry to a too-busy, analytical wife and making up non-scensical, Sesame Street-type rhymes to amuse his now-grown children.
When divorce and an empty nest let him consider other options, he makes up a cheap Lucy Van Pelt-like sign, “The Improv Poet is IN!”, stands on street corners, and does poetic, usually iambic commentary on people passing by.
Keep your ‘lectric eye on me, babe./
Let your IMs fill my head.
Press your cyberspace-face close to mine, love…. /
Freak out in a Social Media daydream, oh, yeah!
(apologies to David Bowie / Moonage Daydream).
Inserting soft words/
into your cyberspace eyes/
is foreshadowing.
OR
Inserting romance/
words into cyberspace eyes:/
hot foreshadowing.
It’s so strange finding/
yourself reading your private/
thoughts you didn’t write.
Your past experience
Has always been
There is no rush.
There is little anticipation.
It is always just convenient.
It doesn’t mean anything.
You claim it is different
With us,
But when there is only silence
It sounds like
What you’ve told me about.
It feels the same
To me.
So I wonder
If the distance
And the blasé’
And the non-connection
Is really what you want,
Just like you always have.
And I wonder
If I should ask,
Or would that be pushy.
And I wonder
If I should just wait,
In silence,
And how long
it will be
Until I finally
Figure it out.
Until I finally
believe
and trust
with my heart,
my heart.