Category Archives: Romantic Blogging Poetry

Pixels Of Light, Words On A Page: Romantic Blogging Iambic Poetic Lament

I stand
as a man,
and expose
my soul
and my head
with dread,
and my heart.
Women want to see other parts:

The plump
gut or rump,
the face wrinkles,
the sprinkles
of grey
I won’t wash away.
For until we’ve met in person,
I’m a pixels of light version.
I could be real,
like what I feel,
or just a joke
made with mirrors and smoke.

I write words
some deep, some absurd
that say who I am,
and she’ll listen
and, if in tune,
she might swoon
and think me great,
and can not wait.
To greet me.
She feels romantically
inclined;
thinks I might be divine,
and just right.
But it requires sight.
We can’t be complete
until we at last meet.

I’m just paint on her palette;
a sculptor’s chisel and mallet
laying still and unused.
And she’s just my dreamed Muse.

I park
my car,
stand up, and from afar,
She sees no spark.
She feels no fun.
We’re done.
Over. Finito. Finished.
Visions once so delish
are now just pixels of light
that failed to ignite.

Words on a page
which once engaged
her mind, heart and soul,
no longer glow,
but now vanish,
and the mist
of possibility
ceases to be.

(Except, guess what?
It could be “Or Not!”)

He Hopes She’s Finally Happy: Romantic Blogging Sonnet

The roses were dead once he picked them.
The chocolate, she said, made her fat.
The kitchen wasn’t remodeled like she wanted.
And now look at where she is at.

Remember each time he surprised her
with a new dress that was colored wrong?
Or the theater tickets that were on a bad night?
Or the album that had the wrong song?

Just like that coastal vacation
when she said she’d rather stay home.
Or when he reserved a place at that nice restaurant:
He hopes that she’s happy alone.

She can gaze at her jewels: The few things he got right.
Perhaps they’ll warm her as she sleeps by herself tonight.

OR

The roses were dead once I picked them.
The chocolate, you said, made you fat.
The kitchen wasn’t remodeled like you wanted.
And now look at where you are at.

Remember each time I surprised you
with a dress that was colored wrong.
Or the theater tickets that were on a bad night.
Or the album that had the wrong song.

Just like that coastal vacation
when you said you’d rather stay home.
Or when I reserved a place at that nice restaurant:
I hope that you’re happy alone.

You can gaze at your jewels: At least I got those right.
I hope they warm you as you sleep by yourself tonight.

Lisa’s (The High School Cheerleader) Lesson: Romantic Free Verse Blogging Poem

She was
I recall,
one of the prettiest cheerleaders
of all.

Blonde, gold hair,
flashing blue eyes,
near perfect skin
pearly smile,
cheerleader’s body.

I,
nerd,
could only gaze
from afar,
and hold my breath,
and wish,
and dream
as she
and her friends
glided by,
laughing.

But sometimes,
she’d smile at me.
and make my heart
burst
and my stomach
flip.
Fodder
for nighttime fantasies.

As prom approached,
I dreamed.
In the mid-70s,
not cool
to actually GO,
but in private,
I could still imagine.

She was always there,
floating,
cloaked in gauze
and satin.
I’d ask her.
She’d say “Yes! Of course!”
totally shocking me,
disregarding social norms,
the cheerleader
and the nerd,
revenge thereof,
(before anyone thought of the film.)

We’d go,
and my social status
and my life
would change.

Then I’d wake up.

She,
of course,
was elected prom queen.
I gave myself
some eco-excuse:
“Prom
is not
socially responsible.”
Lie.

The dance,
tuxes and formals,
came
and I went
fishing,
wishing,
she’d been MY catch.
Prom Queen.

Months later,
I learned the awful,
heart-wrenching
truth
of Senior Prom.
She’d  had no
date.

Her father drove her
to the ballroom.
She entered to applause,
was crowned,
danced for a couple of tunes
with the butter-fly bow-tied
Prom King,
made her rounds,
shook hands,
walked out to where Daddy
was waiting,
drove home,
probably cried herself
to sleep.

I wondered
and have wondered
many times since:
What if I
would have asked?

Would she have laughed?
Would she have said “Yes!”?
Would that have changed
my life?
The snot-nosed nerd
who took the Prom Queen?
Would that have changed
her life?

I wonder.

A few years ago
I wanted to ask
a middle-aged
prom queen-type.
I balked.
I was afraid.
Then,
I remembered
a beautiful, smiling, cheerleader
with no prom date
except her daddy,
crying.

I swallowed,
hard,
and asked.
She laughed
and said “No!”
She was busy
that night.
But later?
“Certainly.”

And we did
and did,
and did.

Since then,
I’ve always asked.
There is no social status
I am not worthy of.
There is no beauty
I cannot dance with.
There is nobody
who is out of my league.

Thank you,
Lisa L.,
for the lesson.
If I ever see you
again,
I will ask,
as I should have
then.

Because every pretty girl
deserves to go to a ball,
and even a poor nerd
deserves happiness.