When you no longer have time
to receive my verse,
to accept the rhymes
that I reherse.
Yet you, still, are my muse
regardless of my heart’s folly,
or what I’ll use
(in terms of technology)
To deliver my lines
and my romance;
my feelings refined;
my desire to dance;
When you’ve put communication on the shelf,
I’ll find ways to write, and dance with myself.
Because your nighttime/
determines your day, I’ll ask:/
“How’d you sleep last night?”
Can I handle the touch?
I think so,
for when you’ve craved something so much
you relish every bite,
every morsel and taste.
You never let lips take flight,
nor waste
the tender newness
and gentle caress
of what you’ve waited so long for,
sans haste.
When I hold your hand/
can you stand/
a butterfly’s wings,/
(delicate, tender things,)/
unfolding as it fans?
Tracing across your palm and wrist?
Dancing lightly, like a butterfly’s kiss?
And then matching fingers’ gentle trace?
Moving up from your hand to cup your face?
Can you tolerate hand holding that grand?
If you can,
I might yet be your man.
Woman, alone, danced./
Solo, I (in balcony),/
watched and joined with her.
So much was written/
already about silence,/
there’s not much to say.
Or
there’s not more to say.
Moonlite slatted through/
blinded windows and barren /
trees makes me lonely.
The advantage of/
IMing while eating? You /
can talk with full mouth.
Will you teach me,
and let me see
how you’ll reach me
without poetry.
Send your smile
from your sweet face.
Rest your gaze awhile;
fill my empty space.
Talk to me deep
with dulcimer tones.
In my mind creep
through touch, computers, phones.
Then, at last, when we again meet,
I’ll savor your wisdom with no repeat.
Sometimes I think in/
haikus. Sometimes I think in/
Blues. Sometimes I rhyme.