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.
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.
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.
You think I write in form letters?
Would a poetic response be better?
Or would you prefer
something more demure?
I wonder: “What sort of letter would get her?” *(8:16 pm)
There!
A limerick.
It was pretty slick.
But do you care?
It’s probably the only one
you’ll ever get!
And you can think it fun,
but I’ll still bet
if I gave you my number,
you’d still slumber.
Would you call me?
I’ll try it and see!
XXX-YYY-ZZ22.
Now, let’s see what you’ll do.
Another Solution Limerick
You could give me YOUR phone number
and before I slumber,
I’d call you,
and then we two
could do something sans blunder!
In the past we’d have /
lain with the pain to heal. Now,/
that’s no solution.
I was so glad to/
be able to say something,/
I didn’t let you.
How does it feel to/
Know I write in pain about/
You, long gone woman?
How ironic. She/
“Facebook liked” the sad topic/
which i inspired.
Lavender pillows:/
Poor substitutes for being/
wrapped up in your arms.