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!”)

Who Are You And Where And Why? Revolutionary Blogging Rhyming Poetry

You view me
from Romania
and Australia
and Algeria
and India
and South Africa
and Russia
and throughout
North and South
America,
and sometimes,
mon,
the islands,
Jamaica,
and Barcelona
and ahhhh,
I don’t know who
you
are,
or why
you
read
my work,
or what search
brought you over the see
to see
me
and my poetry.

Can’t you just
check in?
Say a few words
about the words
I’ve written?
Explain
why we crossed paths?
So I don’t have to wonder
what wander
brought you
to connect
with me
one way only?

Take a chance!
Connect! Trust!
(Unless you’re from France.
Then we’ll speak of Jerry Lewis.)

#FiveWordsToMariah Too Late: Romantic ImproVerse Poem

Background: In July, 2015, a dating site held a contest: Send Five Words To Mariah (Carey) for a chance to see her “live” in Vegas. I, of course, wrote something brilliant … but forgot to send it in on time.

We’re hopeful, not hopeless, romantics.