We’ve been  here and empty
all this winter.
No sitters have yet to sit on us
and we’re about to fuss.
We feel useless
just waiting for that part of folks
that isn’t talked about too much
to put itself upon the
comfort we provide.
We’ve sent messages
for Spring to come
but we have been  ignored.
So far we’ve been patient
but empty chairs
can only wait so long
and then they long for Spring
and all the happiness it brings.

My heart and mind conspire to make these words
with hopes that they will possibly be heard
somewhere. And so I take my pen in hand
and write a bit — a rather modest plan.

What I find within I seek to translate
into copy. It might illuminate
what otherwise you might possibly never grasp.
Perhaps you think that this is too much to ask.

Whereas I am at the mercy of this process
you are not.  If I can’t write I’m stressed
but you are not obliged to read one line.
Without my  words you’ll probably be just fine.

There’ll come a  time when I will fire the muse.
I’ll cease to care  and likely be confused.

Just because the moon light
couldn’t reach your heart
the other night
does not mean
that it has lost its beauty.

You were feeling down
when the moon came up
and nothing in the sky
could  reach your darkness.

Even Aurora Borealis
could not have  called you
into wonder.

There will come a time
when again the lunar glow
will reach out to embrace you
and you’ll be ready to respond.
DON’T BLAME THE MOON

Just because the moon light
couldn’t reach your heart
the other night
does not mean
that it has lost its beauty.

You were feeling down
when the moon came up
and nothing in the sky
could  reach your darkness.

Even Aurora Borealis
could not have  called you
into wonder.

There will come a time
when again the lunar glow
will reach out to embrace you
and you’ll be ready to respond.

For tall people
low ones
are a challenge.
Tall folks have a sense of falling.
They’re afraid
they might not stop in time.

For short people
high ones
feel like obstacles.
Especially if they’re elderly
and not as agile
as they used to be.

There are times
when one wishes
toilets were adjustable
to meet the needs of all.

Just met a little girl who’s nine.
I’ve read her poems.  I think they’re fine.
I didn’t write as well at twenty
nor did I ever write as many
We might become electronic friends.
On e-mails’s magic we’ll depend.
I’ll ask her  if she’ll write to me.
I’ll just have to wait and see.
I’m nine times older, plus one year
and I’m sure I’m not as dear.

Don’t wax theological with me
about catastrophes.
Don’t tell me the Almighty’s stance
for all those folks
who didn’t have a chance.
Explanations  for tragic situations
best not encompass the divine.

But if you do
I’ll wax theological with you.
I’ll suggest you’ll go to hell.

Perhaps you’ll say
“There ain’t no hell”
and I’ll reply
“The hell there ain’t.”

Every week or so
I find upon my bed
next to my dresser
little stacks of folded clothes
that have been washed and dried.
The one who shares the years with me
calls those little stacks “Love Letters.”

Every now and then
I’ll write a special poem for her .
That’s  my way of caring.

I’m not much good at laundry.

He has his desultory moods.
He flits from this to that
and cannot focus.
He might surf the  channels on TV –
might pull books from their shelves
perusing  some of them awhile.
He might wish the telephone would ring –
a neighbor would stop by.
He  might try to write a poem and fail.

He’d like to think
he’s always doing what he should –
that he is doing good
with all the time he’s been allotted.
But if honesty prevails
that’s not the case.

I wait for her in the morning –
I the early  riser.

I leave her  reading in the evening
and turn toward dreams
before her sleeping time.

Many hours are there beneath our roof
when we’re not together.
It wasn’t always this way
and I’m uncertain when it all began.

But it is a good life  here in this house
where our different tempos play –
more love now
than when our passions reigned.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Kitchen sounds abound around my ears.
I sit nearby with expectations
nurtured by  the aromatic  situation.
It can’t be hunger.
It is a craving for palate possibilities in store.
When she’s in the kitchen
I’m smitten with her endeavors
and am seldom disappointed.