Scrabbling

I wanna be your lover.
I wanna be your friend.
From the sorry beginning
To the sordid end.
It’s a slow fade to crimson—
On that you can depend.

I wanna be yr boggle.
I wanna be your brave.
Its only yr company
That I seemingly crave.
I’m yrs for a song;
Command me, yr slave

Yours’s for a song;
Simple, like Do Re Mi.
Let me in yr fortress door
And let’s see what we can see.

I wanna dance with you.
I wanna hold your hand.
It’s safe to say
I’d like to be yours to command.
Let’s hit the dancefloor—
Move Hot Mama! Shock the band!

I wanna impress you.
I wanna write you a poem.
Maybe trickle yr secret garden
Between the xylem and the phloem.
Not being the least bit tricksey,
Just ask dear old dead Gollum.

Yours’s for a song,
Simple, like Love Me Do.
Let’s walk and talk all night
And see if the midnight is really blue.

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Interrogatory

Apparent suicide,
Military intelligence.
Will I be so well regarded
When I achieve some past tense?
Foster a puppy?
Get it together,
Hang on you guys
We’re in for some nasty weather.
Spin some ‘Stones,
Maybe Moonlight Mile?
She’s gone to the theatre—
Can I hang with you awhile?
Or Doobies ‘White Sun;’
Does that make me a racist?
We’re just swaying to the groove;
Please put your PC into cease and desist.
Teachers in tights,
Boots above the knee.
It’s not the clothes, moron.
It’s the quality of the preceptor, see?
The A/C is back on,
The kid’s at St. Ed’s;
All that folded laundry
And, lately, unmade beds.
Waiting for your call,
Ringer turned up high.
Jack the cat stretches
And turns over with a sigh.
The only interrogative:
So, how did it go?
If I only knew,
I would let you know.

Another Monday

Blossoming Southern belles—
Plastic as far as you can see.
Sooner or later the truth
Makes itself plain,
More or less eventually.

Travel over the old road,
Hope against hope for happiness new,
But find you’ve returned home
Spitting at the gods—
Chagrined through and through.

Gambling for a maybe,
Hopelessly hoping we young
At heart, we’re quite hopeful.
Why climb the campanile
Seeking a bell yet unrung?

Two storms amangling,
A third fluffs in the wings.
Furbabies tied to trees;
O soft fear strangles us all.
How Stupidity wretchedly stings!

Another Monday looms,
We will all try to do our best.
Be happy and healthy,
Be safe and remain free.
In the end we will all pass this Zen test.

A New Adventure (Same Old Story)

Chasing happily-ever-after
Miles and miles over the road;
Hoping the fair princess
Can discern in this hapless toad

Inside loom love and kindness
Along with old pain and mischance.
But to worry a bit of brie
Along with, just maybe, a dance,

Would be any true man’s dream.
So, a road trip in a new September
A start of something special—
Or an adventure to long remember?

Two empaths to closely encounter
And perhaps co-mix their life stories;
High hoisted on tenterhooks,
Dreaming of better glories.

So All Ye, All Ye, In Free! I’m going to fair Slidell.
Wish for me your best and let’s see what a fortnight can tell.

–“It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.”

Allons Aller

Seeing you are a Goddess
It’s not that hard to see
You’ll be breaking hearts
Eternally

Lovely in Yellow
Dazzling all who care to glance
Mongrels like me
Never get half a chance

Oh, but I can two-step
And Zydeco better’n most
Do you take your poached eggs
With or without whole wheat toast?

Allons aller a Lafayette
And cut up that old Girard lawn.
Chances linger gossamer,
And spit, they’re gone!

But I reach above my station;
I’ve learnt the pattern of the tiled floor;
But Life careens ahead
Leave behind Less, go for All the More

So Lucky

I should be so lucky
I should feel so good
To be fully in love
And completely understood
You’re prettier than your picture
Nicer than your posts
I’d love you forever
On all and any of the best Southern coasts
I can harmonize with that
In any shower stall
Yes, put in your earplugs
Twouldn’t mind that at all.
I’d love to know the answer
I’d love to know your name
To be so fully in love
And to know you felt the same
I’m nicer than my picture
And darker than most posts
Let’s get mingled together
Oh, how the elder hippy boasts

3:20 PM

That parceled out portion of understanding
Failed again this day—
Lost my grasp on the time and missed my
3:18.
It was now after, just by a few minutes.
I’d lost that only one-time unique time.
The loss!
I’d never get that 3:18!
The failure!
How sad.
Like missing an eclipse just outside one’s door
Because the phone rang! Nothing…robocall!
So, on August 26, 2017 at 3:18PM, I was awaste on a rung phone,
And missed a piece of Only Once Ever.

Forgiving Father Marvelous

Moving down the page
At an acceptable change of pace,
We were so kind of in love,
Though I seem to have misplaced her face.
But I’m sure she was brunette
And possessive of wit and lust,
But like most of my choices
It all kinda went for spit and bust.
So here I write Saharan poetry—
Dry and empty as this Austin life.
Hoping better for the kid unit;
Truth oft separates like a steak fat knife.
No, no deep answers here:
Just marooned on the less traveled.
Awaiting that unadorned underbox
Overlaid in Southern granite that’s neatly marbled.

Proceeding

It was two glasses in
And the curling memory of brunette hair,
But she has erewhile gone
And Sonoma Merlot just doesn’t care.
The rhymes won’t come—
Here I am inside this couplet mess.
I guess it takes more than mere Love
To complete this synapsing poetic process.
Meld two roughs into one,
Balance the scan and mind the rhyme,
Maybe I’ll get some ‘Likes’;
I manage to do so from time to time.
Fear floods in;
I managed to lose my job.
Now with gray hairs and beard
Who now would care to hobnob.
Today next-door neighbor
Pleasantly responded to my hi and hello.
There’s no ‘there’ there
And it’s so past time for me to go.
Brother turned sixty—
Who knows about sixty-one.
Wish we were better friends;
A brother would be nice on this long end run.
We need a finishing couplet to release our tortured reader;
It’s all good, love from your poet, another forgotten bottom feeder.

Just Wanna Go Home

Dead sons of Abraham
3 by 3 in the ground
Take me home
Unloved furbabies
Unclaimed in the pound
Take me home
White House shake up
Wiped the slate clean
Get me home
Peninsula missiles aiming
Making for an aloha obscene
Get me home
It’s the Age of Incompetence—
No one’s in charge
The media will surely report
With Veracity, by-and-large
Just wanna go home