At times, at night,
Oft after midnight,
My mind won’t let loose the words,
For fear lest I might let fly,
Spiced brocaded prose one cannot call back—
All those burning bridges
Built to serve and to smolder.
What must you think of me?
We’re all getting quite older.
Curses not cast,
Happily ever after—
Will this wrinkled love ever last?
Give you space,
I take the time,
Lost in the meaning
Inside this sorry rhyme.
I desire to once occupy your keen eye
While I hide behind a sordid old lie.
70 and 80 come now too soon—
Can we teenagers ever see past the besotting Moon?
Across the dank protean mire
On the slope of a mowed field
The breeze rumples a page over
And the lass missed the poets last verse
Bewitched by the youth’s jogging pace passing by
She dared imagine his arms about hers
And pondered about passion’s cruel curse
The sudden rain scampered our lass
While the boy turned north and to dorm
The promise of Summer freshened newly
Like Latin winds bringing Mercury back to Rome
And a new Arachnida’s web is woven
Life and Death never pause nor long tarry
A half Moon finds the eve’s far horizon
Rooms aren’t the only thing empty back home
Shy winking stars spangle up
To make smart the Southern sky
Lass and lad miles apart wash dishes done
Neither knowing the others’ longing heart
Many mini plans made for reading nooks
A mighty edifice rises in the Tangipahoa
A counselor and her crook’s getaway suite
In a half-told love tale just at the start