Tu Et Moi

Hey! What’s cooking?
Girl, put on some pants!
I’m so so grateful
How you make can out of my can’ts.
Making birthday plans—
Who’s going out of town?
Can you tell me what’s coming up
Or how we’ll never live it down?
Tu et moi:
We still work this well-traveled path.
La dee dah—
Do you really want to do the math?
A glass or two
Usually really does the trick,
But you’re not that way
And I think I’m not that thick.
Wherever we’re going,
It’s the best being it’s homemade!
Let’s meet on the avenue;
We’ll try to find some shade.
Tu et moi:
We still walk this old graveled road.
La dee dah—
I could be your poeter a la mode.
Chocolateness coconut
Or a lemony doberge:
Sweet enough for everyone—
No taste ever to disparage.
Amused you’re a Muse?
There’s more on the way.
Let’s work this connection,
Girl, whattayasay?
Tu et moi:
With sunshine or a little rain
Thank you for answering—
It’s lovely to hear you again.
Ladeedah!

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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.

Number 62 In Blue

The candle sputtered
Then guttered out
The wick a speck in the wax
The old poet looked
And suffered to stand up
The last present wrapped was Jack’s

A fresh Christmas candle
Striped Santa red and holly green
With its new flame warmed the room
Placing presents about
A tree to shame Charlie Brown
The shards of wrapping left with the broom

The cat’s tail flicked serene
The poet reached for his quill
As words soft filled a new page
A chance Winter memory
Spurred the poet on
Thoughts neither steep nor very sage

She bought him skis for a gift
Though “cross” country would mean something else
Tears of laughter with every tumble and spill
He wondered where she was now
A score of years have long passed
When meeting on Concourse B was such the piquant thrill

Chinese Five Spices
Floated upon the solemn merlot
The poet paused to let the tightness pass
Tomorrow the two-state drive
Back to his beloved Crescent City
Though this year without his own wee lass

Daughter would be skiing
Off out with her Mother and half family
Cross country over in the mountain West
He’d be with swiftly aging brother
And a Christmas with the family Creole
But things always work out for the best

A meow and a sigh
The poet let Jack out the door
A cat in search of secret nocturnal meetings
The candle blew out neat
The cold front had as promised arrived
As the rain pelted out its Season’s Greetings

Waxing and waning here came Christmas Number Sixty-two
But he yet looked ahead brightly through this Yuletide in Blue

Creepin

Creepin creepin
Oughta be sleepin
Full moon burns the sky
All alone don’t know why
Free footin lookin at goodlookin
Goodlookin outta be sleepin
Stars in the sky they know why
Mayb someday I’ll givit a try
Sneakin sneakin
Black cat low peepin
de prey tarry too long
Cat jumps prey done gone
Kissin kissin
But love b missin
Clouds scurry on by
Vote for who wont evn try
Pourin pourin
Soon da poet b snorin
Full glass drain to dregs
No love for he who begs
And creepin

Love In Reverse

Clad in regret
And coif’ed in despair,
Another day has passed—
You, uncalled by the phone by the chair.
Cobwebs adorn all
My old dreams forlorn;
The rains did fall,
And refreshed, the pasture of the lost awaits the morn.
Wick wagging,
A candle mocking—
Here, the only flame that burns
Lights a keyboard click clocking.
Poet bent double,
Love in reverse.
Is the regret or the rhyme
Which tarries for the worse?

Pas De Deux

Stepping out onto the bare cliff face
The windswept girl looked askance:
Been a while since Cajun land
And firing up that two-step dance.
The poet reached out his one good hand,
But missy just followed the sun—
Watched it all the way to the evenset;
He wondered if all was over and done.
Chances are and chances’ll be
Swirling all about with the wind;
While Cajun girl browns look away
From the boy whose hazels seem kind.

Wrong-Sized Glass

Sorry, I know it’s the wrong-sized glass
but it is a pretty nice red.
we can crack open this bottle
or go for walk instead.
usually just down to the gulch,
it matters not how far,
or maybe off to the zoo
we can take my old car.
I just want to spend some time
and get to know you better,
even though my stupid old cat
won’t want to meet your setter.

So, I’ll put the merlot up,
since you’ve turned me down.
I really wish for you the best
and hope to see you around town.
the old poet saved the page
and powered off his computer;
tomorrow to try again
imaging the life of a suitor—
heartbreak, in crisp 64 RAM,
meets: “I yam what I yam!”

Wannabe Tears

dishes are all done,
plates stacked and dried,
w.annabe poet lifts pen to regale
about one day he cried.
scrubbing for words
to put life into an emotion,
sorta like looking for New Youth
from the latest hand lotion.
top 40 amping at 60,
cds from latter better days;
another February in Austin
as Winter works his hoary ways.
cross-legged in meditation,
another 31 minutes gone,
w. poet nasally focused;
the tear begins its fall all alone.
that jezebel totally shinered
and momma hit the floor.
baby comes March first;
what’s next in store
for all us readers
while the w. poet lumbers lame?
another fish Friday alone;
so what’s up with your game?
no radio for Lent,
and your sacrifice?
oh, we’re no longer catholic—
how awfully nice.
and all the journalists lie,
the job for a politician,
and you ask me,
‘why does a w. poet cry?’

Sweet Potato Praline 71

Insinuating bubbles emanated from the scuppered dragon
A fool’s bargain of untendered origin led us to just here
A poet’s lazily pulled rhymes flailed aloof on page one
A new path was desired, that much was perfectly clear

Could you loan me your smile since you’re not using it
Since my mood is lost in translation or nixed in transit

The meme of my distant daughter swears I haven’t Alzheimer’s
My phytonutrients seek softened skins and perplexity
Slices of hard orange sweet potato seek out boiling waters
But speeling is an acquired taste, marble at my dyslexity

Would you loan me your arms since you’re not using them
I’ve this tightness that rattles along with this morning’s phlegm

Heading happy back eastward on a defogged highway 71
Pralines and tourist cup delivered recorded on every tablet mile
But the aimless poet still cannot get off the floor of page one
Freezing rain means we’ll all meet here for quite a while

Could you loan me your eyes since you insist on not seeing
My arms and smile reaching for my most favorite human being

Candle Light Blazes In Your Eyes

The stout little candle flickered its last
And scuttered out and left the oldster in the dark
He thought he’d attempt the 15th century
And imagine a time of dragons, for a lark

The safety matches safely lit a new wick
And the poet lifted his quill again
Skritter scratch and his lines pricked to life
Another damsel rejects a lonely swain

Refilling the merlot-stained glass
The oldess sat next to her oldster
The muse again amused, the poet grinned
Wishing he hadn’t sold that roadster

Gray hairs and faded eyes
But a mind keen as ever
Maybe he can’t drive
But his lines still tickle clever

Half-passed a candle later
The oldess kissed her oldster
The poet abandoned his quill
Surely, later those lines he’d bolster

Later, the stout little candle flickered its last….