When I fashion words and thoughts, and weave them into lucid rhyme,
they say to me, "Why do you bother?... it's all just a waste of time.
There's nothing in it for you; it's all done for free, with no reward."
They miss the point completely, in their grey, and avaricious world.

I find it sad... this crass indifference to this portal to the thoughts,
from whence, spring such diverse confections, tantalising mind and heart.
Enticing those, who keep emotions captive... out of others' sight;
to blossom... like a fragile bloom unfolding in the warm sunlight.

I use the English language in the fashion it was taught to me.
That wondrous journey of discovery through the Oxford Dictionary.
A set of tools, unrivalled, to one who plies a Poet's trait;
so many words... so many ways, a thought one can elaborate.

The style, and subject of my rhymes; by some, it's true... are deemed to be
a little maudlin; perhaps dated... incorrect, politically.
Whilst outwardly, so worldly wise; inside... and hidden, there exists
in me, a hopeless, true romantic... an iron glove - but, a velvet fist.

The thoughts and dreams behind the words... I hope, reach out, and touch your mind;
and gently soft... caress emotions; thus, I hope that you may find
your pathway to forgotten memories... loves held secret and discreet;
if this is true, the circle of my poem then becomes complete.

And that is, in my world at least; what poetry is all about;
seduction by imagination... no regrets, or pain, or doubt.
Except in words upon the page; ephemeral... no deep wants or needs;
the sensual stroking of the senses; making love with words... not deeds.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words are couched in subtle style... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it wishful thinking? They are just some lines of poetry.
I read the words again, and yet... I know my heart cannot be wise.
There may be nothing there at all; and yet, my heart insistently
whispers...
read between the lines. She wouldn't use those words, unless
She has opened up her heart for you... it's true; can you not see?
But this would be a bold conceit... for such a thing to second-guess.

And, why should She choose me, alone... amongst so many willing hearts
arrayed before Her there, to choose? I am no better than the rest,
except, perhaps, in weaving words... such pretty pictures to impart;
but, they are only words; although, in truth; I think, if I were pressed;
I would confess that they were more than that... they are soft whisperings
my heart tells me I should reveal... though seeming better not professed
at all, for fear of gently tugging at Her fragile, sweet heartstrings
laying forth the heart-truths She might wish were better not expressed.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words read like a Lovers Kiss... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it just my wishful thinking? And, is it just poetry?
I read the lines again, and wonder if my heart, soft tells me lies.
I cannot read the truth as by her subtle thoughts, I am caressed;
a tiny hint perhaps, just there? And further on... that phrase, likewise.
Is there a whisper here for me? A few soft words that might suggest
something I might hope to find... on which a fragile dream relies.

A fragile dream of whispered words soft penned, perhaps, not just for me;
what makes me think it could be so?... such bold conceit is most unwise.
And yet... I feel there's something there; the softest, sweetest melody
I scarcely hear at all; a whisper softly cloaked, beyond my eyes.
Does my heart deceive me? Is there nothing there? Perhaps, it's true.
Little here to base a Love affair upon... it's too absurd;
and yet... from less than this; down through the ages, Great Romances grew;
and Love will always find a way... and not least; through a whispered word.

Sweet Lady, such words I might sometime weave here, hold no cloaked device;
no honeyed subterfuge to soft, beguile and steal your heart away;
to ease a pathway to your bed; seducing, couched to soft entice;
unless... of course, you want it so; but, that is a different game to play.

A game to play 'twixt you and I, alone... such words you will not find
here, upon some page laid forth before the all-consuming eyes
of others...
No; such words to whisper thus, remain yet in my mind
for you, alone; as yet, un-versed; for you, l would not compromise.

What you see here... words of the song the hopeless, Lost Romantic sings,
of love as it was meant to be; that sweetest hope each heart holds true.
Together, 'til forever; such a simple hope to which it clings;
and, in its bright-eyed innocence, must always, this sweet dream pursue.

And yet, love tends to show its face, when we least expect it to;
As yet, the un-versed words lie sleeping;
might I waken them... for you?

Come, let me take you by the hand; I'll lead you to a secret place
where dwells the hidden one who seldom feels the Sun upon his face.
Come tip-toe past dark memories that echo down these shadowy halls,
be not afraid... you will not stumble, I will catch you, should you fall.

Within this labyrinth of sorrow, strewn about with shattered dreams,
discover now, the secret one... for 'naught is ever as it seems.
The lost romantic, pierced by evils selfish cynics say and do;
His words of love quite out of fashion; used by all... meant by so few.

His woven words spun soft, and gentle have no place... cannot succeed,
in a world of subterfuge, mendacity, and naked greed.
What happened to the childhood truths once taught with patience, and, with care?
Shed carelessly, with scant remembrance; damage words cannot repair.

Remember then, the hidden one, who, in the darkness, must remain,
shackled to his empathy; he knows the sorrow and the pain;
and, turning back with eyes unseeing, snuffs the flame he strove to free;
his words... no more than sparrow's tears in a sea of brash cupidity.

She wanders through the Labyrinth of thoughts, of dreams; of hopes, of fears.
A whisper on the winds of my imagination... to appear
unbidden; when I least expect her... murmuring her soft demand;
and she... a stern, and jealous Mistress; bending me to her command.

She, who is called... Muse.

From whence she came, I have no knowing... 'nor how long she may remain;
'nor then, can I guess her humour when she comes to me again.
Will she bring bright hope of love, or sadness of a love mislaid?
Or, bitterness of love confounded? Venom of a love betrayed?

She, who is called... Muse.

If bitterness, or venom, be it; then... in truth, I shall defy;
for that is not my way; not from my pen will thoughts, corrosive lie.
The path I seek is softer... gentler... love, as it was meant to be;
there is rhyme enough... and more; of selfish, shadowed misery

from She, whom they call... Muse.

But, for such defiance... then, her retribution will be swift;
tantalising thoughts... impossible to rhyme, will be her gift;
or, perhaps a sensual, honeyed web of thought, that can, but lead
to mangled couplets; ruptured rhymes... something, that I do not need

from She, they would call... Muse.

She is a stern, and Jealous Mistress; but in truth, she will return
after she has ransacked all the Labyrinth... resolved to learn
where it is, that lie the sweetest memories, safe-tucked away;
but these are not hers for the taking, in this complex game I play

with She, who is called... Muse.

She whispers on the winds of my imagination, all the while.
But, will it bring to those who read... soft memory?... A tear?... A smile?
A wistful smile, perhaps... for something lost, but still, sweet memory?
A smile of hope, for something, yet to come? Tears for what could not be?

This then, is She who is called... Muse.

How did you steal my heart away? What magic did you weave about
me, softly...
like the breath of spring gently cloaks the winter chill?
No warning of your soft approach; yet, I am lost; there is no doubt
my heart succumbed to your enchantment, and I know, it always will.

Your touch, so soft... invisible; as gentle, as an Angel's kiss,
that reached in, and caressed my heart to spark a flame that burns so bright.
It blinds me to all reasoned thought... to everything, except for this...
I am so very close to falling; you are such a sweet delight.

And, if I fall, then I am lost, forever; no thought of return
to what was once; the way would close, and no regret, were I with you;
held close in your heart, as you are held in mine; Oh, how I yearn
to hold you, and to share a love that could not wane... was always true.

How did you steal my heart away... finding where it softly hid?
The question doesn't really matter;
I'm just so very glad, you did.

The Moon is on the water and the wind is stirring in the trees.
The Willow leaves smile silver in the moon-glow, turning in the breeze.
The wispy Cirrus clouds are riding high... a veil of gossamer white;
a Moorhen chatters out there, somewhere; safely cloaked in velvet night.

I watch the silvered ripples as they tumble, tinkling in the stream;
a mood of wistful contemplation settles on me, it would seem.
I watch the moon's reflection in the water, mirrored shiveringly;
always moving, yet not moving... dancing through infinity.

I wonder what the moon has seen and heard, whilst resting, shimmering there?
Eavesdropping lovers' whispered dreams? Perhaps, heartbreak and black despair?
How many stories could she tell? how many secrets does she know?
Smiling up impassively, imprisoned in the watery flow.

I gaze up, and I watch the moon, serenely pale, and floating high;
and ponder the creative power of that old rock up in the sky.
The poetry... romantic connotations... myriad artistry;
for what she really is, she's done extremely well, it seems to me.

Considering the competition overshadowing her space,
from her Celestial elder sister, Mother Earth... so full of grace;
all azure blue, and green, and white... and beautiful; from pole to pole;
yet, only Cinderella Moon, it seems... can touch romantic souls.

I gaze back down into the water; musing this analogy.
Whimsical perhaps, but yes... it holds a certain truth for me.
Of "Harvest Earth," of "Earth-beams," or, of "Earth-light"... poets never write;
I wonder why?... and watch her sail, calm and serene, into the night.