You may say I remembered you only when I got free off my chores
May be, you are also right, I did not wish you blissful mornings in all years, me making a life
May be, you are also right, I reached out to you, but for a common friend and an incident
But as I did, it was not remembering, but not forgetting you all these years
You cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

Albeit the bitter fights we fought
In the confines of our bedroom and the courtroom
Was it parting two ways with the  lightness of freeing from the heaviness of those six long years?
And when I wrote to you in just a few days that I want you back as you are my first and the best
You cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

As I walked into your new abode, I knew I was sinning
It was my weakness that I could not take you along before you tied the knot
Even in that dark, cold ambience I could feel his eyes piercing my soul
Wasn’t it for love; to win you back that sinfully I shared the niceties of our togetherness
Hence, you cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

It may be the humming of your favorite song or that poetry of longing
May be inundated snaps I took on the beach or the pathways
A late night re run of the movie we watched together
Or that free fall from ten thousand feet on the chutes
Memories do not fade, hence; you cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

Mike Hauser had a brilliant idea to “Pass the pen” and see where it got us.  This, Friends, is the result.

I write of the stars
I write of the moon
I write of the things
That I love to do
I write of the lies
While telling the truth
And when I am through
I pass the pen to you

I read the things
that went before
and add my thoughts
for you to write more
of things we love
and things we hate
so here's the pen,
now contemplate!

I wait like a kid
the anticipation
breaks my quiet
like a train in station
with thoughts
pouring out
like the traveling weary
so here's the pen
"now what's my hurry?"

While looking at this
And studying that
As our poetic peruse
Comes up to bat
With much more in store
From the writer's’ knack
I jot down my last line
Then pass the pen back

and now it get's fun
with my lines and yours
at least it keeps me
from doing my chores!
fingers be nimble
brain be quick
I finished this part
now here's the Bic.

With words tattered and torn
I have you here to mend
Don’t know where I’m going
Brain lights on dim
With little or no warning
Here it comes again
All on a whim
I hand you the pen

*so who will care
if we make no sense
“these poets here
must have the bends!”
but all the same
we’ve had our yen
it was a good run
let's retire the pen

“No,” she said “just no.”
I wilted,
watching her detachment
as if I was an insect crossing her plate
to be brushed aside.
Embarrassed, shutting down
where hope to share myself had sprung
but met her disdain.

But I’m your mom,
and they don’t care,
these strangers without a single string to your heart
or mine.
And yet she yanks on mine
as if my thoughts will hurt them.

What can I do
to get through to you?
It’s not my life but yours,
and someone else who loves you
that may fight
then move away.
I pray it’s not ahead for you.

I don’t have the luxury.
You demand my heart
the way you did my womb.
The hope of all our years
placed in my arms and at my breast
after sweat and tears had left my body.

My baby,
my everlasting love,
my singular weakness.
The one I could never turn away.
Dismissing a part of me with “No”
as if I need permission to be tender
and reveal myself.

Where did I go wrong?
I don’t allow this from anyone.
I walk.
But no one else has my soul by a cord,
through my heart,
taking nourishment for life
and sending back a sense of purpose.

Nothing greater in joy or pain,
than mother.
And this, I know,
is *ahead of me for life.

I'm in your head with what I've read.
Sorry?  You say I'm not?
If we don't want the attention,
then why write this rot?

The poet is a complex breed;
they "spill it" for the page
but deny the closest knowing,
hiding source of love or rage.

Poetry, a selfish sport
we tease the world with rhymes
then troll the lines of someone else
as if we're owed the cries.

Not for public viewing
except what we control;
we measure just the prettiest
and the rest we hold.

Who really knows a writer
except themselves?
Our deepest, truest secrets
we hold upon our shelves.

By this the world's a poem
we wind together deep;
we ought to open up our hearts
let all the feeling seep.