(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him

To ocean's roar--the sea oats dance
To music of--nor'easter's glance
Holding fast on--windswept seashore
Lending hand to--rippled dunes' chore

Paniculata's--feathered lance
Leaves not the sand--to nature's chance
To leave in dunes--an open door
To ocean's roar

Sea oats seeking--perfect balance
Barren beach and--storm's dalliance
Shorebirds nesting--while sea gulls soar
Still ocean tries--and shouts for more
Sea oats bending--yet still they dance
To ocean's roar

r ~ 9Mar14

In deepest wood
  A home once stood
Roses bloom by chimney fall
       An old stone wall
Lines remnant trail
Gives heed to open well
                     Where lilacs trace
                           An empty space
                       And fills the air
              With scent to wear
                 An apple tree
       And mulberries
           An old home site
                 In morning light

r  ~  9Mar14

I came across a Weeping Daisy
            Cowering away from the sun;
In the middle of a field of Poppies
            Wilting one by one.

The Night washed over the flowers;
            The moon shed its light below;
And in the witching hour they danced
            In the moonlight to and fro.

Dark floats out into the silence
Crashing on the banks of Prometheus's wings
Opening a velvet-silk curtain.
To a fabric of shadowed stars
Cloudy fingers sew it clean
While invisible hands stitch pearls back in.
A ghost flits on the hallway stair
Reaching for the last shafts of sun
Tumbling off a silent dream
Blind as black with a lullaby hum
Filling the gaps in an empty line
Somewhere between dusk and dawn.