Who is this impostor,
glimpsed with horror
in the department store window?
He apes my movements
but fails to capture
their athleticism,
spring-loaded inside an easy grace.

Ladies and gentlemen, do not be deceived.
Disregard those who think they know me.
This shambling simulacrum
is not me.

Perhaps my Nobel prize
is just a might-have-been,
my endowments only imagined.
But I am who I want me to be.

All aboard for the unguided tour!
Already begun, pre-planned
by an unknown administrator,
its detailed itinerary remains unpublished.
The last stage is, they say, less delightful than the others.
It passes through the poorer districts;
one sees industrial squalor and boarded-up lives.

I can leave the tour at any time.
I am who I want me to be.

Discomfort and dissolution do not belong in my world.
I am not the kind of person to ever be distraught.
So oblivion shall not swallow my love's soul.
Not all at once,
not piece by piece.
Not even a little.
Her identity must not be corrupted.

We are who I want us to be.

Somewhere,
every evening,
someone is playing Beethoven.

Who, today,
will deliver solace,
two centuries hence?

From the hill-top, I can see everything:
rocky outcrops, stone wall-divided fields,
impatient streams eager to join mother river in the valley.
I graciously declare the scene satisfactory.

When I get home, it is nearing time for the evening meal.
Ruth is making apple pie, Maeve is talking politics (again!).
The grandchildren are running from room to room.

Shush, Maeve; listen to the earth breathe.
Don't fuss, Ruth — I'm just pleasantly tired.

Contentment, like an affectionate pet, is nuzzling into me.

Let love be performed, as required.

Let desire flow, as it will.
Let excitement mount, as it must.

Let synchronized pleasure commence.

Let the hydraulic imperative be obeyed!

Now is the moment of peak sensation.



Let rhyme be used where it helps.

Let rhythm bounce when it can.

Let words speak to the heart.

Let form magnify sense.

Let the poem take flight!

Now is the moment of inspiration.



Let love grow stronger with age.

Let friends share our happiness.

Let thought guide us to wisdom.

Let our children be our epitaphs.

Let life be savored.

Now is a moment of reflection.

But ...

... Affection outlives passion.
... A good poem needs time to be born.
... Life might not ever make its meaning manifest.

Now is a moment of partial understanding.

Outdoor life is oppressive in this city of the plains.
Dawn shines weakly on those few below.
Hot and humid will be here soon.

Marsha stumbles to the bathroom.
One last test: mid-stream *** into the container.
Still positive.

Dr Screwell's services are much sought after.
His fragrant personal assistant cannot always guarantee
a timely consultation; Marsha was one of the lucky ones.

Shower, dress carefully — understated elegance is what's wanted.
Breakfast without savor.
Prepare for the visit. No drama;
just a preliminary informal discussion, you know.

Marsha walks from street to street, distracted.
No use now saying "I wish ...".
Two alternatives, both unacceptable.
Who can she approach for guidance?

Herself, only.

Last night, I slept with Ludwig; the night before, Wolfgang.
Tomorrow, Johannes has promised me a vigorous work-out.
Not for me the ascetic pilgrimage to the gates of good taste.
I must have passion, for that will point me to truth.

Last night I slept with Ludwig, so now I am ready.
Music-lovers of Chicago: watch me walk onto the platform,
shimmering but dignified in midnight blue diamanté.
Prepare to hear my translation of feelings into sound.

Ludwig's feelings.
Everyone's feelings.

Last night I slept with Ludwig.
Now, I claim my reward. After the final chord,
applause is compulsory. Louder! Louder! Stand up and cheer!
You are my people. Love me! Love me, why don't you?

"Never mind," said my muse. "This often happens. Over-eager is better than overwhelmed. Next time, you will improve."

I did, but my performance was still lackluster.  Gamma plus/beta minus(?).

"Never mind," she said. " Before we can make an assault on the peak, we must conquer the foothills. Slowly does it."

Next time, she didn't bother to hide her yawn.

"Never mind," she said. "Patience is a virtue. Here are some specialist magazines -- read them, and see what can be achieved by the experienced."

"Will I see you again?", I asked.

She pressed my hand, and walked silently away.