Where, O where are the men of passion,
Men whose eyes reflect anguish unbound,
Silver-haired men, their faces ashen,
Searching in vain for love never found?

Men who'll dare to cast a hopeful smile
Toward an alluring face in the crowd,
As dark memories of deceit and guile
Float away like a wind-driven cloud

Are there still men who would weave their tears
Into a poetic tapestry?
Men who express hopelessness and fears
In a voice that cries out silently?

Where are the men who cower in the dark,
Tired of their eternal solitude,
Praying for that one transcendent spark
So their faith in love might be renewed

Where are the men who'll take one more chance
To know love's forbidden ecstasy?
Where are the men who can't forsake romance?
If you know one, kindly send him to me

So God took a rib from Adam
And thus woman was created.
Could this be actual datum,
Or myth, highly overrated?

Through life man flounders (blamelessly)
When there's no woman at his side;
And a woman walks aimlessly
Until her mate's identified

I don't care how I came to be --
By grand hoax, or just a small fib.
But I can say with certainty
Being alone's not my cup of tea;
Somewhere, someone's looking for me --
Some poor Adam's  missing his rib!

Though I love you, I am not blind
To your faults, but I let them pass;
I find contentment in your garden,
Though a few weeds grow among the grass

I was not blind when the blight came
To our orchard, rotting the fruits;
Yet, our tree grew stronger than before,
For deep and unblemished were the roots

Love is not blind . . . how clearly I see
The beauty of your heart and your soul,
So I choose not to sort good from bad,
But view your love as the perfect whole

Love is too precious to analyze ---
If we're blessed with love, let us give praise
While overlooking our loved one's faults,
Judging not their flaws in measured ways

In a secret chamber of your heart
Let the flame of forgiveness burn bright.
What joy seeing love's tender buds unfold
As the bitter memories take flight!

And so I believe love is not blind,
Though at times it has to make a choice
To close its eyes, pretend not to see,
And be guided by its inner voice

How pleasant it is to sit and dream
While evening clouds paint the western sky . . .
Before I could tell my harebrained scheme
To the setting sun, it waved good-bye

If I may I'll share my plan with you:
Since all hopes and dreams of love lie spent,
Now and then I'll write a poem or two
Relating memoirs that I'll invent

What jealous passions might I provoke
From the wretched souls that only know
Loneliness, unaware of the joke
That I'm playing to hide my own woe

Wait until they read of my wild nights,
Strutting with a suitor on each arm,
Painting the town red.  These vile delights
Will bring gasps and be cause for alarm

Then there'll be the poems of quiet hours
When love's very essence lays its hand
On my heart like dew upon the flowers.
How the flames of envy will be fanned!

But here I sit, while the midnight stroke
Brings tears of loneliness to my eyes;
What fantasies my poems may evoke!
(But you and I know they're only lies)

Today a melody caught my ear
That enraptured my very soul;
I heard a duet being performed
By a lark and an oriole

A gnarly branch made a fitting stage
For their theatre high in the tree,
While a backdrop of blossoms and clouds
Left the audience in ecstasy

What was it about their rhapsody
That encouraged my heart to dance?
So mesmerized by their dulcet tones,
I stood there as if in a trance

My thoughts drifted to happier times . . .
The nights my darling sang to me;
Every refrain that flowed from his lips
Echoed a lovers' symphony

But then the music started to fade,
Softer it grew till silence fell;
Now only the wind sings in the trees,
And at night it tolls Love's death knell

But today the lark and oriole
Enchanted me with their sweet song;
Though there's unrest in my solitude,
I found comfort in the feathered throng

For these fitful nights, love must bear the blame --
But is sleeplessness not part of love's game?
What's left but to entreat the heedless air?
(That useless prattle, also known as prayer)

A heart that's plagued with unspeakable pain
Will cry out to Heaven, time and again.
What recourse have I, teetering on the edge,
With no one to talk me down from the ledge?

Loneliness becomes a nightmarish realm
Where I drift alone . . . no one at the helm;
Then Hope throws the line that pulls me ashore
And rescues me from despair's tidal bore

At times I tire of Hope's uplifted eyes,
And its surfeit of well-intentioned lies;
More than once I've been tempted to ignore
The shining outlook Hope brings to my door

But Hope never mocks my relentless quest
For love, but fans its embers in my breast;
If not for Hope, despair would defeat me,
Bringing dread when the dawn comes to greet me

For when I find bitter thoughts taking hold,
Weakening my will, urging me to fold,
You can bet Hope will  knock upon my door,
And I can't help but answer . . . just once more

The moon stands vigil as the wine prepares
To perform its secret ministry;
Well rehearsed, the sacred nectar obeys,
Raising the floodgates of memory

Love's smoldering ashes start to ignite ---
One more sip, and then the flame's aglow;
Intoxicating specters flood the room --
O, what sorcery . . . let the wine flow!

Hands that deliver torment with each touch
Guide me slowly into heaven's arms;
Passion flares, and as our lips combine
I yield to the wine's spellbinding charms

So the hours pass in shameless ecstasy
In the darkened nooks of Memory's Hall;
But the wine is dwindling  . . . it's almost gone,
Soon reality's curtain must fall

And dawn arrives spewing its harsh advice:
Abandon this trickery of the wine!
But dusk will bear witness to my heart's plea:
Sweet libation, make this night divine!

And so this strange ritual has sustained me
Through many godforsaken Decembers;
But should Time erode flakes of memory,
I'll not worry . . . the wine remembers