The alchemy of love
is that two can be one
at a distance.

You may take offense,
were I to compare thee
to a common vetch,
but if you knew your history,
that Rome's legions were lentil fed,
I would be speaking in your defense,
my little Piscum.

Were I to kiss your hand,
and I long to,
would I see my reflection
in crescent moons,
or upon dangers red?

The all faith popes were flaming atheists,
all two thousand leagues of stacked sea,
sending out their ******* flotillas
on carillon arks stacked ten tiers deep with homing doves,
tithe teething continents of dithering dullards,
the poor mouthed succulent souls
that have so, so
over crowded a once peaceful heaven
to render this one blue ball a hell on earth.

Your forty winks
was an evening of my despair,
barely a word from you.
I'll send you tooth picks,
one for each eyelid,
only because I care ;-)

Hear the hounds
I among them,
hillock,
brook,
hedge.
You've out foxed us,
but I live in hope
to get you yet!

Your ******* were humming bird eggs,
vulnerable beyond compare.

Your lapped iPad is the perfect palimpsest,
for an intimate exchange,
with one of your stylist fingers
your lover's words become ostrich heads
whenever your husband
sallies forth for another can.

The city is loud with chimneys,
bristling with dimpled sky dishes,
afloat in a dammed lake of sunset fenestration,
beneath unwitnessed, unappreciated clouds,
its streets a grid of flowless canals,
to the music of "Hey, mister, got any change?"
Oh,
but,
when the lights go down,
and the pretty people come out!
and the beef bouncers sort snort the buzzing sequin queen queues
for the sparkle dance houses,
the city,
the city,
can one ever get enough?

Your basket of words
were in the bulrushes.
I'm holding them,
still moist from your pen.

one inch of snow fell,
called an "emergency" here,
Yankees smile & grin :-)

This evening,
when you are reading
in front of your fire hearth,
I will be the flames warming you.

**** the rhyme,
**** the reason,
the oceans swell
from one finite water well,
frozen fjords melt, disrupted weather spells,
One ******* big piece of trouble I'm here to tell.

If errant words were kites
that could be so easily drawn,
or a passing cloud
where one could wait
the passing shower,
but the danger of errant words is
that once unsheathed
they may cut as if a knife.

I've not heard your voice,
though your written words
vibrate my central chord.

I know not the color of your hair,
nor seen it drape my pillow,
though I'd love to see it there

My grandparents once owned the Lincoln Inn,
in a junction called Essex,
A big old Vermont village house,
that's as much as I can remember,
but on a shelf
in my house
next to where the morning sun glints in
are a few cranberry tumblers
from that hotel
that catch the morning light
and burst out in a flash of red.

Of late,
when I let
my thoughts
free reign to pasture,
they find you
beyond the orchard
where the creek bends,
before it makes a great leap.

You're in this scene,
a couple sit opposite each other,
in a restaurant,
at a window table.
On the street,
I walk by and see myself with you,
and I'm caught off guard by the reflection.
We are amiably chatting,
laughing, smiling.
You are radiant
and I, more handsome than I remembered.

I have walked where
five thousand men died
on a single street before dusk,
all in the cause and behest of leaders
they were too low to ever meet.
And those leading men dined well that night
with fine wine & port and femme escorts
planning the next day's self retreats.

Some leading edge physicists
opine that there are more dimensions
than time and space.
What it were true,
And love was one of those
hidden from view worlds,
and when one felt love,
real mature unselfish love,
it was but a key
to open a vast universe
that poets from the beginning of time
have struggled so hard to tell?

Dear Lord,
Wherever you reside,
I pray this night
that you will assist
in the creation of a new religion.
The existing ones no longer fit.

I pray for your assistance
for a new tentless religion,
that retains all the old choir music,
but goes real light on all the past *******.

Made me smirk,
throughout this day,
you with your iPad,
me, a converted Underwood,
text-ing through this curtained medium,
to wrest, impress, express,
probing for that come hither glance,
of which the very promise does so entrance.

Joy in desire and my sole desire toy
Is my mad passion, I lute from on far
My love an unknown woman like a star;
built in dreams no waking will destroy
A placid place far from life's deploy;

By spirit breathless to store the silver bar
Of twilight beyond dawn-gates stood ajar,
And raised on Paradise, a dazzled boy;
To look first upon the sea's inlet foam
In the first beginning; in star stud night
Chiffon the mistress musk on high;
Tho no celibate a two ball groom, nor Greece, nor Rome,
Hero to misdeed, the heads of state incant;
I adore thee, my love, 'tis my inflamed chant.

In the way that sugar
desiccates fresh ginger,
pucker for me dear,
and receive my good knight kiss

========
Footnote:  Try this at home.  Ingredients; a seal-able jar, thin (1/16th") slices of fresh ginger root, white to medium granular sugar.  Place sliced ginger in the jar,  pour sugar to cover ginger by half to full inch.  Seal jar and vigorously shake.  Let stand 48 hours.  Stir liquid and add a very small amount of hot water if liquid is granular.  Use liquid syrup like Vermont maple syrup.  Honest.

Us,
not
us in any common sense,
our skin pod hulls,
nursed by different rains,
pulled from divergent fields,
shucked under different moons,
no, not us
in any common sense,
but us
in a deeper vain,
not as in fruited seed,
chaste to the disappointments
of common ground,
chaste to the harness
of sun baked sweat,
no,
us as in
a deeper sense,
an us
that is rarely found,
but in poesy
we both profound.

I think of you
crocheting words,
quietly,
unobserved
by your husband,
watching TV,
in **** gray socks.

There will be a time
when we are warmed
by a banked fire,
when sitting close
is the passion of the hour,
when silence said
is our lover's sonnet,
in bed, holding each
nothing more is wanted.

We fool ourselves
Holding tight
With anchored
Aspirations
That one can
Walk back,
As one walked out,
With the world
Unchanged
As if time
Were a vagrant
That's been arrested.

Infinity
Is
Exhausting
Because
It's
Infinite.

There is much to be learned
studying a woman savoring a dish,
the speed of consumption,
the line of attack,
the rise of her bosoms,
the flare of her lips,
the degree to which her eyes do squint,
the click of her tongue,
the pouch of her cheeks,
and not the least,
observe the pleasure she takes
licking her finger tips.

We are star dust,
you and I,
from a far off place.
We've traveled the winds
of dark space.
Until you and I
once again unite
there will be no chimera,
no light,
for us there will only be
the promise of the night.

You are my harem's thought Siren.
The eunuchs have cleared all the others from the palace'
I've instructed them to draw you a warm scented bath
and light ninety nine candles to aureate your lovely skin.
Upon the hour I will join you and light the remaining one.

I've never met Andy Rooney.  So I can't truthfully say I know Mr. Rooney.  But you can't help forming an opinion after watching him on 60 Minutes for more years than I care to admit.

First, Andy's opinionated.  Well, who wouldn't be if they were paid, presumably well,  given an entire week to collect and share their thoughts with millions of viewers, and on any matter that rankled you that week!

Second, Andy has Svengali eye brows that you just can't take your eyes off.  I'm sure CBS provides Andy free barbering, as sure as I am that he tells the barber, "Nothing off the brows."

Third, how many times has Andy told his audience not to send him things.  After which he dips into a cardboard box and pulls out a cheese grater, a bible printed on playing cards, or a logo baseball cap?
Andy, don't worry; I got the message.

Is my minute up yet?  

Fourth, Andy's hand shakes.  Not unusual for a man his age.  It's not likely to happen, but I wouldn't mind shaking that hand just once.

It's a tough life for a street girl
when the winter mercury's dips,
and back home it's all shakes 'n sweats
for the old man without his fix.

It's a foot into winter,
but soon enough
it'll be mud season.

The cold, and snow,
have eased the ruts,
plane enough...and

there'll be robins
worming roadside,
where be us?

My lips, your hair,
sweet nothings aired.
My hand in yours,
affirmly held.
Who would break this lovely spell?

Were I a lapidopderist,
and you, my study,
landed in my hand,
and I to your silken hem,
you holding my upturned head,
were I to ask,
"What secret pleasure can I now bestow.",
What would thou whisper then?

Our minds meet on a virtual plain,
while our heads still shoulder
the chores of the coming day.
If wishes would, they'd connect
on a coved beach
where sun, salt and air
would finely filter any care.

At my desk I'm reviewing
a printout of your words in red.
The larger the font size
the more times you used it.
"Love" was the first
justified left,
then in rapid success:
"like", "don't", "know", "heart",
It's the don't know that stands between us.

If there be one gift to give
and but one time to receive it,
would it be my promise,
and would that time be now?

Would a lark
take on a lover
that does not sing,
or a poet,
a lover not befriended by a muse?
And if so,
when their sweat
has turned to steam,
and there be nothing left,
save separated bone,
what then,
the duet that could have been,
of other lover's
syncopated harmonies,
forever lost
If one were not to find another that knows how to caress that pen.

Aspen leaves flutter,
Autumn friendships falter,
All impermanent.

What would be the harm
if you and I decide to lie
and make it our private currency

If in each other's eyes
We would always see
the other's charms

What would be the harm
of such a simple lunacy?

My sweet harlot,
I've known love thrice:
--  with mother
--  with wife
Now, with vice.

The trouble with older women
At least once in their past
they've fallen for men
hook, line 'n stinker.

Dear Walt,
I know you're not listening
so it's safe to tell ya
that I cannot think of
your seminal work
without remembering:
--  that blue stained dress
-- Bill & Monica

Regards,
GJJ

from path
to trail
to road
to highway,
the loneliest of all
is the bushwhack.

brighten
warm ghost mouth,
sudden crush,
sleepy ;-)