When I fashion words and thoughts, and weave them into lucid rhyme,
they say to me, "Why do you bother?... it's all just a waste of time.
There's nothing in it for you; it's all done for free, with no reward."
They miss the point completely, in their grey, and avaricious world.

I find it sad... this crass indifference to this portal to the thoughts,
from whence, spring such diverse confections, tantalising mind and heart.
Enticing those, who keep emotions captive... out of others' sight;
to blossom... like a fragile bloom unfolding in the warm sunlight.

I use the English language in the fashion it was taught to me.
That wondrous journey of discovery through the Oxford Dictionary.
A set of tools, unrivalled, to one who plies a Poet's trait;
so many words... so many ways, a thought one can elaborate.

The style, and subject of my rhymes; by some, it's true... are deemed to be
a little maudlin; perhaps dated... incorrect, politically.
Whilst outwardly, so worldly wise; inside... and hidden, there exists
in me, a hopeless, true romantic... an iron glove - but, a velvet fist.

The thoughts and dreams behind the words... I hope, reach out, and touch your mind;
and gently soft... caress emotions; thus, I hope that you may find
your pathway to forgotten memories... loves held secret and discreet;
if this is true, the circle of my poem then becomes complete.

And that is, in my world at least; what poetry is all about;
seduction by imagination... no regrets, or pain, or doubt.
Except in words upon the page; ephemeral... no deep wants or needs;
the sensual stroking of the senses; making love with words... not deeds.