1st draft
1.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Reaching way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but core.


Final draft
2.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Although for him hung way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but the core.

The scent of my love
Was rose and sandalwood
Placed in strategic locations.

Yours was patchouli,
Which you rubbed into
Your mustache and beard.

And with each kiss;
Each time we made love
We created our perfume,

The Scent of Our Love.

The scent of my love
Was rose and sandalwood.
Yours was patchouli,
Which you rubbed into
Your mustache and beard.
And with each kiss
We created our perfume,
The Scent of Our Love.

It started to rain, and a wind blew
It put me in a mood, I started
Thinking of you, a thing I never do,
Really.

I could hear the rumbling heavens move.
Do you remember how good it was
To make love during a thunderstorm?
I do.

The leaves on the trees rustled loudly,
A few sticks fell and hit the roof of the house.
I can never forget the pecan tree,
Remember?

It was heavy with its fruit in Autumn
As it stretched over our bedroom.
And every time the North winds blew
Nuts would hit the roof.

You would say “I love you”.
With each clank or bump, rumble, tumble,
They would roll down and I would get
An “I love you”!

And we would lay entwined cuddling.
Do you ever wish it were still true?
Now that we are both older,
I do.

The blue of his eyes swims and mingles in a deep sea of love.
A love that knows no bounds inside my red velvet heart.

How poignant it is to be punctuated with such drama and passion.
A full round moon smiles down watching lovers do what lovers do.

It is made to blush.

My love and I would bask in the sun.
And we would make love out of doors.
We would, under the grape arbor.

Love’s knot loosened, my gossamer bow,
In a sea of light our love voyage would flow.
It would begin and end under the grape arbor.

Based on a poem written in the mid-1990s, more than 30 years ago
I see myself, poor old soul;
Pages upon handwritten pages
Within dusty tattered notebooks;
I caress each word, each syllable,

“This one was for him and this one.
And this one, what passion then!
The pages burnt in his hand.  
Remember?  He often said so.

My thoughts then turn to the disks.
I knew back then, as I carefully
Saved each cherished line of
Our fluid dialog, I knew back then

The day would come when ‘they’
Would be relics from the past
Refusing any longer to give up
Their treasure.

This age-spotted wrinkled hand
Now resorts to albums in which
The printed pages were bound
So many years ago for this reason.

Any flames that once set aflame
The page has long been doused
By the wells of time, time whose
Spring is but a trickle now.

O, sweet honey-dewed words drip
From these pages, sticky, still sweet.
Drip on me for I desire to feel!
All need to be revived!

For we are now all old with time.
The pages yellowed, you dead,
The tech I used to save the writing,
Gone, no longer any use.

Yet, embers deep inside
Glow warm still for you
Within this withered womb.
And it can never be quenched.

I speak this to nothing but air.