She hurried on,
A laptop clutched to her chest,
Heavy bags with some books
And a pile of thoughts from nowhere.

She seemed to levitate,
Lifted by her own emotions.
She nearly lifted off, but she tripped
And fell on a bright fall afternoon.

A tiny, ridiculous bump,
Like a karate fighter’s sudden strike,
Sent her body reeling with a single blow.

She groaned.
She couldn’t stand up,
Her ankles were hurt.
The ego suffers shame
Lying flat, stripped of dignity—
Flesh and bone with higher aspirations
At the lowest score.

People passed without a word,
Without even bending down.
Invisibility. Disappearance.
Soon, perhaps, she will be taken
To another plane?
There lay a woman— not a human being?

Strange things happen on this cozy Earth.
Perhaps it was consciousness itself,
Or simple hellish humiliation on the wet sidewalk?

All speculation ended
with one short remark:
“She’s just drunk!”

How can you not love all these people
for their deep insight,
their tireless devotion to shapes
and short, simple lines.

Oh, Prophets at every step of our shared path,
always knowing more about my life –
and yours.

"Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly" (2)



who needs challenges, commissions.
kicks~in~le butte~
when heaven heaves rains, one downs tall orders in
short shot glass verses, which glossed over at its
first communion(cation,
come back
months later
to subtract - another
poem from where it lay dormant
on the doormat
of my sub~sub~terranes
of my diluted subconscious au natured dry & rugged terrain

a favored poet,
a secretive admirer,
whoa~whose~her truthful name, I've yet to uncover,
but whose one true soul inspires me repeatedly,
ana~lyrically licks me into
dredging from me
un begrudgingly

and yet,
another love poem,
she herself wrote when elixiring (commentating (3))
'pon one of mine,
a long long time ago

Alas!  Alack!
unnaturally immodest,
one concedes,
when obviously a Super~Woman!-cedes,
seeds in three verses, what I  could never unknot
nor uncover

so I requite & requote with
unlabored pleasure
miz patty m's
primary terse verse,
neither secondary & never tertiary,
her absolut perfect mixed drink
defining, summarizing,
the essences of love

"(Love) Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly"

I concede, in deed,
and in writing,
I know nothing,
of writing
of only love poetry
and all the great predecessors,
elsewhere lyricized, named and tabulated,
by yet another women, (1)
I will take my weary words elsewhere,
and if
perhaps,
disguised as a woman,
(Natalie, Natasha, Natali
see note below)

perhaps my verbal herbal insides,
my turgid insights,
will be shorter, sweeter,
but never more completer
than those of,
who can syncopate it
in rhyme
and the naming of my
predilection,
by mid~initial,
will give a measuring
of solace, and
a kiss and hug from my mirrored selfie,
having been unsuccessful at
my one chosen endeavor,
only love poetry,
adieu,
I, due,
utter
Nevermore
                    M>