A November Monday

In the crisp air I step lively to my car,
brushing my hair away from my eyes

.
I marvel at how Long Island temperatures
can go up and down so drastically in two days.

Surprisingly my muscles aren't screaming at me
after the workout I gave them on Saturday.
According to my son, I was a psycho on Saturday,
raking leaves in the relentless wind and rain.
It was only drizzling and the wind was a help.

I heard you Saturday, despite the wind, flying over head
but could not see you through the thick, heavy rain clouds.
Still, I knew you were up there, creating poetry in the air.
I wanted to join you and I almost did as a gust of wind
shook me from my foot hold on the muddy ground.

I will take you and your poetry with me as I travel to work,
as I breath in the fresh air from the slightly opened car window.
It is a fine day and I have God to thank for that and I have you
to thank, for sharing your good poetry with me....
your poetry with the double O!

As Coffee Brews

Your feathery quill struck my eye
as I butter my toast of rye.
I hunger for your poetic words
that fly off like a flock of birds.
Into the night they disappear
behind a cloud that's very sheer.
Then in dawn's light as coffee brews
poetic words and honey fuse.

Poetry Wine

Who has cometh to wine and dine
upon thy simple words?
And would you care to cometh back
for seconds, even thirds?

Luscious grapes, fruit of thy vine,
perfecting on thy twine.
Stay and linger on thy lips,
sweet poetry and wine.

I knew thee well once long ago,
our words danced 'neath the moon.
I gave to thee, thy dewy heart,
that bloomed in early June.

Luscious grapes, fruit of thy vine,
perfecting on thy twine.
Stay and linger in thy mind,
sweet poetry and wine.

Celerity

Why is the pen always out of ink?
Is it really a wonder;
Have you not read all that he writes,
in the shadows of the wee hours
whilst I sleep?

The moon is on the rise
and the mood is warming
the breath of the night.

The cravings for sweet metaphors
come alive in his poetic mind
as he calls for me to come
and play once again;
to be his angel.

"Come to mind" he says to me.
"Come, my muse of the night".

I am but an innocent reader of his poems,
a captive audience of one, by day
and an unknowing seductive muse by night.

How is it unknowingly that I invade his mind
and become the muse of his desires?
Like the depths of a dark ocean, have my
eyes revealed my most womanly secrets?

I am but the grass that only looks greener
on the other side of the metaphor.
I am but the rhyme that fanned out her
tail feathers only to fall flat on the floor.

Still, he calls me to mind in the cool dusk.
And once again I am his muse of the night.

The lines on the paper heat up with each
stroke of the pen as ink flows with celerity.
He can't help but express his male excitement
and in his nervous state...forgets my name!

Poem in D minor

I've seen, I've heard this play before,
two restless souls a fire.
Invite, excite, to come explore
to see what will transpire.

But star-dust soon will leave the eye
I'm sure you will agree.
Another beauty passes by
and then I'm history.

Recite to me a ballad free
of broken hearts galore.
Don't lust for me on bended knee
for I will cry no more.

un-red valentine

your love is like
wild winds whipping my heart
staining me blue

January

Whistling wind weasels
beneath lose fitting covers
Winter is not shy

Linger

Stand with me beneath white birch trees
in early morning dew.
Float upon a fresh green thought
that travels country wide.

Let’s blend together hues of ink
as hand in hand we walk.
We come alive like feathered ferns
in autumn shades of gold.

And should we linger long enough
we'll catch the rising moon.
It watches over everyone
especially those who hide.