across the pages, towering and slow,
the words and phrases, measured and precise;
the aching, felt first centuries ago,
contained within a uniform device
that tells what beats and syllables to use.
although some variations are allowed,
some things to add, a few that you can lose,
pentameter, both lyrical and proud,
contains within its limits, all the joys
that human kind can feel, as well as fears
that join into our hearts' increasing noise,
this golden mix of love and hope and tears.
these voices, who could not imagine us,
that we don't understand, but still, discuss.
while little we predict may yet come true,
we confidently state that this or that
is bound to happen, plain as blue is blue,
and rarely see we're wearing the tin hat
that indicates we may be way off base.
but reinforcement comes: the internet
is good for that. whatever be your case
there's someone who agrees, and who'll abet.
so being wrong's a cottage industry:
a chance to bark, to posture, and to fight;
we join into this ill community
and rather would "be right" than "get it right".
but all of it's unreal, except the mess
that comes from words carved out of emptiness
Come sit beside me, let me see you smile,
If you have one inside that you could share;
We've been so busy, it has been awhile
Since we could be together, and be there
The ways we need to do, to show we care.
For there's been much to do for you and me
In these strange times of such uncertainty.
So let's put down these tablets for a bit.
The day is young, the night is still at bay.
And we can take in every ounce of it
And, maybe, have some fun along the way:
It's good to work, but just as good to play.
Together, as we used to do before:
And, just like then, to sleep still wanting more.
I don't deny I love the way you look
And though it's said to be but shallow praise
Just one encounter was all that it took.
The time has passed, now: all the years, the days,
And still I love to see you being you,
With all your many attitudes, and ways.
For what's most beautiful is what is true:
Not posing, but existing, as you are,
And how engrossed you are in what you do.
We have been through a lot, and we've come far:
You're still my day's bright sun, and night's best star.
My wife used to be a model,
But then she grew to hate
The profession as demeaning
What it pretends to celebrate.
And yet, she'll say in passing
That it wasn't always bad;
That for paychecks and for travel
She was really very glad --
I know it's not simple, like
Brief sunlight in bad weather:
But many things in life consist
Of good and bad
every 90 minutes
another virtue poem;
i'm nothing but trustworthy,
a type of jeroboam
that holds a lot of nothing in
the bottle that's this blog --
where you can trust each poem won't
be all that long
we tolerate most anyone
who'll join in and discuss
whatever might be on their mind --
if that agrees with us.
for with our type of "tolerance"
there's no one quite a hero,
since now, we rarely use the word
unless it's led by "zero" --
but maybe it's still possible
to brook some disagreement:
and let those others think their thoughts
and just not be