To The Other Boleyn Girl

I thought to write you something last night.
But other, more poetic, words to say,
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you”,
would not come.

So I crossed out weak lines and discarded them.
Struck and left naked on the page
like days notched
that bring me closer to seeing you again.

Closing my eyes I secretly wished my abandoned
meager words would copulate-
Do a push-up or two-
Perhaps take a Thai kickboxing class-
And I, upon waking would be greeted with
brilliance.

But to no avail.

There they lie
and I as well
with no better thought than
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

So, in the end I am obliged to write a poem
about a poem
that never will exist
but for the space between
this constant meditation
on six little words
and my hand resting on your cheek.

Dumas' du Vallon ~ or my stuffed turtle

Late at night
often you whisper
“Slow and steady wins the race.”
At times I heed this advice
but mostly I, like D’Artagnan,
rush toward a fray with little regard
for friend or foe alike.

Trusted wisdom carried on your back
springs forth all that is my world.
Knowledge of love & honor protects you.
Drink keeps you.

And though you never appear to have bested
legions of swordsmen when I crawl under covers,
I know, in my absence, great adventure
crests at your feet and welkins the blood to action.

But
hushed stardust
to my earnest inquiry
is all you ever yield.

And to my ear-
Riposte-
“Slow and steady wins the race.”
My first,
last,
and perpetual lesson.

девушка

I know exactly what you’re doing
When you
Adjust.
And trust me,
I could
Make you
Bite that bottom lip
For a real reason.

If I so chose.

I’m no fool.

I can
Take
What I want.
When I want.

But restraint

Restraint
Is the better part of virtue
And I am no musician.
Though,
Playing would be as effortless
As laying these lines
To lay you.

I am aware of hazel contacts hiding baby-blues.
I know all about
Sidelong glances
And how they belie the danger of your youth.
I am well versed in
Pulling hair,
So don’t make a game
Of twisting yours
As if you wanted something.

I am no fool.

I have restraint

And no taste for a secret garden of uncut flowers.