Heartless Poet

     

    He wanted one poem to plop down in his lap,

    Contented and revealing within the first draft;

    It's phrases weaned...lines well proportioned,

    .....a poem like that seldom walks in the door.

     

    We need to talk. she said.

    Odd timing, he said, I'm writing.

    No, I mean it, she said.

    O.K., just a minute,

        .. a wildflower steals under yon fence row,

         poignant, the shy hues of parting glances,

    Is your heart in this? she asked.

    Hang on,

         hints of pale yellows...and savvy magenta,

    I thought so, she said,

    and walked out.

         ...its doleful, soulful...

    Damn, I lost it. he said.

    Comments

    Lol, Barefooted.  Perfect!.  (I've almost been there.  I'll leave it at that.)

    I meant Oxy Mora.  Sorry!  Jeez. . .

     

     


    But, but, I had my shoes on.


    This is really, really good, Oxy. Makes me wish I had written it.

    I don't think he's a "heartless poet", though. Timing really is everything. You've captured that sentiment beautifully ... both in the writer's creative, all-consuming quest, and his lover's plea. Both require singular attention and cannot coexist. Well done!


    Mad at myself about the mixup, but I love this comment, too.  So there.


    Ramona, I love all your comments. smiley


    Thanks, barefooted. Appreciate the comments.


    Nice poem, barefoot ... err Oxy!

     

    A heartless poet

    needs to have a strong liver

    to feel his way through.


    A heartless poet

    Has no rhythm at all when

    A dream girl walks in.

     


    Good one!
     

     


    A heartless poet

    doesn't recognize his dream

    when she dances in.


    Ah, yes. Yes.


    A heartless poet

    won't recognize his dream till

    she provides a beat.


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