Two Poems For Friday Night

The Wall

No, I cannot love a wall

No matter how pretty and tall; 

I used to try to kick down the wall

In order to reach you;

I used to try to go over the waterfall

In my homemade canoe,

Thinking you'd be on the other side.

I thought my feelings for you would never subside,

But they did and died, like the vine on your wall. 

Wissai

November 27,  2014

Why don't you write me romantic poems anymore?

She called and said, "hi, long time no talk.

You've stopped calling; you don't write me poems anymore.

What happened to your affection for me of yore?

Are you giving me a walk like you did to other women before?"

I coughed and choked and stuttered and stammered.

I tried to speak but had difficulty getting my words out.

I hemmed and hawed like I got hit with a hammer.

How could I explain to her she had lost her glamor?

Mercifully, she hung up on me after saying, "Go to hell, little prick!"

So that was how women typically behaved: all bitches,

Making me rolling all over the floor in stitches.

If only she had acted like a real lady, I'd have been heartsick 

She didn't know by acting rude, she confirmed what I had suspected of her:

All soft, sweet, tender, ladylike of before was not for real

All inconsistencies, stingy, falsely prideful, nose up in air, I wouldn't care.

She didn't know understanding and patience are qualities of appeal

I was tempted to call her back and said, "you've got me all wrong

I ain't no fool, nor a little prick", but the conversation would be too long.

In time, her heart would tell her what was really going on:

Seize the day; grab the brass ring; go for broke; jump into the fire;

Meet me out in the middle of the lake in early winter on thin ice;

Hold me tight and then dance and skate with me all through the night. 

If we fall down and drown, so what? True love is really crazy,

All started with a feeling, making the vision all hazy.

Yes, I believe in Romeo and Juliet, in impossible dreams, 

In tenderness, in swimming against the current upstream.

I fear realism and practicalities, for deep down I'm real crazy.

I still long for soft, sweet, susurrous sound of puppy love. 

Even though I am an old man of sixty-four,

I still dream to row the boat with my beloved to the other shore. 

Wissai

October 2014