Twitter Poetry–Part 5

My goal was to collect all, or at least most, of the short poetry I’ve done on Twitter. I never quite caught up with it. Here I will resume the task, and in so doing, thank my muse, once again, the incomparable Susan Canary.

Susan

After a long exchange of wishes and dreams, I said:

Live in the light, my love,

And call me when you want

To live in the night!

and she said:

In the shadows I’ll welcome your strong embrace

Lips brushing a soft cheek

And leave you

With a smile when I return to the light.

And followed that with:

Would you break me

And leave me a shell

A ruin

Or just ruin me

For other men?

To which I answered:

If you have to ask,

Then you don’t understand.

If I can’t have you,

Why should any other man?

You are too strong to break,

You are too wise to fail,

You are too far to take,

A falcon, not a quail.

Her:

Not so wise

Nor nearly so strong

Pixels and distance

What I’ve had all along.

Me:

Sweet dreams are made of this,

Black canaries lying in bed,

Singing their songs, and spreading their wings,

Pretty birds with daring tongues.

Her:

The tongue not so daring

As it is eager to taste

For all five senses are

Engaged in one place.

(Unable to continue and overcome with longing, I fell silent and let several days pass. In the real world, I have a small convention I must attend, where I can play games, talk to friends, do typical nerdish, fannish things. Thinking of that I said:)

Tonight is the party before the Con

Time to get our shmoozing on

Playing poker with my friends,

Enjoying means instead of ends.

and she replied:

Won’t have a moment

To think of me

With all of that

Fun and frivolity

Hang w/your cronies

Until morning light

No time for women tonight!

But she gets no apology:

No time for women,

No women in sight.

Sometimes a man

Must do what’s right.

Back in the real world, I tried to let her know my ardor, though postponed, is undiminished.

For

Hot or cold . . .

It doesn’t matter.

I want your heart

On a silver platter.

Shocked out of rhyme she said:

I’m a bit concerned….

And I explained:

Sometimes a poem Is a metaphor,

For feelings that I can’t ignore.

But sometimes it’s A play on words,

For hungry trolls and pretty birds.

and she sent me some love:

*HUGS* I understand.

*************************************************************************

And that seems a good place to end this page.  I missed several days of poetry, and I’ll come back for it later on the next page, but this seemed like one section that was fairly coherent.

–end

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