First Poem in a Long Time

When I again first met you

(it had been so long)

It was like something was missing--

Like a summer night without cicadas--

Like I was searching the eyes of a stranger

For someone I had known

And I missed you more than ever

For though I could have reached across

And touched you,

You felt so far away.

But I think that I have found you,

Found you once again

And it's every bit exciting

As the very first time when

We talked long into the night

With no apparent end.

I can't recall when last

I was drawn to write a sonnet,

But I do recall I wrote it just for you.

Those were in my younger days

My heart a beating tambourine on fire verily ablaze

And entirely unfazed. 

But to heave one's heart into his mouth

Takes more thought than you might think--

For thinking's really rather hard

When the object of your thoughts

Be the subject of this poem

(that's you)

So no melodious sonnets,

No angels' tongues with gilded words

Just stone age parlance with a drop of pathos

Bought at three years' price. 

So I ready these old rusty metered dice

And prepare to write a verse--

Do I dare disturb the universe?

Do I dare? Be it right?

Alea iactus est--of course!

(and Prufrock dies tonight)

If I could scream the heart-songs of a million lullabies,

And paint with words the canvas of a hundred splendid skies,

If I could count for you all the tears I've cried--

The tears I've cried from knowing you

The tears I've cried from not

The tears of what if we forgot

The tears I've cried from thinking this one single thought:

The thought of you not being mine

Of you in someone else's arms--

Well, I don't know what I'd do;

I'd probably write this poem for you. 

And hope that it just does what poems used to do.