My hand reaches out for she.
as we drive in the car.
I want to touch her,
so she will see, my love.
She pulls away, from my touch
for she no longer likes my hand.
I suppose I should know,
realizing she doesn't understand,
for I only want to grasp her hand.

If a Rose is a Rose,
what do you suppose,
is the plant by my toes?
It was pretty, once
and went away.
The foliage, not much.
Just want to say,
will it grow anew?
This I will pray
it will come again
on a new Spring day.

What an embarrassment,
you are so uncouth,
talking too loud
saying your untruth.

Do you remember your first book?
Did it have pictures? Did you look
at the pictures and writing too?
What do you remember, trying to do?
Was it, perchance, a coloring book?
Did you stay within the lines? Look
at where you are today
and what you read to your dismay.
Enjoy your books and papers too,
for the writing by others, may enlighten you.

Melodic words; Nary a tune,
portray our lives,
in these days of gloom.
Come to the window,
look up at the Moon,
happier days may
be here quite soon.
Here's what to do,
when your receive your ballot
and you vote Blue.

A small figure with
golden hair, stands outside
the cone of light, on darkened
street. A bicycle propped up,
on kick stand, blends with
the shadows. Flash of
light, reflections of arms
waving in a warming motion.
What thoughts go through
a small boys head as he
stands alone, in the darkness.
Watching, waiting for the appearance
of another, early morning, traveler.

Clouds racing
for the far horizon,
running from
the evening light.

Wind comes puffing
in short hard bursts,
causing tree limbs
to whip in frenzy.

The Sun, peeking through
the clouded masses,
reflects the rain and
like sheeted glass
it splatters,
on the window.

You are my life.
You are my Soul.
Without your love,
I won't be whole.

Do you dance?
Will you dance with me?
May I hold you close,
as it used to be?
No more contact, near or far.
Six feet is the distance,
stay where you are.
Wear your mask,
do it now.
There will be no romance
until the Virus is gone,
along with Number 45.
Goodbye Mr. Trump. So long.

The air is heavy with
much dampness when
a cold wind blows
down the street.
Not raining now.

A faded light, across the darkened room,
portrays relief from the shadowed gloom.
A brightness, I see from afar,
not realizing it is not a light
but a bright, heavenly star.

Small bytes of noise
is what I want
but wordy prose
is what I got.