A Proposal

I know you care about me, this way or that,
Lets stop playing this game, of mouse and cat,
I don't know who's hunted and who's the prey,
but let the mouse cat meet, is all I pray.

so deep is this desire to get a closure,
but I fear further rejection, and private censure
that I have stopped tossing around, words like Love anymore
and my true feelings I'll curb and repress to the core

I want to reach out to you and reclaim your heart
yet cant make the first move, don't know where to start
in case I make a faux pass and you vanished as in past
will I be able to get back in my shell equally fast.

So I get down on my knees, simple and plain,
imploring: would you be my friend, again?

Sleep Apnea

Angry and bitter, hoping to get better,
Recollecting those incidents in the middle of nights,
Packed in a compartment, sometimes AC, sometimes sleeper,
Afraid to sleep, what if the sleep got deeper,

And the loud noise of snoring, disturbed the fellow travelers,
Each weary from her travel, or just not in the right mood,
Mortally afraid of causing a fuss, of triggering some babbler,
And causing shame to the family who have to apologize for the dabbler.

The fool, who refused diagnosis, or a visit to the clinic,
Who knew it would be apnea, but didn't want to be treated,
Was inflicting on his family the daily torture of snores,
But won't go to the doctor unless reminded of those bores.

Quality Of Sleep be damned,there could have been some mishap,
Thank Mom you took me to the doctor, and put me on BiPaP.

Fool, Actually!

creepy humpty dumpty (Photo credit: elefanterosado)

He was the ideal Fool, a stupid Knave,
serving his masters, until the Robber’s Cave
experiment happened one day, putting him in a fix,
To take which sides, where to figure in the mix,

or stand out and take a stand, and for nobler reasons live,
trust those who placed in him their trust; and for, once and all, his word give,
were all ideals dear to him - or at least that's what the people thought
and watched with amusement the Faustian game -as his soul was bought,

with lures of future riches, if he sat on the wall,
he got all the kings men and horses moved, to prevent his fall,
and fall did eventually happen, we don’t care if someone actually toppled,
but to fall in one’s own eyes, and to fall on those who had propelled

was something no one had fancied, even from a fool or a knave,
falling, hurting and crushing those below -  was he clueless, cunning or naive?

Careless Whispers :-) alternatively titled Walk The Talk

Heart (Photo credit: mozzercork)

The Head Thinks,
The Hands labour,
The Heart rejoices,
And the feet are there for a reason!!

With apologies to Liz Curtis Higgs whose original poem I am modifying and Barbara Trautlien, whose change leadership model I am extending:-)

An electronic note

Some write it with blood, I'm typing on screen,
As you promptly hit delete, at least your hands will be clean!
Some let their tears flow, washing their apology in part,
but on a back-lit LED display, interpreting the     gaps    will be hard.

Some sweat over small stuff, getting the penmanship right,
I'll let you change the fonts, but please don't let the message hide.
Some spray it with perfume, even my template is plain,
no fragrances left to haunt you, if this were to go down the drain.

Some cover in an envelope, I post unencrypted on the web,
even if they found you reading this, you can act ignorant and correct!
Some seal it with a kiss, I publish with a click of my mouse,
and now there's no backtracking, whether you admire or grouse.

Some make it so complex, but its so easy you see,
I'm so sorry that I hurt you, will you please forgive me?

Why dont I touch thee

Touch me not (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This may be seen as second part or continuation or new spin on  You can see, but mustn't touch.

Why don't I touch thee, let me count the ways;
I don't touch thee for sound reasons; pray, hear my case;
You are like a body of still water, that is clam, deep and godsend,
my touch will disturb and perturb you, with ripples that never end.

You are like a statuette of soft, but impressionist clay; perfect and untouched you're meant to be,
my touch will distort and disfigure you, with the impressions of an imbecile for all to see.  
you are like a gem that is crystalline and pure; delicate, shining and untainted,
my impure touch will stain you forever, with one of your facets now painted.

You are like a house of cards, that's just standing; each supporting the other -steady and fast,
my touch will crumble that composure, as you shatter under the weight of the memories past. 
You are like a touch-me-not flower, that's delicate, tempting and forbidden equal parts,
my touch will make you wither or shrink, and go forever in a shell, breaking many hearts.

but the forever reason I don't touch thee, I fear you are an illusion or a dream forlorn,
and my touching will make you disappear again, with me and my burnt fingers alone. 

She doesn't read me any more!

Facepainting (Photo credit: vlasta2)

She doesn't read me any more,
stopped following or keeping track;
What I wrote once, had made her sore,
so she barged ahead- without looking back.

Depriving me of her face, her locks, her looks,
of what she's writing, her blogs, her books,
her feelings she kept in guard before -
but now what's locked is ever more-

her words, profiles, her tracks in space,
her photos, poems, the change in face;
All I recall, she's driven to wipe,
vanishing from the net, disappearing from my life.

Fearing me as a stalker, guarding closely the door,
I hardly care, she doesn't read me any more!