How, I wonder, did you prove susceptible to my charms — such as they are, weak and ill-fitting. 1/25/02010 Lookee here: a poem that doesn't rhyme! This one holds special interest for me because of the final punctuation. I could have gone with a question mark, but I chose to go with a period. I take the view that the ", I wonder," brings it out of the interrogative realm and puts it into the declarative realm. Do you agree or disagree?

I know of the long years that you have spent waiting to see me drunk on liquor, wine, or beer. But what I think is much more intoxicating is feeling and knowing that you are near. 1/24/02010 I'm pretty much a teetotaler, in case you don't know. Beth's never seen me drunk. Actually, nobody's ever seen me drunk. But Beth has long been curious as to how I would behave drunk. I think this is one of my most successful poems. It has nice rhymes, but it has narrative integrity, so it doesn't seem (at least in my opinion) like I was stretching to make the rhymes work.

How long will you love me? I always wonder. Will it outlast the rain? Will it outlast the thunder? I hope it will last till the end of my life. I will love you forever, my beautiful wife. 1/23/02010 I like this one from a structural standpoint.

Friday is the day when I most wish I could spend my life with you. Friday is the day when I am most thrilled that you married me. Friday is the day when I am happiest to see your smiling face. Friday is the day when I most want to hear your voice and to feel your hugging. Friday is the day when I most desperately long for your kisses. …Until Saturday arrives. 01/22/02010 I'm pretty sure that January 22 was a Friday this year.

When snow falls on your head I get to see how you might look when your hair turns white. When you crawl into bed I get to be a lucky schnook after day turns to night. 1/21/02010 Schnook!

The farther you roam, the farther you stray, the farther from home 'long the rarely trod way; the farther I'll chase, the farther I'll follow, the farther the place where I'll meet you tomorrow. 1/20/02010 I didn't realise just how many of these poems are gushy love poems until I started posting them to my blog. Eventually we'll get to some poems that do not fit into that category. I promise.

I live life afraid of attack from a pickle. I don't understand why you're so hard to tickle. I still wouldn't trade just a one of your pinches for ball in my hand with third down and just inches. 1/19/02010 I am disgusted by pickles. Beth has been known to chase me around with them, threatening to touch me with them. She's also extraordinarily resistant to tickling. She also used to pinch me quite a lot. Not so much recently. I kind of miss it, actually. The key to perfect harmony would be for her to pinch me, but not so hard that it hurts! The football reference was nothing but a stretch for a rhyme.

If you walk through a garden and trample a flower, is that better or worse than wasting an hour? I'm glad for the hours you've wasted with me. I think they've been better than planting a tree. 1/18/02010 Structurally, this one relates to number 4, but I think it's better.

You fill me with love like your legs fill your pants; like your hand fills your glove; like your joy fills your dance. 1/17/02010 Still a little funny. But I think this was a bit of a better effort than the last one.

If you rhyme with a saint but not with a sinner, you're more likely paint than leftover dinner. I still love your nose and I still love your knees. I still love your toes and you sometimes say please. 1/16/02010 Getting a little funny. Not my best effort, for sure. But perhaps it has its charms.

I love that you're funny. I love that you're kind. I love that you're you. I hope you don't mind. 1/15/02010 Another gushy love poem. I warned you.

Roses are red. Daffodils are yellow. I love you more than the finest green Jello. 1/14/02010 I actually initially mistyped "yellow" as "blue". I sent the poem that way before realising my mistake and sending a correction.

On January 13 of this year, for no particularly important reason, I sent the following poem to my darling wife via text message: I love you. I miss you. I want to hug and kiss you. The poem, simple as it was, was made up on the spur of the moment while I was at work. I quickly followed it with another text message saying something along the lines of "that was your poem for the day". Having sent the followup message, it somehow seemed appropriate to send a second poem the next day. And so I did. Then I kept going. For eight months [so far], I've been sending Beth a new poem on a [mostly] daily basis. I won't claim the resulting poems amount to high art. In fact, I will claim just the opposite. But I think that every once in a while there is a gem or a nugget that makes the exercise seem pretty worthwhile, from the standpoint of the practice of writing . Often, the poems have been downright lousy. Still, for me, the point of the exercise has been a romantic n...

As this ninth anniversary of September 11, 02001 approached, I spent a lot of time listening to "news" programming on the Sirius while I drove around for work. I have been deeply upset about the overt bigotry that's been dominating the discourse over the last several weeks. This past week, it occurred to me that it's been over a quarter of a year since I posted anything to my blog. That, in itself is a shame. In light of the mood that's overtaken the country, it seems especially a shame that my most recent post was about having participated in Everybody Draw Mohammed Day. Don't get me wrong. I am proud to have participated in Everybody Draw Mohammed Day. I think it was a meaningful event, and I think that it was, at least in my case [and, frankly, in its origins], a properly directed protest. Its aim had something to do with saying "intolerance is not welcome", "bullying is not acceptable", "threats against freedom of expression are ...