Your fingers shrinking got me thinking about your wedding ring. On the day we married, that ring I carried as such a precious thing. Now you are my wife, the best part of my life. So much more important than bling. 6/20/02010
Another dead mouse this time a homegrown victim super-cute while live. 6/19/02010 Our border terrier killed a mouse in the house on the day this poem was composed. I had seen the mouse scurrying around the kitchen earlier, but I was unable to capture it and set it free in a safe location. It ran under the oven, where I lost it. Some hours later, it must have reemerged, whereupon it met its violent end. I'm sure you've noticed that this is a haiku.
If Miss Willow saw Don Orsillo, I'm sure she'd run and hide. She'd disappear whene'er he'd come near. Especially if he offered a ride. 6/15/02010 Here "Miss Willow" refers to our cat, who is extremely fearful of strangers. Don Orsillo is a guy who does television broadcasts of Red Sox games. He might be a former baseball player. Of that I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that Willow does not like to go for rides in cars.
Solo and lonely. I miss having you with me. My spirit's so low. 6/12/02010 This must have been composed on the first day of my darling wife's vacation. She gets more vacation time from her job than I get from mine, which means that sometimes she goes away, leaving me alone for a week or so.
Suzie, Cindy, Martha, Lupe: Names that are not yours. If you had them framed and hung, Perhaps you could give tours. 6/10/02010 Bucking the odds, the poem posted for St. Valentine's Day is not a gushy love poem. Strange, that.
I love you when you're toasty. I love you when you're cold. I love you when you're timid. I love you when you're bold. I love you when you coddle and even when you scold. I loved when you were younger. I'll love when you grow old. 6/9/02010 A gushy love poem.
Wouldn't you like to fly to the moon on a cloudless night in the month of June? Wouldn't you pity those who try in the mid-day heat in the month of July? 6/5/02010 I think I like the rhythm better this way: Wouldn't you like to fly to the moon on a cloudless night in June? Wouldn't you pity those who try in the mid-day heat of July? 6/5/02010
I hear that you like one poem better than all of the rest— something about your eyes. I guess you think it's the best. I don't recall just how it goes. I suppose it's complimentary. Perhaps it's about their beauty or about how far they can see. 6/3/02010 My darling wife tells me that her favorite poems are the ones about her ojos, but she got into the habit of saying "o-yos" instead of "o-hos". It's endearing.
Have you ever noticed? Do you think that it's strange? That when you say "thank you" my response is never "you're welcome"; it's always "I love you." 6/2/02010 This is true. I almost never say "you're welcome" to my darling wife. Also true is that when I'm addressing her directly, I almost never call her by her name. I call her "my love" almost all the time. It's not that I've forgotten her name, of course.
If Mr. Newton were made half of gluten and the other half pure peanut butter, do you think he'd make kids break out in fits or perhaps even cause them to stutter? 5/30/02010 Here, "Mr. Newton" refers to our chihuahua.