c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-25)
Feeling awkward, feeling shy
Watching her from a distant shore
Lips in motion, speaking softly
Pop references and movie folklore
Her eyes peer deeply, I suspect
I shield my own, to remain invisible
I would tremble if she knew
What I feel in this moment, so incredible
A foolish tingle in my heart
Though we are a continent apart
Younger, bolder, all the rest
Things that I long ago surrendered
Her wilding vibe does not retreat
From what I can only blankly remember
She gives me courage to go forth
But my own will is weak and pale
I fear that if confession comes
I’ll lose this cloak of fantastic tales
In the light of discovery
Naked truths will be released
Better is it to confuse
With twists and turns of prancing prose
Let the misdirected mime
Silently say what the keeper knows
If I speak in literal terms
Of the soulful surging in my veins
She might damn me with disconnection
We might not touch this way, again
I hesitate to take the risk
Though I yearn for the sweet taste of her kiss
Will I be tagged as a fool?
It is a chance to soar, or slip
To be a seeker, finding treasure
Or an erratic, radar blip
I think it likely that suitors, aplenty
Must already be outside her door
I have so little gold to offer
So little of a love reward
Crouching in the shadows here
Doomed by this burden of fear
Art alone is my device
Wielded with a wordless oath
No sight or sound to be detected
Traveling toward this realm of hope
Every flash of jewelry and polish
Teases me, as I ride
Her gaze awakens my intentions
I pray for courage and a steady stride
In my arms, she would linger long
My muse, my siren, my princess of song
Too soon the virtual spark abates
I am left alone, cold and cut
Stilled while pondering a plan of action
Paralyzed as the book is shut
Perhaps someday I will do better
Perhaps someday I will arise
To stand before this coastal queen
And render myself to the tide
I know this stirring must be genuine
But now, we have reached the end
Blank goes the computer screen
An empty cupboard, a folded tent
I sit low on my throne of shame
Weighed upon by a lover’s lament
If I had another language
To communicate this mystery, untold
I might at least get a resolution
More pleasant than growing gray and old
How could I expect her to surmise
The adoration behind my disguise?
