I Want My Thousand Words
Maybe I should have met her
on every cherished thought I had
but nocturnal words are fickle
and u don’t know how much i tried
oh don’t scold me if I tell u others
of the old words that defy
Look up,
look it up:
those lucubrations
where I studied romance,
but feared to speak out loud
lest a candle be blown out
on a cherished doubtful notion
Maybe I could have known her
with every cherished thought I had
Devotions in motion maybe
are not a type face. I’m
looking it up.
Sometimes she’s in a digital box,
but now I imagine:
Looking up to the sky
she’s running wild style
climbing adventurous trees
Those wild trees uproot themselves
just to make a statement
even if they fall short of running
but, of course, it’s not recommended
Yes, trees can branch
that’s their slow motion adventure
when they must wait for seed carriers
that bear their fruit
Maybe she’ll come down
for our favorite wine
and a dithyramb
about ecstasy
and leafy love
I have seen her dither,
climb a tree in bloom
speak with flirty birds
and have a word with me
that is a subtle twitter bark
surrounding like a hug wood
a play with banter-word chirps
But wilder is better because
even in flighty tedium whims
she knows the prolix eagles
who extend their wings
and cry for hours when
she speaks their language
With a waiting twiddle I wanted much
to touch her since then, and
there is a flourish in melody
that accompanies the twaddle
of the giddy blooming of me
I hear when I think
of her as branching music
reaching for the sky
I know she’s reading
between tweets
sneaking a look at
longer things like me
world famous innuendo
Hello, I can see you dear and
I have words to sing.
Step away from the box screen
and meet me in the forest;
there’s a long body
of conversation
of pleasure
I want my thousand words,
don’t want to abbreviate you
or shorten the picture
I don’t see you
as a u or pic, and
I’m so sorry u
were picked on
I will file a brief
in the highest court for
je ne sais quoi appeals, and
run rampant on ramparts of verbosity
because at least prolixity has a tongue
a lingua frank and a lingua true
not politically corrected scrub
but where I could be a tree
and you could be a bush
in the metaphor field
away from the digital box
and on to lots
short enough for ya’
u,… Oh, I would ask
your real name, but
I forgot mine
Maybe if I’ve lost my mind,
all these palpitations I have known
will be smoothed by mellifluous U when
your dear ear is on my flighty heart, and
frenzied eagles clap their wings
— Douglas Gilbert
