What does it take/
to remake her/
into that shape you/
want her to/
be?/
You can’t./
There’s no chance./
It’s her own power/
and destiny/
to flower/
and be/
her own she.
The harder you try/
to change/
and rearrange,/
the more she’ll run.
But be the man/
who’ll applaud loud./
Be her biggest fan;/
pull her out of the crowd./
Then maybe/
she’ll see/
what you see/
and be/
she./
Freely.
I’d never met/
a Cougarette./
I’d had too much fear/
after watching them cheer./
Could her energetic and my blues dance/
lead to some sort of romance?/
She’d danced for the Cougs to win/
and now she lives in Santaquin!
I’d never met/
this Cougarette./
but the evening/
isn’t over yet./
(It looks like she’s leaving.)
There is no doubt:/
She’ll rise. I’ll shout.
When I gazed into her eyes/
I sighed,/
and was bereft/
and denied/
the chance/
to further dance/
and twirl/
and give the birthday girl/
her daughter’s window scraper.
As I stoked a dying fire,
A warmth set to soon expire,
I added more fuel: dried wood.
Gave coals space to breathe, good.
And as I watched pine
Smoldering there,
Wood slowly warming,
Yearning for air,
It gave me pause;
Made me wonder why
Women look for passions’ cause
And ask for “sparks to fly”.
Sparks flying mean only
The flame’s been disturbed, goaded,
Kicked, poked, prodded, turned,
Or that super-heated sap exploded.
Instead shouldn’t they look for
The smoky, slowly-warming feat
That finally gasps air, and with a roar
Throws off constant, strong, radiant heat?
No sparks there
Kicked, thrust, thrown at random
Into the night air
With sudden, reckless abandon!
But rather glowing, red,
Steady, comforting heat.
Passions’ flame which, carefully fed,
Gives warmth that will repeat.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 