A certain very close and dear Facebook friend, suggested that I should to try to locate if possible, my long lost romantic pen, (Shame it does not have a recall button) from wherever it had conveniently concealed its more than somewhat unused and presumably unwanted presence.

Possibly, it thought it was well past its sell-by date, which certainly is undoubtedly true , as far as the purple ink is concerned.

Therefore, there is little possibility that it will overly excite, or titillate the younger set of nubile readers, or possibly any reader.

Of course, such ventures are not without danger from the Lewis Turco types, and their opinionated hatred of inversion, the raucous howls of derision from Sonnet Central, or the Eratosphere hierarchy who openly condemn, or possibly ban anyone foolish enough to include the word “love” as an emotional expression in any form of conjectured pretence to poetry...

It was there, in dreamed night, where I met her,

when flamed desire, adjudg’d there to show.

and sybaritism, its sensual ways, did bestow.

Self-passion enters its endemic picture,

with words of wild usurpation’s delight.

and tactile touch is then borne as a right.

An oíche, embraces, true diablerie of thought,

engaged pulsations where none is forsworn.

As tantric fears not, of desires, so brought,

and so evades, routines adduced suborn.

Grá fíor rides its new druthers, in fair felicity,

in dream’s acquiescence, and all it sets free.

For here, in this world, where wish is supreme;

Grá nua is truly sated, in symmetry’s dream.

There time, it rests discretely, in euphonious delight.

As sensual thought sighs, at fear’s igneous night.

For when abetted in thought, of such undulation, 

when its espoused desire; fulfils grá ar milis elation.