Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Sweet Nothings

May I whisper in your ear
a word without a want, or fear
of hearing any repercussions
stemming from our brief discussions?

Stemming from this poet's tree,
a leaf. So, briefly, blessed be
its fruit. My suit is black, and collar
white. So write, or give a holler

if a gift of presence needed
has you ranting. Plant this seed: Did
soft thoughts rain? I plainly mean
nothing untoward your screen.