Ballad of Online Dating: A Duet with my Wingman

The app says: —I know it’s awkward to write a profile
And to tell the world how wonderful you are 
So, let’s play a game of pretend,
and write as if describes you a friend 

I puzzle:  —Which friends does it have in mind? 
The ones who long ago bid adieu
because they had little to say kind? 
Or the ones whose friendship continue
because, to my faults, they are generously blind?

A wise woman pinched me: —Are you out of your mind?
By friend, they really mean your wingman. 
So, let him draw you… full of charm and flair…
an intellectual, a great dad, and a lover extraordinaire

—Yes, my wingman is great
But, how to say this, he tends to… exaggerate
The wingman said: 
~~Stop it! You are not the boogeyman,
and I am not a snake oil salesman. ­
And I have heard some good things about you
from Ann, Suzanne, and Marianne.

Feeling the love in the air
and the summer breeze in my hair
(or whatever is left of it anyway),
I said, —OK then my friend, take it away.

The wingman, playing his banjo, started singing:
~~From the outside, his life 
is like a Tuscan villa in its heyday
Bubbling with life, love, and colors on display
Linden trees on the hills, softly rustling
with the breeze on a summer day
Windows open, curtains out dancing,
to the melodies rising from within, 
and to the choir of nightingales 
who sing their joyful serenades…
Inside, beautiful silhouettes, gently swaying
as they are whispering, laughing, and kissing…
The host circulates, mingling and chatting
from politics and poetry, to meditation, travel, and hiking
And occasional requests from the professor,
maybe from a Padawan seeking a mentor, 
Or maybe a question or two,
about the state of the economy, 
or what to do about inequality
Not a dull moment in this villa nor a hint of despair
He is the soul of this party and the King of the manor—  

—Wait, wait… you got carried away
King? Really? 
~~ I meant to say pimp, but it didn’t rhyme…
—Pimp? that would be a crime!
*Sigh*… How about we stop at “the soul of the party”? 
~~Ok… I will let it go this time.

—When will you tell them about the end of the night? 
~~ I will do it when the time is right.
 Where was I? Oh yes…

From the outside, our man
is a curious chef in a traveler guise
Nothing makes him feel more alive
than when he travels near and far 
Scouring the earth for rare gems 
And wondering how many lands
he can fit in his cookie jar

Every trip, a to-do list that is new:
 “Discover a new café, a park, and a song
Meet a lovely stranger after curfew, 
to dance all night long
as you exchange smiles, et peut être un bisou…
Take in magnificent new sceneries
And make unforgettable memories
in every new town and city:
From Cape Town and Sydney
to Maui and Casablanca
Kick back and take it easy
when you are in Provence or Umbria
Spend a summer in Assisi
if only to smell the lavenders
And fall silent when you remember
how Francis truly loved his Clare…
Breathe in the Mediterranean air 
the moment you land in California
But, dig in your heels
and clench the walls, 
if they ever try to take you away,
from the very best of them all:
The fairy tale, that is Barcelona
And the one and only, Istanbul.” 

As you can tell, his heart 
is torn into a thousand pieces, 
small, medium, and large,
living in different continents,
making the world their ballpark
But he is not done yet or even close
The bucket list is long, so again he goes

—Thanks again my friend 
You are a storyteller whose pen 
can turn a little chick into a hen
But how about the other thing you got
Why won’t you tell them outright?

~~ I will do it, when the time is right.

What was I saying? Oh yes…
This one is hard, 
I must confess
You see… his heart
is stuck in overdrive
Constantly buzzing, 
like a beehive
Nobody knows why,
maybe a birth defect
But one thing is for sure
This ailment has no cure
So, in affairs of the heart
he is a bit Romeo-like,
still believes in true love
between a man and his lady,
and wonders out loud:
Whatever happened to chivalry??
He is a misfit, as you see
One of the last remnants
of a species, nearly extinct
They used to be known as romantics
Now only to be found
at shops selling antiques.

Not to complain though 
There is more to love than romance
If you want to know his softest spot:
Children who are born into poverty and chaos
And too many mothers who have no choice
but to bury their grief
Except it’s revealed in their eyes
and in their broken smiles…
And lost souls sinking in quicksand
But their cries for help, nobody understand
The sight of a crying orphan or an injured pup
will make this grown man weep—

—Ahem, sorry to interrupt… but… 
let’s not say weep.
~~Cry?
—Mm-mm 
~~Howl? Wail? Sob? 
—No, No, and Nope! 
~~*Sigh*…  how about “brings… salty waters from his eyes?” (eye roll)
—Just shut up! 
Let’s go with “he feels the pain of others in his gut.”
~~ In his nut?
—What? I said gut! 
~~Oh… now I got. 

Let me change the topic
to something fun and exotic.
But, here is a little warning:
This story may be too hot,
and is definitely not
for the faint of heart.
So, feel free to skip ahead
if you easily get upset…  

When the lights go out,
the professor and the chef depart,
and the sensual lover comes out…
In his hands, she is a playful guitar 
As his fingers gently glide 
over the perfect strings of her body,
it sends shivers down her spine
letting out a delightful gasp… or two… or three.

So far, all signs point to perfect chemistry.
But no surprise, they already know
as they feel the rhythm and the flow 
The guitarist is tuned to her frequency,
The guitar is now in full glow…
Together they play a rhapsody
of passion and ecstasy
from every sensual curve of her body 

As beautiful as the acoustic guitar sounds
It’s now time to shake the ground.
The guitarist lights the fuse.
The guitar, now finely tuned,
is ready to be plugged in
so the electronic show can begin
Feeling the power of the amp, 
the guitar swoons 
as she craves to blow the lamps 
and shatter the windows!
With the volume now turned up to eleven,
starts the last guitar solo, 
like the homestretch of Stairway to Heaven,
until the ritual finally reaches… its epic crescendo
…..
…..

The aftermath… is a sight to behold
The guitar unstrung, strings all over the place
The amp smoldering, lying sideways
The guitarist breathless, but who really cares
when this beautiful glow is on her face

After half hour of rest and frolic
She says: —We are not done! 
It’s my turn now,
So hand me the sticks 
I shall play drums,
and as I play, you shall hum
in your secret tongues
and bring life
to the pretty roses.

He looks at her eyes
and quickly realize
She is totally in charge
A wise man knows
when to lead and when to follow
So, he bows out
and let her run the show— 

—Sorry, my friend, 
Time out, again.
I leave for a minute, and you are
all about fingers and tongues and guitars
And I don’t even want to know
if the stick is a cigar! 
I know you are excited, 
But this has gone too far…
And the last plot twist
I really must resist! 
Because close to chest
I wish to play this card

~~But they want to know, and it’s fun!
—Regardless, let’s move on! 
…….
~~Folks, I got censored, and it’s a bit sad. 
Too many things happened here
that I know you’d love to hear
But it seems, they cannot be said
or even whispered yet

—Thanks again, this was great
But it’s really getting late. 
Tell them now or if you decline
I will take charge of my fate

~~I will do it, as now is the time.

As I was saying…
The villa, and the traveler, 
and the heart, and the lover
From the outside,
he seems to have it all, many times over
Except that… 
When the clock hits midnight
His friends depart one by one 
Lights go off, the music stops 
Even the nightingales are gone
On the way out, a few guests 
give those unmistakable looks that say:
“Ask me, and I would love to stay”
His eyes respond: Thanks, but not today…
So, there he is… all alone, 
Sitting on stairs of cold stone
Using his hands as cover
To hide his sad eyes 
and the dripping salty waters.
He has everything?? Not even close!
Nothing feels complete without the one 
that would be dearer to him 
than anything under the sun:
His soulmate, his lover, his partner in crime
Smart, spirited, compassionate, and kind.
He would sing to her his favorite love poem
from the great Leonard Cohen:
I am Your Man…

As for the lover, in a corner, he is slumped
His fingers refuse to play, guitars weeping
The tongue tied, roses wilting away…
They said to him: you are not for our keeping
Go find the one… you are destined to play

He said: —But where?
The dating world I knew is no longer there
It’s apps now with giant photos, no need to write.
Oh, look at that beard! Nice shoes! Swipe right!
And with that cool tattoo, how can he not be alright?!
She has no makeup in the photo? Quick, swipe left!
“But in her profile, do you even know what she said?”
Of course not, few souls will ever know…
Who has the time to read a PhD thesis, anyhow?
~~Someone else does the same, you-know-who
So, stop this attitude of holier-than-thou
—I don’t blame anyone, these are the new rules I know…

~~True, the system is a bit suspect
Otherwise, how could still be looking
Kelly, Jane, and Michelle, all so perfect
But, here is the thing about dating
This is important, and you need to hear
So I will rap it for you
to make it crystal clear:

My friend,
First, we need to fix your attitude
Dating is a game
Where you win the heart
Of that lovely dame
If you show her
You know how to entertain
And you lose her 
if you give the impression 
that you are too tame 
Or too lame
or too plain
which you are not!
so this little act
you must now stop!

That is to say, 
don’t be a fool
keep your cool
If you want to make the ladies drool
and jump into your pool 
to become one
with your soul

Despair is a witch
which you must ditch,
if you wanna get hitched.
Or it is a ditch
into which
you don’t want to fall…

So, listen to my pitch
Here is what you do:
Draw your bow
and throw an arrow
not of sorrow 
but of joy 
You gotta show 
the awesome fellow
that we all know and love
So, open up your heart 
and let them see the halo
and the colorful rainbow– 

—Wait, wait, wait…
Dude, did you actually say there is 
a colorful rainbow inside me?

My man, don’t be slow
Listen how
my words flow
and you will know
what kind of rainbow I meant
As says Jerry Seinfeld:
“Not that anything with that 
would be wrong” 
But that is not you
So, our little song
is for a Belle, not for a Beau.

As I was rapping,
before I was brought to a stall:
You need to find only one
special woman after all
And I know amazing women
who are out there lookin’
for some decent chaps
on these dating apps. 

Now, your favorite rapper
Wingy de Pepper
will stop the blabber
And must hit the road 
Now it’s your turn
Write a sweet profile
that makes her yearn
that makes her smile
But listen to this advice:
It certainly helps 
to be concise!

My dearest ladies, belles, and dames
To my wingman, first, goes my thanks
But, as I said at the beginning
Don’t believe every claim
in this ballad, he wrote to entertain
That said, you all understand,
He is just a metaphor
for my spirit and heart
Still like a mischievous child
He tends to get too excited 
I named him Wingy, and this is why:
When he is happy, he just wants to fly
The other me is my brain
Wingy’s more rational twin
He tries to keep things in balance
Kinda like a valance
that hangs over Wingy’s bed
to cover his exuberance
when he acts like a newlywed

This ballad all started with an urge
to write just a few verses,
with some humor but without splurge,
meant to describe Yours truly.
But along the way, something funny 
happened, and I don’t know how.
Words started to pour 
and I couldn’t stop or slow.
Some were OK and some were poor.
The story took a life of its own,
which I did not command or own. 
It stopped being about me,
turned into a fictitious dating story
Part true but largely a fantasy
But it was fun and I enjoyed
as I grew up with poetry
But it never crossed my mind
that one day, a magic wand
would touch and make me want
to write a poem
no matter how unrefined

But let me return to the main point

As is already plain
to anyone in right mind
In this world one does not find
that many guys like Wingy described
And while I have no reason to be ashamed
I also don’t have any claim to fame.
Perhaps these stories contain
some truth, no more than a grain
But with a poetic license overused
A mouse turned into a moose.

I am human, so I have faults
But, in my defense, if I have one:
I have honest apologies stored in a vault
that come out when the occasion calls.
If errors accumulate big and small,
I repeat after master Jikan:

“I did my best, 
it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, 
So, I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, 
I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the lord of song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”

That’s real poetry, right there for ya!

Sometimes, my poem sounded sad
But if it is sad, it must have style,
instructed master Leonard: 
To make a poem worthwhile
He said: “Never lament casually”
Because a poet never whines
Maybe he only pines 
for the lover and her dreamy eyes.
So, if lament you must, 
do it only, he instructs:
“within the strict confines
of dignity and beauty.” 

I am not a poet or a writer
And I know my words
can be hard to decipher.
And to give my lament a better style
I figured it will take me a while.
So, this is all I had to offer:
A poem that is part ballad and part ode
Written during a summer week on the road
And even though it was long
Thank you for reading along.

If you have made it this far
Read my first poem
and the strangest profile by far
You are a precious gem
in my soul and heart.


August 9, 2019