I'm ashamed to admit I don't remember who originally inspired this poem. That's sad because, for all its simplicity, it's one that means a lot to me. Each woman I've loved, at the time I loved her, seemed to epitomize what God intended when he gave Mankind the gift of Love. And so, each woman I've loved, at the time I loved her, could have been my inspiration.

I'd like to believe that's the case. Then, I wouldn't feel quite so bad admitting I've given this same poem to more than one person.

Kristine was beautiful by any definition of the word. Flowing curves that couldn't hide the strength of gymnastics training. Long midnight hair with hints of palest red. Soft skin tanned by California sun. Sensuous lips accented by high cheekbones. The classic beauty of a classy lady.

But the most amazing thing about Kristine were her eyes.

There were two inspirations for this verse: Annette and that most famous of all poems, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

Well, not to be a copycat, I decided to measure rather than count. This poem, written early in our fiery romance, became almost a cliche for us. "I love you," I would tell Annette. "How much?" she would always ask with a cunning smile.

She bought me a beautiful chrome lighter one Christmas, with the words "Lots of Whole Bunches" engraved in lovely script. I still have that lighter. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, I lost Annette.

While free-form verse isn't usually my style, I think it was the only possible choice for what I wanted to say in this poem. Rhyme and metrics would only have detracted from the meaning.

My message came from a very sudden realization one day that all human beings - including myself - were driven almost entirely by some pretty basic needs. Only when those needs are realized can we move forward, to perhaps discover more profound and meaningful needs.

And when I started itemizing what I thought those needs might be, I came up with this:

I wrote this poem during my first marriage, and it was originally much longer. Something like seven or eight stanzas. So why is down to only two?

I've learned a little about marriage since those days. And as each lesson came, I was forced to abandon more and more of my original verse as Untruth. I only pray, should I marry again, I won't be left with nothing but a title…

Stacey surprised me continuously, and not the least of those surprises was discovering she wrote poetry. I found a unique joy when I gave her this poem, because she immediately recognized I had ripped off the idea from one of her poems. It was the sincerest form of flattery, she insisted between kisses.

Oh, her laughter when she read the final line was just an added bonus.

Her name was Jodi. We had dated maybe a dozen times, each followed by a card or flowers, accompanied by an original poem telling her how much I enjoyed our times together. My verses were innocent, maybe even sugary, meant only to show Jodi I could be both thoughtful and romantic.

When she failed to even mention the latest one I sent, I realized she had grown accustomed to them. I was no longer thoughtful or romantic, but only predictable. Time for a change.

This poem works, I think, because it surprises.

The end of my first marriage (which happened long before we actually parted) was very painful. The more so, I think, because Sharon and I had entered the marriage with expectations and promises of 'forever.' When those expectations were dashed and those promises broken, it hurt.

So, when I later asked Annette to be my wife, I was understandably a little shy about making promises.

A long time ago (in a far away land?), I met a young woman named Regina. I found her attractive, and the more we dated, the more I was attracted to her. She gave every indication the attraction was mutual, but in spite of that, we never really grew close.

Regina was a very closed person, seemingly uncomfortable talking about herself and her heart. I wrote these words, hoping I guess to tell her I wanted and needed more.

Celeste was, for lack of a better term, a stripper. It was how she made her living, and how she lived her life. I met her at a local bar when a bunch of buddies gathered to celebrate one of our number's imminent marriage. She and I talked, away from the crowds, and when she discovered I was a photographer, well, one thing led to another...

Celeste wasn't her real name. It was her stage name, a common thing in her line of work. It protected her, but for me, it also added the fascination of a mystery. This poem was the result of my fascination.

Oh, and incidentally, I knew Celeste for eight months before she finally revealed her real name to me.