Wow! Are we really 17 days into this challenge? It just doesn’t seem possible that time would be moving so fast, but I guess it’s been so much fun that the time has been flying. Again, wow.
Today’s prompt is to write a love poem. This may or may not gel with some poets’ themes, though I’m sure if you bend the rules enough, anything is possible. Your poem can be pro-love, anti-love, confused-love, love-it-or-leave-it, etc. Your poem, your rules.
(Btw, I think it’s so appropriate that today just happens to be the love poem prompt, because I totally love my awesome wife, who posted my prompts for me the past two days while I was without Internet access, not to mention setting my fantasy football lineup as well. So, Tammy, you da bomb!)
Here’s my monster-themed attempt for the day:
“M.M. loves L.S.”
She stops by my house,
so I follow her to school,
watch her walk around town,
but when we’re alone,
I freeze up,
can’t talk,
only stare,
which usually freaks her out,
of course,
and then,
at night,
I get so confused,
so,
of course,
I kill her friends,
to help set the mood,
but she’s not into that,
apparently,
and she stabs me in the face,
so I play dead,
then,
I come back,
get shot out of a window,
and disappear,
hope for a sequel.
Radiant, love-fresh,
her wedding morning.
Bees hum nearby as
she gathers flowers to
grace her shimmering hair.
She well-nigh floats in
verdant meadow dotted with
wildflowers, the essence
of nature in exquisite
sunshine yellow gown,
garland of dandelions
woven sweetly through
her tresses.
She crosses a bubbly brook
feels unity in nature
puts her hand in the hand of
her love, life is magnificent.
After Desire
Sometimes music feels just like lust-
a new song, a certain arrangement of chords,
the right tempo. I get chills, the notes fizz in my chest,
pop like rising champagne bubbles, I’m dizzy
with pleasure the way I felt the last time I
was in love, I play the riff over and over,
my ears burning, my
body dancing.
Kate Berne Miller
XVII. I Corinthians 13:4–8 Through the Light of a Living Will
If the situation should arise in which there is no reasonable expectation of my recovery … I request that I be allowed to die …. I hope you, who care for me, will feel morally … bound to follow this mandate.
Love is mortal; love is brief.
It does not waver; it ignores grief.
It is not selfish; it’s not self-seeking.
It allows the dying to do the speaking.
Love does not follow its own desires,
But assumes another’s when chances grow dire.
It always obeys, always lets go.
When asked the insufferable, love never says no.
day #17 love poem
Out of nowhere,
like a skid of rocks
dropped by a crane,
or sneaking in
around your fences
like an invasive weed,
love won’t play
by the rules–
jumps and kings itself
Women
They fainted when Elvis sang
silly young girls with
unrequited sexual hunger
And with the Beatles
same thing
But then it happened at Obama Rallies
solid, hard working
grown women
with both feet planted
on level ground
Nothing creepy, just
Minds overwhelmed
by too much heart
And then it even got to
silly old me
And when I see his solemn
handsome face
on all the networks
I feel as though I know him
and my heart goes
pitty-pat
Hard for me to come up with a new angle on love, but here is what I came up with, the incidents taken from news stories of the past.
Love is Strange
I loved him so much
said the father of the boy
with melted face,
I couldn’t let her
have him, his mother
So I planned we’d
Die together in a blaze
of father’s love. But
when I’d set him aflame
I couldn’t do it so
I put it out. He lived
ninety-five percent
third degree burns.
Prison life is hell
but still I love him.
Love is strange
He was going to take
them back to his mother
said the woman sobbing
cold soaked from the sea
I carried them in, my babies
I couldn’t swim we sank
Just past the waves. In terror
They held me, soon
They were still, but I kept
Popping to the surface. I
Couldn’t swim but I can
But now I know I can float,
so cold I couldn’t think
so I saved myself.
I have failed.
Love is strange.
Enticing
Mesmerized by your beauty
Tantalized with your fragrance
You cast your spell upon me
while I listen to your melody
I feel your gentle caresses
As you embrace me in your waves
No body is as breathtaking
As a body of water in repose.
Unconditional love
She sighs
Blooming white petals
Shiver and float
To her body broken
Her eye tears
As she imagines
Her unconditional love
For her murderers
This poem is written to my almost-year-old granddaughter who I am not caretaking during the day….one of the reasons I am late with this poem!
Love To Mya
I love you, Mya, in all of your innocence,
unexpected child, but welcomed into the world.
You smile and laugh, delight in your surroundings.
Your eyes eagerly explore, and your legs are
almost ready to propel you across the room.
But this moment you sleep soundly, warm in your blankets,
no fears of tomorrow, no memory of the past,
alive in the present, relaxed, trusting your world.
Happy birthday, Mya. May your world always be
as warm and nurturing for you as it is today.
(In honor of Mya’s first birthday, November 26!)
Stunning poetry this month, everyone. Rachel, I love your love poem.
Auguste Renoir, French (1841-1919)
The Vineyards at Cagnes, 1906
In Love
Wavy trees frame the garden
and the house whispers security
from a distance.
Bright reds, greens, and blues
contrast merrily.
The woman reminds me of myself.
She sits and leans against the right-hand tree,
faces the left.
She wears a blue, wide-brimmed hat,
white flowers at the front.
Bold apparel for her,
a tomato-red blouse
and royal-blue skirt
splashed with red.
Reading, writing, or sketching
absorbs her.
All around her swirls life
and movement,
as if a cool breeze ruffles
the scene.
Like me, she must be in love.
With life,
with the created world,
with her Creator,
with passion of her gifts,
with how she is blessed by the day,
with all she’s been given–
dear ones,
enough food, shelter, and beauty
to keep her content
and have a little left to share
with anyone
who can’t think on these things
in a quiet vineyard
and know peace.
I’m afraid I love my new
home a little too much.
I have names for everything
and I can’t stop smiling.
I feel like a fool
until I see you one morning
enjoying a cup of coffee
leaning against the wall,
almost embracing it
as you admire the tuckpointing,
and compliment the wall paint.
whatthehell rewrite already
Change
My daughter, visiting, looks so young
on the couch beside me here- as if
this place is only familiar, not home.
Filled with adventure and all the time
she needs to let her talents thrive,
I must have been like her, so long ago.
She seems so strong and smart, I want
to say Watch Out! Be Wise! Don’t’ Cry!
or you’ll end up like me, which she thinks
would be just fine, that would be just fine.
I know better- but must let her choose
what suits, heed the voice that beckons,
try not to pry or interfere, buy her gas,
a pair of shoes, leave all the rest to her.
Change
My daughter, visiting, looks so young
on the couch beside me here- as if
this place is only familiar, not home.
Filled with adventure and all the time
she needs to let her talents thrive,
this could be me, I think, so long ago.
She seems so strong and smart, I want
to say Watch Out! Be Wise! Don’t’ Cry!
or you’ll end up like me, which she thinks
would be just fine, that would be just fine.
I know better- but must let her choose
what suits, heed the voice that beckons,
try not to pry or interfere, buy her gas,
a pair of shoes, leave all the rest to her.
My brother Bob
my hero when I was young
I always looked up to him. He,
a man self possessed with an ability
to meet life head on was my hero
because of the kind of man he was
his character was strong and honest
the fact that he walked this earth
was comfort enough for me. Ten
months older than I, my only older brother
the buffer between me and the world
of knocks ,bumps and downright dirty
and evil stuff. I see us in our infancy
all white headed and precious twin
like apparitions exploring the world
in shorts and summer dresses. Nothing
could touch us there, nothing could keep us from
looking out for each other. Grandpa would
tell the story about how he spanked Bob
for getting in the way of his lawn mower
how I cried when Bob was spanked and said
“I’ll tell he Mommy on you” through tears . We
cried for each other’s pain. He had his faults
he’ll be the first to say, we all do, he wasn’t
the best of a lot of things, but he was the best
he could be at the time I believe that with all my
heart. Life is not the same without my older brother
and even the illusion of protection against the bumps
and dumps in life. Before he died he told me he’d let
me know how he was doing and he’d hug my son for
me. He said he was tired and ready for the rest of the
story. All I ever wanted for Bob was for him to be here
to be happy and at peace – now I believe he is. I love you
Robert Frank. You were my teacher, my confidant, my
protector, my hero. You still are.
So MANY good ones today! Really enjoyed reading, and want to add a few more kudos to my earlier list:
Victoria – Beautiful! (Congrats to you and I bet she did too.)
Satia – very well done!
Judy R – Another real & poignant poem from you.
Lori – I can tell from the thoughts & feelings you express in your poetry that you are very good at your job.
Sara M – What a beautiful tribute to your father.
K Weber – Love it!
Sara V – How lovely!
Kate – How beautiful! Well done.
Linda – Love in a junk drawer — what a creative & perceptive idea! Can’t wait to see the polished piece!
OK, I too, am not finished editing this one, but am submitting it now, so I may keep up (more or less) and not get ambushed by too many days all at once (again)!
Man of My Dreams
Man of my dreams
You are not
Can’t carry me up the stairs – or over the threshold,
Won’t buy me flowers or write me poetry
Never compliment my hair or clothes
Fashion non-sense – suspenders and argyle socks
Can’t compose music – or play an instrument
Can’t even carry a tune – in a bucket!
You’ve got
Bad eating habits, no exercise routine,
Excess pounds and dearth of hair,
High blood pressure, low blood sugar,
Leaky valves, stiff joints
Frayed hems and clashing colors
And yet . . .
You are
Capable of crying at sad movies,
Unafraid to laugh at yourself,
Filler of gas tanks and bird feeders,
Master of Ceremonies,
Music and lyrics of my life,
My goodnight kiss,
Warmer of my bed,
Vanquisher of my nightmares,
Actor, juggler, teacher,
My other half
You
Lighten my load,
Brighten my days,
Comfort my nights,
Complement my life,
Make me smile and
Keep me laughing
Every day
Love of my life
A real life fairytale, Knocked on my door
A real life fairy love, winged my sore
Oh my love if you only knew,
How hard it is away from you!
Said you love me before you go
Wonder now if things will change
My drifted soul requests your turn
Safe & sheltered, among the glob!
I’ll pray for you each time you go
And bow to God along your flow
And this is when
I’ll tell you so….
Achieve your goals, allow your hits
Each hit that you make shall pace us in
Tho’ the sorrow right now, surrounds my life
Yet someday tomorrow the sun shall rise
Just! Give me word, of you coming back
Warm my heart, it thirsts your word
Kill that time just for the night
Don’t’ give up a real true life
Beat this fear within my core
Stand with strength against that door
Scream out loud, tell the world…
What we feel inside shan’t get coat
glimpses
love,
green tea,
daffodils,
sunlight casting
through tall tamaracks,
redpolls at the feeder,
la vita nuova,
rainbows after rain,
a gentle hand,
caressing,
soothing
dreams.
~ Ronda Eller 2008
jane – thank you for your kind response to my poem. i really enjoyed your poem for today… i love the weaving of rhyme and off-rhyme. your words put me right there among the busy streets and quieter moments.
connie – simply fantastic.
it is great to see so many poets poet-ing here! keep up the good words!
In the famous words of Britney (big laugh) oops! I did it again! Typo alert……..beginning of Love and Paperclips should sAY Looking for love is like searching for a paperclip.
sorry
Linda
Okay, since I am way behind I’ve quickly scribbled a rough draft to post here. I’ll polish it the end of the challenge.
Love and Paperclips
Lookinf doe love is like
searching for a paperclip
in the abyss of one’s junk drawer.
Weeding through the hodge podge of
the undesired, the unsuitables
pushed to one corner while you
examine the leftovers in the pile.
Just when you’re patience fails,
when you contemplate admitting defeat,
it appears out of nowhere,
the light from the window shining on
it, crystal clear, brilliant,
and you grab hold of it knowing
it is the one thing that will hold
the pieces together,
perfectly.
Here is my Day 16 poem for prompt If…. (though I stretched it a bit by not including the it…..went better with theme)
The Poor Man’s Triolet
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I could pay off all those bills
and purchase a few items I have not.
If I won a piece of the jackpot;
I could remember those dreams I forgot
and begin to climb up those hills.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I could pay off all those bills.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
Icould pay off all those bills
and would refuse to play Mr. Big Shot.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I wouldn’t squander what I got
on unneeded belongings and regretful thrills.
If I won a piece of the jackpot;
I could pay off all those bills.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I could pay off all those bills
and a piggy bank would be my mascott.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
my debts would be naught,
my credit card totals nil.
If I won a piece of the jackpot;
I could pay off all those bills.
Poor Man’s Triolet #2
If I won the super-dooper jackpot,
I would never be lonely.
I would have friends I now have not.
Every distant relative, long-lost pal and crackpot
would come running, hands out, to share a piece of the pie with me,
if I won the super-dooper jackpot.
I would never be lonely.
Linda
I haven’t had a chance to read more than the first few posts here but let me say:
Paul, that was beautiful.
Linda
Balancing Act
Half our hearts belong to blood,
half our hearts to love.
We inhabit this duality, driven by our two-timing, double-chambered hearts.
Unsettled and restless, we feign stability, calling one foot home
while the other is already traveling. Lying in the dark with our partners,
we dream of other lovers.
Half our hearts belong to blood.
I am the oldest daughter, consumed by obsessive love;
first love, hidden love, forbidden love — my birth mother.
All through childhood I fantasized, inventing and reinventing her face,
her voice, her touch. In my dreams I am always arriving somewhere
she has just left, meeting a woman she once knew, chasing her faint scent
through the halls of night, never coming face to face.
Half my heart belongs to love.
You have a secret love; a hidden love, a denied love, a grieved love –
your firstborn child.
You think of her often, feeling her tug on that invisible cord
all the world tells you was severed at birth. You imagine a knock at your door,
dressing with extra care each year on her birthday — just in case.
She is three, you are twenty-two. She is thirty, you are forty-nine.
Half your heart belongs to blood.
I used to pretend indifference, refused to look over my shoulder.
Did not want to search, to quest and risk not finding,
to risk not knowing what I would find, to find not knowing what I risked.
At mid-life, childless and barren, sometimes I wake in the dark morning
with no name on my lips, exhausted from hunting for origins still obscured,
aching to be embraced.
Half my heart belongs to blood.
When you began to search, tentative and fearful, compelled by longing,
I was so proud — for every step you took was a step for my birth mother.
As doors open for you where they have remained shut for me;
and your child, a mother now — steps through to meet you face to face,
a part of me will also be redeemed.
I watch you reach out to your daughter, hand stretched across the rift
as I have reached out to my mother
and for a moment, you and I, we are perfectly balanced –
mother and child,
love and blood.
Kate Berne Miller
Love Goose Style
It’s not Gabriel’s trumpets
That herald my arrival
But an ebony beak open in praise
And joy
Blasting out her raucous tune
Honk, honk, honk
And who sits with me
In the sun, pulling weeds,
While sweat stings my eyes?
My ebony-beaked, orange-footed love
Roosts at my side
She seeks me out from her stump perch
Tilting her topaz eyes this way and that
For a glimpse, a chance to see
The object of her affection, me
If I were to sit and watch the
Sun sink into its orange glory
She waddles to sit with me
And when she made her nest
And laid her eggs
It was in my garden
By my door
What greater gift?
Who could ask for more?
Than a gander with a
Heart of gold
Once again, the poetry on this blog has knocked my socks off! I think there will be some killer chapbooks coming out of this challenge. Hey Robert, what are the chances that WD might put up a prize of some kind, like a discounted publishing contract from one of their advertisers?
k weber – really like this poem – very powerful and ripe with emotion between the lines – the crispness.
Day 17 SS:
The Love Migraine
So, you think that I might be
The emotional center of your life
You might be right
But don’t look to me for answers
To your love questions
Or your emotional dysfunctions
Or whatever
Because I just might give you
A love migraine
Don’t come to me with questions like:
“How do I show love?”
You must be specific
What kind of love
Who will receive the love
Is the love physical
Emotional
Spiritual
Or puppy
Here comes that migraine again
You see
Your spouse gets a special love
Your children get something different
But it’s still a kind of love
Your interests
Your friends
Your favorite team
Your cat
Or
If you’re not into cats
Your dog
And your material possessions
Get other forms of love
Where’s the Excedrin?
But not to worry
I’ll give you hints
You just have to listen
And figure it out for yourself
And you will
Eventually
When the pain goes away
You’d better take another pill
And sleep on it
Don’t call me in the morning
LL&L for Day 17:
Yes, Jesus Loves You
Drowning in convictions, he waits patiently
For his time in the spotlight; his Bible at his side
The music is erupting; thousands on their feet
Lifting praises to Jesus, their souls open wide
All but preparation for the Word yet to come
The music, the lights; they soften every heart
Soon, they all are willing to hear the Lord speak
Through His servant’s lips will come spiritual sparks
The words of the music sooth his nervousness
The love of the Father sewn throughout each line
In silent prayer he waits, his moment at hand
The music fades, he prays, “Your will, not mine.”
He comes into the spotlight; all eyes are now on him
All ears are awaiting his message of truth
Then God takes control; the message is clear
He wants them to know simply, Jesus loves you
“Yes, Jesus loves you!” he boldly confesses
“He loves you, and you, and He even loves me.
His love goes beyond anything you can imagine.
His love didn’t end on the cross at Calvary.”
“Yes, Jesus loves you!” again he repeats
“I know this to be true, yes, indeed I do.
And His love will go on forever and forever
He’s got more than enough love for all of you.”
“Yes, Jesus loves you! Will you love Him back?
Will you give your life to Him without reservation?
He’s waiting for your answer, don’t waver too long.
He’s coming back soon; no time for hesitation.”
Then His servant grows silent, a hush fills the church
Then His Spirit takes hold and hearts start to break
As prayers rise, the tears fall, and Jesus is praised
As more realize that it’s their eternity at stake
Revival takes place through one broken soul at a time
As the cries for salvation come from pew after pew
And the angels in Heaven rejoice with each tear
For ‘tis here they now know, “Yes, Jesus loves you!”
it comes back to this
smooth, egg-
shell skin:
your face
cracked
into grinning
you danced
an earth-
quake, making
up for months
of so much
stillness
little deer
run circles
in both
irises
then laze
in the head-
lights
of another joy-
ride week
motherhood,
it stuck
to you
like gum
trapped
in eyelashes
your soft
nest of hair,
the curve
and breath
you shared
too much
Oops. I thought I’d posted this, but now I don’t see it. Sorry if I posted twice.
Something Ordinary
He sits in the driveway, waiting, smoking while
thinking of two correct words which will dribble
down his lips into her heart. Neal’s been gone
for too long, for even ten minutes would be
an eternity if this was true. He’s questioned
his sense of self, his motives, his mind
and come up with two arms raised. It looks
like they’re separated, his shoulders askew
and deviated from his spine. But they are
there. And so is he now. Maybe the duality
of it rights itself like a car shifting gears,
the hum and rev of the transmission signaling
a return to normal, a return to a white picket
and sticks needing to be pulled from the backyard
the wet leaves reminding him that in a few weeks
it will be spring. The further he travels the less
he sees of it, the deeper he is within it.
Maybe he’s lied this whole time about her name.
Maybe it’s not even Isabella he’s been loving.
Maybe her name is Christine, or Laura, or Amy.
Something ordinary. But isn’t that something?
Isn’t something ordinary sometimes
the most extraordinary thing you’ve ever known?
On Love
When you consider love,
Consider the maiden, the mother, the crone –
or Neapolitan ice cream, if that rather suits:
O the maiden’s chocolate love! Everyone’s favorite.
Quick to disappear, silvery
scoop harrowing a narrow cave of empty
Athwart the carton, dark gelatinous streaks remain,
Unsavory reminders.
Pink pink mother-love, pinkened
with cream, delightful, a love lively
on the tongue, small tight fruits tightly studded
with seed! This is summer, this is summer, o –
so much memory
of what grows, what grows, what grows.
Risk the irresistible pun of “vanilla crone”?
Not here, not here, where the pale creased woman
resides, on cushions of not-quite-white. Subtle,
quiet, her love, which is melting, content
to spread across the plate, to island
the brash taste of everything
in a sea of itself.
Another great one Laurie K! I like!
I guess I will post another love poem, since that’s my theme.
A Swirling Eddy
Love
swallowed her up,
like a swirling eddy,
and she could not get enough.
So she twisted and turned
through her crazy life,
like a junkie
with lots of stuff.
Always dreaming and hoping
for another life,
where living
was not
so tough.
Laurie K.
Lavender and Dad
I placed fresh lavender at
your grave and a scented
candle, hoping that
between the two
their perfume
would spin with
speed and reach you.
I remember the
day you tried to
convince Mom–
an earth color
woman–to buy
a lavender couch.
We know how well
that worked, but
shirts, ties, and
even socks were
accepted without
turning a choice
into a bout.
We had much in
common, Dad, and
love for each other
topped the list.
Sifting sand with
my toes as I stroll
the beach like we used
to do, I see your face
in waves of mist.
IT IS LOVE
It is such and such love
When love is all you make,
Even when
There’s more give than take
Like when
A rake in black
Tongues bite back
And peace & quiet break.
It is such and such love
When make is all you do:
Share rides,
Correct homework,
Compromise
The watery lake
Children make of house and ware.
It is such and such love
In a dress, what a mess,
Where’s my shoe?
Who has time
For you?
Tending the flu,
Mowing the lawn,
Baking a cake
For the old woman
Brittle as a bran flake.
And such and such love
Is all love I need to find,
For me there is no other,
Intertwined, consumed,
Our sound minds
Bright as lemon rinds,
Our souls mixing sex
Behind the venetian blinds.
Forbidden Love
He has forbidden her
To see her love
No more laughing,
Afternoon frolicking,
Five o’clock cocktails,
The threat is too high,
He’s losing her
To me
She’s distraught,
They’ve had another fight
He demands she discontinue
Our friendship,
It will cease to be,
Immediately
Not willing to concede,
She sneaks away
For a lunch,
A chat,
A cocktail,
With me
He has forbidden her
To see her love,
So we text,
Meet when she’s free,
Laugh,
Have afternoon cocktails
And cheer to him for making
Me
The other man
Paul, Thank you for the too flattering words. I am just in awe of the scope of your poems and have enjoyed them more than I can say.
Unsuspecting
They don’t even know me
even though I told them my name and
how long I would be watching out for them
they know I often interrupt their sleep,
poke and prod them,
make them take pills,
that taste like sandy tar,
and ask them embarrassing questions.
They don’t know how I worry at numbers
that are too high
or worse—too low.
They don’t see my heart skip a beat
when theirs skips two on the monitor.
They don’t hear me brave an angry sleeping
doctor because I can’t stand to let
their pain and nausea continue all night
They probably don’t even notice when I leave
but the impression they leave on me
when thy finally can
well…let’s just say…
love has many definitions.
Rachel- It might sound similar, perhaps, because my theme is "Finding Love" and yes, I’ve talked about that empty hole before- only because it’s a significant aspect of how she feels while she is looking for love and having so many fail.
Thanks for noticing- I REALLY appreciate it!
Laurie K.
What would you love?
If you could think, of a good thought,
To think for all mankind,
What would you think?
What would you think?
If you could play, a certain play,
To play for all mankind,
What would you play?
What would you play?
If you could know, that what you knew
Was known by all mankind,
What would you know?
What would you know?
If you could have, something to have,
And have for all mankind,
What would you have?
What would you have?
If you could do, a thoughtful deed,
To do for all mankind,
What would you do?
What would you do?
If you could be, he who has been,
Being for all mankind,
What would you be?
What would you be?
If you could love, with passionate love,
A love for all mankind,
What would you love?
What would you love?
~ Vanessa O’Dwyer
© 2008 Vanessa O’Dwyer
Love Stories
I loved my Dad,
He said he loved me
that I was special
and the abuse got worse.
Misplaced love. Loss of childhood.
My first husband said
he loved me and would
even spout scripture as
he beat my head against the wall.
Mistaken love. Loss of dreams.
I love you like my own mother
said Gracie before she pulled off
the burglary of our business and
took everything meaningful to me
from our safe, not to mention the money.
Con love. Loss of safety.
The Bible says Jesus loves me
I believed, I knew he’d take care
of my children, that was my only prayer.
Enchanted love. Loss of faith.
I love you, Mom, I love you so much
were the last words
I ever heard from my son
before he died by his own hand.
Sometimes love just isn’t enough.
Loss of heart.
Satia:
Here are two lines that could serve as workshop examples:
"You sleep to deep to be reached. . ."
and
"I have to climb across the light to escape. . ."
Very nicely done, poet. . .
H.
I hate having to work overnight shift sometimes, hard to keep up with prompts on the weekend.
Never
You and me
Would be so happy.
Oh how copasetic it would
Be! So uplifting and bright,
And, well you get the idea.
There is just one problem.
Admit it, you know what it is
Yeah that’s right
You don’t know me.
Oh sure you see me,
You see me like you see
Roadkill in the middle
Of the street, that is how
You see me.
What is a piece of roadkill to do?
Present you with pretty flowers
While my one of my ribs stick out?
No, I got it, maybe I will literally
Show you my heart, then you
Would understand.
Or just turn away in disgust.
Either way is fine I guess.
Not sure that this has anything to do with my theme beyond the fact that my fiance Rob has been very supportive throughout the past nearly two years of my having vertigo so maybe it fits. I’ll simmer over the prompt some more to see if I can’t get closer to the theme in another piece.
love is just another four letter word
you roll away from me on the bed
I kiss the tattoo on your back while
you sleep too deep to be reached
in the morning you curl into me
I have to pull myself away
crawl across the light to escape
dreams left like roses on my pillow
the morning afterglow knows
there are never enough nights
to belie the truth of four letters
that fill the days we spend apart
words with you grow like hope
faith belief promise strength
tomorrow and tomorrow and
it all comes back to I do and yes
Hey-Day
. . . have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for at your age
the hey-day in the blood is tame. . .
Hamlet, 3.4.68-70
O Hamlet! What do you know of love,
you who toy with that flower child one moment,
then ship her off to a nunnery the next?
You dare judge me, charge frailty to my sex,
just because I’d rather choose incestuous
sheets than sleep alone. Thanks, by the way,
for noticing my dexterity. You’ve read too
many books, seen too many plays if you
believe Gonzago’s wife was less than true,
swearing an oath to live alone in widow’s
weeds. Is it so strange that I should turn
from grief to love, no sin involved? Why,
you yourself have turned to madness,
straight from melancholy in half the time.
For now, I’ll seize the day; Hyperion’s dead,
why can’t I love a satyr if I choose?
Nancy Posey
I’m teaching Hamlet this week. What can I say?
Alas, My Love
I pick up my old guitar
and try to strum a song.
My calluses have softened,
it’s been so very long.
I used to hit the notes right on,
the sounds were clear and true,
but I haven’t played at all
since I broke up with you.
All the cords are out of tune.
They assault my ear.
The sounds, they meet and fight each other.
I hate what I hear.
You broke the music in me.
I need to get it back,
but my music’s lost somewhere
since I heard my heart crack.
For my adoring husband . . . I feel like the luckiest person in the world . . .
Married
I’m married to
Hurt,
Pain,
Sorrow,
Closeness,
When I least expect it
I’m married to
Expectations,
Rejection,
Denial,
Acceptance,
When I don’t deserve it
I’m married to
Differences,
Misunderstandings,
Changes,
Stability,
When I need it
I’m married to
The moment,
Present,
Future,
But mostly,
To you
I’m glad to be in it
Fifteen and Counting
Funny how time flies
when your with that certain someone
after 15 years,
I can still look into your eyes
and see how our love
had begun
It seems just yesterday
I was on my way
in that old beat up Chevrolet
Trying desperately
to win your heart
hoping that you would see
we were never meant to be apart
Just fifteen short years ago
funny, how we’ve come so far
I don’t think either of us really knew
how our love would grow
we never had that lucky song, or star
as others do
Then, again, we stayed together
while others fell apart
so many storms we learned to weather
where others, just did not know where to start
in the end,
we were strong enough to bend
While others who were rigid
sit alone in the cold
all by themselves growing old
Funny, how after 15 years
our love still grows stronger
we beat the odds, overcame our fears
fears we have no longer
Now as we start to grow older
the winters grow colder
we have each other
as was meant to be
just you and me
with one another
eternally. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer Love Poem for my wife 11/17/08 way too easy Robert, I need more of a
challenge my brother.
Heather – your poetry always touches deep … and today is no exception. Hats off to your words.
Iain – be careful on those slippery slopes baby, but it’s inspiring to see good writing while still having fun! Wear safety gear to protect that brain of yours please! We want you to keep posting.
Pamela – Thank you!
Paul – outstanding poem.
All – she really was the ring leader of organizing charities, always being there for her kids, but she still had her own fun too – triathlete, we had our wine talks (i.e. talking about our husbands at my bar top), rotary … she served, she gave and now she’s gone … and I miss her a thousand times, especially when i look into the eyes of her children. So, in honor of Meredith Hatch … go do something nice for someone else … she would really, really love that.
A shadorma, before he assigns one.
Lost
We lost our
selves in the space
of one look.
Stars spun round
us. Worlds faded. Gravity
lost hold. We floated free.
Together Forever
It was love that made him do it
that made him shove a dagger through it
and leave what used to be his Mistress on the floor.
And it was love that brought her back here
in a stinking canvas sack, dear
with every yellow bone shoved through the door.
He didn’t know exactly why
he had the feeling he should fly
when he heard the jingle jangle to beware.
And though his life was far from dull
when he looked upon her skull
he took a flying leap down every stair.
At the bottom he looked past
his broken body, firmly cast
upon the cellar steps upon his head
She came at him with a knife
and calmly stopped his life,
and now they are together in your bed.
Patti- Meredith is our angel now. Well done and love.
I’m going to write several today. This is my favorite topic. Thanks for indulging me
Cheers and love to all!
About Love
They talked about love
Over their breakfast
Of salad and wine
She said it had been forever
Since she felt
Anything,
Much less love
They talked about the future
Where she’d be if she gave up,
Threw in the towel,
With no place to go,
No arms to hold,
She’d be on her own,
Raising them
They talked about love
Over their breakfast
Of salad and wine
She said she didn’t want to know
What the future holds,
Love had already slipped
Through
Her fingers,
She wasn’t eager
To start again
Loved Open
I never learned her name nor she mine,
but her husband died four hours before you.
Almost widows, we traded shampoo for lotion
and walked hospitsl hall at 2 AM seeking sugar.
I only saw her husband unconscious, moaning.
She never saw you at all. But she knew I loved you
like she loved him, wide open and from college on.
We talked about funerals, grieving kids, insurance.
Talked about cancer, fear, your clothes. Did not cry.
The last night at vending machine, cold Coke in hand,
she caught a deep breath, met my eyes, declared truth.
"The real question is. In time, will we do this again?"
We both answered with laughter, loudly "Yes, yes we will
if we have the chance. Because love is worth losing.
It’s worth it all, even worth this part." Then we cried.
I married happily three years later. I bet she did too.
Laurie K, Is this similar to another of yours?? Its very good.
A Sonnet, Because I Couldn’t Write a Love Song
I want to write a love song just for you,
but fear that all the metaphors are taken.
I can’t say love’s a rose, or strange, or blue,
a many-splendored thing, or blind. I’m making
a list, crossed off a heat wave, stoned and free,
an itching in the heart, and all you need.
The subject strains my creativity –
What can I say that hasn’t been decreed?
They say that love’s a roller-coaster, eh?
There’s nothing on that ride I wouldn’t miss.
No words or music properly convey
the spark that jumps between us when we kiss.
The bottom line, where all our language gathers,
is love is love – that’s all that really matters.
To Find True Love
She had
an image in her mind,
of what a perfect love should be.
Yet no amount of kisses or hugs
could fulfill her empty spot completely.
She thought
a man, a drink, or a taste,
could fill the emptiness spewing inside.
But nothing was ever good enough
to make the pain subside.
She learned
that a genuine love
must first come from within,
and not until she loved herself
could she ever find true love again.
Laurie K.
Am I the only one who, upon reading this prompt, immediately started singing — "I’m not gonna write you a love song Cause you ask for it Cause you need one"? (Apologies to Sara Bareilles.)
Sorry! But I really did. And Michelle H, you’re braver than I am. I’m still struggling with yesterday’s poem, so I’m not ready to throw something out here today yet.
Still, wanted to check in and see how others are getting it done, and comment on a few.
Juanita – BOTH poems are beautiful!
Rachel – Lovely, but so sad.
Terri V – Nice job tying it into your theme.
Nancy P – Wonderful depiction of how love lasts over time!
Patti – You made me cry. Really.
Don – Cute & playful as this love should be.
Keep up the good work! I’m going back to struggle with yesterday. (Today is scary!)
General Mocking of Shakespeare… (I am so going to writer’s purgatory for this)
If laughter be the fuel of anger,
laugh on – and I will not give you any
excess of it, that surfeiting appetite
may never sicken and thusly never die.
That bat-punch again! it had knocked a tooth
from my mouth, and it fell to the ground at
my feet, oh it tumbled o’er my gums with
such a wet bloody sound that could appease
the sickest of minds, stealing and using
my gruesome ideas. Enough, no more! I
am the only one who was here before.
The one who deserves thy attention oh
spirit of vengeance; how cruel and quite
offensive you are that notwithstanding
thy capacity of thy dangerous
abilities wherein I cannot help
but goad you anyway for my sea of
masochistic desire cries out for
validity by thy own fist. Even
in a second my guffaw is so full
of fancy of your punch, the sensation
that it alone leaves is quite fantastic…
Patti- your poem really touched me. I am sorry for your loss. I’m going through the same thing and its really hard, but it gets better (my friend died in March). Writing helps, and prayer, and faith. I know our friends wouldn’t want us to get depressed- they are in a much better place.
Laurie K.
Home Place
This city, it is mine,
has been as long as time.
I ride six lanes with verve,
round the juncture of the curve,
looking down the stretch, widening
into my heart’s remembering.
This is my home alone,
these buildings rising ever higher, the drone
of cars and more — masterful these people milling
through green parks, noisy walks, side stepping,
rushing ever in or out or back. Today
they so busy working, unlike me here at play,
dreaming of my life then, my well-steered view,
clearing trouble, passing, pointing out what’s true –
this place, the whole of it, Atlanta and its dogwoods, clean-up crews,
its stretch in all directions, bluesy darkened clubs, it’s church day pews,
sunsets showing off above, skyline shadows falling, slowing drivers –
all mine as much as wrinkled skin wrapping round my fingers.
This city, it is mine,
will be as long as time.
Nature…and You
I love the turquoise of the calming sea,
for I see my lovers eyes looking back
To me, and then the soft wind feels so free,
like my lovers caress upon my knee.
I love the deep green of the forest pine,
the fresh, clean air and your hand in mine, is
all I need to have with me amongst the
trees and birds, become we, a love so fine.
I love the golden wheat swaying upon
the hill, as it dons the soft rays of sun
going low, and like the pond below, a swan
slowly swaggers toward it’s mate like don juan.
By land, by sea, by air, by mind, my love
For you knows no time and this ends my rhyme.
{Okay, I’m still struggling with this one, it started out as a sonnet and then not, but I have too much to do today so it is what it is…} Back later to read…
My great-grandson is on his way.
We’ll try to make Pfeffernusse,
Even though he’d rather play
With his transformers and drink apple juice,
Until he learns he can pour
Milk and flour and spices
In the bowl, it’s not a chore
Though he never dices
Fruit, I won’t let him use a knife,
Or put things in, or take things out
Of the oven. It would be worth my life
If he got burned. I’d rather have the gout!
But still he likes to cook, like me.
It’s a way to keep me busy, don’t you see?
Dear Moosehead,
How do I love thee? Let me count
the ways… You are beyond doubt the best
friend a person could have. Last night you
were amazing! Putting that dumb-ass Greek
Jimmy in his place. Perfect! Whilst I am in
a bountiful mood I will confess to actually
loving your sister (after all I did marry the
crazy bitch!) I suppose deep down I am also
quite fond of your mother, or at least, even I
don’t have the heart to toss the old bag into
the street, which amounts to the same thing. I
do not harbour any deep animosity towards
Jimmy the Greek but that’s as far as I can go
(at least ‘til the stench of fried chicken has left
my home). No doubt by tomorrow I will be back
to cursing all of your worthless asses so make
the most of it.
Pick ya up at seven as usual.
Yours uncharacteristically full of love,
Ringo the Howler
Struggled again a bit today as Love isn’t really within my themes; anyway, here we are…
Cats, Poetry & Death #20
The Love of Fur & a Purr
The love of the Poet for his Cat
cannot be measured in silver
nor gold. ‘Tis an ancient love
as old as the art itself.
The love of the Poet for his Cat
is expressed every time he writes
a verse or lines of prose for ‘tis
the feline muse that drives his soul.
The love of the Cat the Poets shows
is garnished with stroking and coaxing
and treats. The fresh tuna and mouse toys
are kisses and hugs to the felines mind
The love of the Cat the Poet holds is
unending, unconditional. A perpetual
love. His heart always lifted by the
flick of a tail or head against his leg
The Love of the Cat for his Poet
is shown with purring, contented
and cuddly. Sweet meowing and
Gentle scratches that mean no harm
So Poet and Cat deeply in love,
sharing their lives, sharing the muse.
Together in perfect harmony at least
‘Til the spectre of death they must part.
I am writing these in an après-ski bar having a nice cold beer after my first days skiing of the season. Snow’s excellent & the weather too! Just wanted to share and make you all jealous. How lucky am I???
Good stuuf toady (hic!)
Iain
Taylor, what a great poem. I especially liked,
"each flicker-ember
amber as I drift to dream"
Love the ambience of the whole thing!
Thanks so much Earl, I needed to hear that! I look for your poems too, and enjoyed visiting your blog. Are you going to make two chapbooks? They are great.
Connie – You give dominos a new life.
Paul – Now, that’s love.
I’m writing again about my friend that was killed in June. The prompt "love" for me could not have been about anything else. If you would like more information about her, google "Meredith Hatch bike donation." Her oldest son has started a bike donation charity in her name … she raised some good babies that are trying to follow in the footsteps she left behind for them.
And it’s really hard to post when you’ve got tears dripping all over the keyboard.
She turned to say
She loved him
And looking up
Form the computer screen
He said he loved her too.
He didn’t know those words
Would be the last
They were to say to each other
Before the speeding car
Took her away from them,
Silencing her
Soothing mommy voice,
Her friend talks,
Her “I love you” to him.
Surviving her loss
Was bigger than anything
He had ever done.
And the only way he could do it
Was to get up every morning.
Help with breakfast, clothes,
Carpool
Then go to work. Bravely
Return in the evening
To those lonely eyes,
The little boys who needed help
With homework, bath, falling asleep
Without her goodnight kisses.
To this day he could still see her
Turn at the door to say
“I love you” and to no one at all
except for the empty room
that still held her memory,
he whispered back to her,
“I love you too.”
Some days we live not in a torrent of passion,
but in a truce; after all the years, we accept
the flaws with the virtues. If I tell the same
story again, if you must assign blame for the
smallest infractions, if I lose patience or fail
to pay attention, to read between the lines
when my “How was your day?” elicits a “Just
fine,” we still prefer the cozy place that love
has built. When I leave the light on, reading
“just one more chapter,” or you make plans
for golf when I had told you we’d be busy, we
don’t carry grudges; we don’t keep score. How,
after all, could we account for all the times
love held court—the tender touch, the gentle
words, the wordless glance we’ve learned to
read like Braille against our skin?
Nancy Posey
Rachel – I truly look forward to reading your offerings each day. You have an amazing gift, and the Lord is using you to express His love and forgiveness. Keep up the great work and don’t get disappointed if many fail to comment. You are touching hearts that have been hardened and your words are softening them, I’m sure.
To all – I am enjoying this challenge more than any other. Although it’s not always easy to meet the daily prompt criteria, it sure is a lot of fun. It’s encouraging to see the many who have made it over the hump. Let’s finish out with a bang, everyone. Robert, bring the challenges on, bro.
Paul, that was amazing
Reader: if the poems seem disjointed, it is because they are coming from different angles as the story is told. I am waiting until the end of the month to put the poems into a more sensible (but what is more sensible than the muse?) order. Thank you to Robert for providing the prompts and the direction for the pieces. I will credit you for the healing that has come of telling this story. I hope that you the reader will find healing and that the writing will be good for you today.
You are looking at what I hope to be the dedication page for Six Years Deeper Still; as always, thank you for reading. . .
H.
"Dedication for Kristie"
To your daughter, my wife and my love: your loss is my loss for though I were not born of your womb, I was born of your warmth and I miss you everyday.
We are travelers,
the left behind ,
you and I,
above the ground
beneath the sky.
We are alive:
between baited breaths
of cool, fall air
we choose to live
in a world laid bare.
We are orphans
looking for the love
that sadness stole,
its heart, its gifts,
placed in a hole.
We are gardeners
who tend the lot,
silken flowers
trembling hands
brought.
We are warriors,
the battle- worn,
we are flesh
and
we are bone.
We ticket-holders,
awaiting the glory,
what are we
if we are not
our story?
We are children,
sent from above,
and we are nothing
if we are not
love?
K…let’s try this again (my first attempt didn’t post) Here’s my Herb Themed love poem:
My preference for you bequeathed
with Rose Scented Geraniums
and Lavender my love, an
oath of my loyalty forever.
In spring the Crocus fills my heart with the
cheerful mirth of your youthful gladness
and Daffodils hide my deceitful hope
that someday you’ll be mine.
Though Daisies profess you are so
innocent, the
Lemon Verbena tells all, that you
have bewitched me.
My wish, that with the whitest of Roses
you will find me worthy and
accept the Rose of true love red, as
my blood I would gladly give up
for you my only soul.
SUN,
star of morning burning light,
you touch each oak-leaf till it bursts
again to life. Each single grass
newborn in November rain you glaze
with gold. Cold. It makes me
crave the woodstove’s
waver-flame, the comfort-corners
of a room, each flicker-ember
amber as I drift to dream
away from you. And then abrupt-
aslant through window-glass
again you spark
my morning. You ignite. Catch
fire of the eye, my life-
desire. Sun, how I love
you in November.
Robert, Your poems are very entertaining. I look forward to the day’s monsters installment when I turn on my computer.
Thanks for the smiles.
Anyway, here is my love poem for the day:
Turn Back, Precious
My daughter, love, what have you done?
I told you back when we’d begun,
To hide in Me. I’ll never leave,
My precious Jewel, yet still, I grieve.
I see you shaking, curled up tight,
bruised and broken, lost the fight.
I move to comfort and you run.
My daughter, why? We’ve just begun.
When you’re hungry, first you seek
the empty poisons… you’re so weak
and run to lovers poised with knife
to kill, destroy your precious life.
And glancing back, you shed a tear
because you see I am still near,
because you know I love you SO.
You need me precious. Please don’t go.
I spoke to you the other night,
when day was done, by firelight
when you were just about to fall
I held your hand. You felt so small.
I know you heard your whispered name.
I weep for you, you feel such shame.
That shame, it angered Me to death!
I bought your freedom, gave you breath.
So breathe my precious, breathe in Me,
together we’ll forever be,
souls entwined and love so sweet.
You, My child, My heart complete.
Juantita,your poem for mont is so sweet.
Lesson #17: Selfishness
She had a best friend
Someone to count on
Through thick and thin
She had a best friend
To pick up the slack,
To have her back
She had a best friend
That loved her
Even though she only loved herself
She had a best friend that put up with way more than she should
Because she thought the shallowness
Would leave
She had a best friend that tried to support her through
A relationship gone bad and toxic
Because she knew her friend didn’t want it to end
She had a best friend
That listened to every detail and could not believe
That in the end, she called HIM best friend
She had a best friend
That when the police were called,
She was the one to answer the door
She had a best friend
That had to walk away
Because everything can’t always be about her
Lesson #17: It’s Not Always About You
Domino Romance
Click, click, click
She was looking at him again.
She was from Switzerland.
He was from The Netherlands.
When they spoke together
it was in English.
Is this your first time as a builder?
Have you met Mr. Domino?
Isn’t that design fantastic?
I’m getting tired of blue.
My back’s aching.
I hope this topples when the time comes.
Wouldn’t it be awful to know
your work ruined the world record?
He knew she loved him the way she
cheered when his dominoes toppled.
She knew when he said only three
million, nine hundred ninety nine
thousand, nine hundred nine to go.
The Widower
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
After his wife died,
he set out to teach his dog to talk,
so that his loneliness might ease…
He had lost the protection of his beloved’s hand,
that reassuring touch
replaced by a cold wet nose
in the middle of his palm instead.
His loneliness was like a peacock,
marching slowly & methodically in the shadows,
trapped between pride and sorrow,
regret and promise of things yet to come…
The silhouette of his beloved,
now just a postage stamp
memory between the eyes,
his heart now on autopilot,
he had simply forgotten
how to breathe.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
for mont–
by juanita lewison-snyder
beloved husband,
close your eyes a moment
so that you may truly hear
these words forming in my heart…
if ever a person were truly blessed
it most certainly is me.
you are, simply
my own personal proof that God exists.
spurned at the altar of love once too many,
I asked for someone special
to love me back twice as hard for a change
than what I could muster up myself.
courage waning,
hope waning.
then suddenly you appeared in the margins.
I didn’t understand the true extent of Love
until you came along and pulled the sheet away
exposing the marble floor I had always
been standing atop, but never noticed.
Thank you for that,
and for all the years afterwards that you spent
sanding and waxing,
sanding and waxing
so that in our final years together we could
dance across it to the other side.
you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder