I admit I’m a bit predictable at times. For instance, I always include the following Two for Tuesday prompt during April and November PAD Challenges.
For today’s prompt, you have two options:
- Write a love poem.
- Write an anti-love poem.
Here’s my attempt:
“no poems”
there are no poems
hiding between us,
no things we just now
remember to say,
but that doesn’t mean
we don’t have poems
left to find on new
paths in old forests
and even if then,
we have so many
revisions to make
late into the night
like our second kiss
just after our first.
*****
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And learn more about writing, publishing and living at my other blog: My Name Is Not Bob.
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Bi Polar
From the high
the giddy, silly joking
To the low
the stomping, raging, moping
I never know
who will appear
in the morning
off the bus
at the store
my tenderheart
Extremely smart
Extremely funny
Extremely hurt
Extremely touchy
He is mine
I love him
No matter what
Wow, Tara, you capture life with someone who is bipolar. Sometimes all you can do is love them.
The love in this poem is there in the words and in your ability to keep loving… Could just as easily from someone else been an anti- love poem
So touching. If only everyone in the world had someone to love them unconditionally, as you do him.
a pair within this poem – so touching
You captured the emotion here perfectly. Great write, Tara!
you all are so supportive and kind! thank you!
“I love him
No matter what”
is the essence of love. You’ve got it.
Tara,
Very touching piece. Thanks for sharing your heart with us.
Nice.
Beautiful and touching poem, Tara.
“Anniversary Poem”
(November 7, 1998)
(Yeah, I’m a few days late)
So we walked
through the woods
and held hands
as the sound of foot falls
on leaf covered trails
marked our passage.
November sun,
brilliant but cold,
pulled us closer together.
I called you my wife
and you called me
your husband
and the damn world
stood still.
And still does.
Happy Anniversary, Jerry! Beautiful poem!
Lovely….
You sound like Keith and me … through and through. Happy anniversary!
This made me swoon.
Awww… such a sweet piece — better late than never.
Happy (belated) anniversary. 
sigh. . . so sweet.
Lovely. Wishing the damn world stood still more often.
Happy Belated Anniversary.
Ahh…love.
So beautiful!
This is so wonderful.,…happy anniversary!
I second the “Awww” an anniversary poem worth waiting for. It’s a wonderful thing to have the flame still burning
nothing like having a poet for a husband!
Beautifully done! Congratulations to you both.
Timeless!
I love this piece!
Bronzed Anti Ode
When I don’t answer my phone
every day
it is not that I don’t hear my foghorn ringtone
or that I have nothing to say again
but that I use my phone as a bookmark in the Einstein book
and don’t want to lose my place
or ever finish the book.
It is better to have lost
and felt the poisonous bee stings
and the neck kisses of the mantis,
says the bronzed bust of Shakespeare offering his opinion again,
than to have felt nothing but the emptiness.
I should delete your number
because my pocket misses you more than I do
and he calls you when I’m walking home in the thunderstorm
and only he can hear your voice,
but I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t know
and I want to know when I’m not answering your calls.
I can’t go on like this, blinded in the greyness,
says the girl with the fractured right ventricle
but that was months ago now
and surely she was wrong?
Mike, This is powerful…I feel the pain, reading it. Great job!
Thanks very much, Linda.
I’ve been trying to read the prompt, take a minute or two to think, and then just start writing without stopping. It has made for some interesting results.
Terrific result and that is the wsy I writing to the prompts as well…don’t usually read first …. especially today wonderful poems like yours msy inhibit!
.
I feel your pain – well done. -Mosk
Well done, Mike. You’ve captured it perfectly.
I really like this one, Mike. A lot.
Good one, Mike.
Thanks so much, everyone!
Robert, I love the revisions – the second kiss after the first. That really catches it!
I ‘love’ your poem today, Robert!
Agree with Laurie! Robert truly think one of your best!
Absolutely!
Agree with everyone here, Robert!
“No poems” is Love.
Add me to the fan club – it’s a beautiful poem.
Love/Anti Love Haiku
Morning offering
Tea given by work-worn hands
Blessed lover mine
Darkness hides the rose
that lives only for the one
who slices through her soul
Linda- These are great haiku!
powerful meaning in so few words!
Nice – thanks
Thanks, All! I love writing Haiku…it really challenges you to think of what words mean.
The Flip-side to Yesterday’s ‘Dark and Dangerous’…
Warm lips,
Merely flesh and blood
Yet, as they graze our cheeks,
Our ears, our neck
Arousing thoughts
Heaven-inspired
And as they whisper forgiveness
Encouragement and hope
Pleading for the same in return,
As they, with nothing but half-words
Cradle our hearts in the palm
Of contentment
As they murmur,
A thousand miles away
While reading these lines
As they pulse with the longing to be kissed
And as they turn to smile bravely
In spite of life
We know, it is not lips
Merely flesh and blood lips
But love
The tender out-pouring of self
That makes life beautiful
And I love you
Janet Martin
This is absolutely beautiful, Janet.
As they murmur,
A thousand miles away
While reading these lines
so well written – mosk
whoa! this is beautiful, Janet
eloquent and expressive!
Breath-taking!
(a LOVE haiku)
distant thunder rolls
coaxing me to stay in bed
like a lover’s moans
(anti-love haiku)
an alarming sound
wakes me from my reverie ~
I despise that sound
Clever love and anti-love !
Enjoyed them!
I love these, Paula. So well written.
Very good!
Love this duo, Paula!
great paired effect – these two
These are great Paula, they made me smile!
beautiful this one, the love haiku. subtlety but the sensuality is expressed well in just one line!
When your eyes softened
and your hand discovered mine,
you unlocked my heart.
Love.
Love the softening of the eyes when love is present. Beautiful, Marie!
Marie Elena what wonderful words, perfect, just perfect!
simple and beautiful – mosk
amen
that’s love alright! beautiful.
Aaaaah so sweet.
Like the “hand’ and “heart”!
Lovely, Marie.
Oh, Marie. This is especially touching, because I remember a long ago moment in which I saw someone’s eyes soften.
Oh, Yes! Marie, this captures it!!!
Such a fabulous start this morning! Sunday’s Poetic Bloomings prompt happened to be to write a love poem. Here is mine.
POPPA
(For my husband: living proof that a “step” grandfather loves no less)
At the sight of him,
The blue eyes of her 24-pound frame light up,
She flashes a two-toothed smile,
Lifts pudgy little hands toward the ceiling,
And clearly says, “Poppa.”
At the sight of her,
The blue eyes of his 220-pound frame soften,
He beams from tip to toe,
Extends muscular arms to scoop her up,
And tenderly says, “There’s my pumpkin.”
At the sight of these exchanges,
My own eyes regularly mist,
My already full heart floods
With more love than it can contain. Love
For her, for him, and for the God of second chances.
Misty eyed.. Thanks …your comment embodies yesterday’s kindness…
How sweet! Just lovely.
So real, so love~ thank you, Marie!
Love is love is love. Thanks
This is wonderful…I started tearing up at “There’s my pumpkin”
Beautiful!
“for the God of second chances.” Oh, yes! for this I am most grateful, also!!
Love Like Chocolate
The best lessons come in similes
and metaphors, simple analogy,
taking what we know firsthand
and making application. Thus
my mother taught me to wait
for true love, to hold out
for the real thing—
Like chocolate, she said.
Sure, you can settle for almost—
chocolate-flavored, artificial,
the color of chocolate,
the mere suggestion of chocolate,
or you can hold out for the best—
rich, dark cacao, bittersweet taste,
something Swiss or German perhaps,
a pure, unadulterated square
encased in foil, so smooth, with a taste
the lingers on the tongue long after
the tangible experience.
Her lesson firmly implanted
in my malleable mind, I passed
on chances for light flirtation,
dime-a-dozen promises, gropes
and wine-soaked kisses
from men who’d been
strangers just an hour before.
Why settle for anything
but real love–sweet, strong,
pure, love worth the wait?
Your good love, like good chocolate,
is good for my heart.
And it is worth the wait – me? I bit into every rancid candy masquerading as chocolate.
And I LOVE chocolate, so comparing the perfect chocolate to love is wonderful. ^_^ I love it, Nancy!
this poem so sweet and strong, so tastee through and through – I could go on and on…
Right on! This is so true & Your mother’s advice echoes my late mother’s view as well. Seems like they were both right!
Chocolate is such an apt metaphor. Also, has started a craving to watch one of my all-time fav movies, Chocolat!
Chocolate rules!
Nancy, your mother was right. I love that you found the love in the end.
Love Floating
I found myself floating and flying and delving and diving to the heart
of the bluest oceanic surge of love I’d ever seen,
I was ecstatically emotionally irrationally fantastically unbelievably
so uncontrollably not even in the slightest proportionally keen,
Is it uncool for a man to be so obviously disarmed?
If I offered to buy you a coffee and toffee chocolate cherry berry
cream dream would you smile at me and feel at least a little charmed?
Would you let me be with you twenty four hours a day?
Would you make love with me everywhere and in every possible way?
Sigh irrevocably,
Most regrettably,
Somehow magically tragically your essence enchanted me before I even
had the guts to come out of the crowd,
But now I’m here and I’m yours and I want you to step with me forever
onto our dramatic romantic ecstatic love-automatic pink-puffy perfect
life-long cloud,
Yes I know it sounds a little mellow dramatic a little bit less than
what’s normally accepted as pragmatic that’s true,
But I promise my purpose in life is to unreservedly and deservedly
most eternally and especially demonstrate daily every sinew of my true
love… just. for. you.
“If I offered to buy you a coffee and toffee chocolate cherry berry
cream dream would you smile at me and feel at least a little charmed?”
Charming, indeed!
So wonderfully whimsical! I love the way the prose dances. Well done!
Thanks. I think I must’ve drunk a lot of coffee oO;
Incredibly, phonetically, indelibly, romantically enchanting.
haha! you get it
ly
This is a love of a poem: beautifully crafted, which is difficult to do when under the spell of so much emotion.
Thank you Viv
especially when I’m hardly ever whimsical 
Robert, I loved your poem. It was beautiful.
Wow guys, awesome poems so early in the morning. I can’t even think right now. lol Besides, time for work anyways. A retail workers job is never done. I look forward to reading more later.
HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE ME?
There is more truth
in an open hand offered
to an enemy than in all
the dutiful I love you ‘s
ever spoken.
Wow. I’m speechless.
“…He said, as they nailed Him to the cross.” (Lost Gospel d’Moskowitz)
That’s just profound! Beautiful.
Amen.
in five lines, your poem makes me speechless! kudos to that!
hmmm … wonder if we can ever do it as easy as its said…
It can be done, but I don’t believe it’s ever easy. And Nancy captured the idea perfectly.
Love At First Internet Sight
Many things grow,
But few things grow uncontrollably so,
I spoke but a few words of innocent encouragement to you,
And from that humble start an incredible love grew,
You reacted as if it impossible for someone to genuinely care,
That just being nice being real was so unbelievably rare,
And I reacted because you were so indescribably beautiful,
You know I never ever considered myself even remotely suitable,
Baby you know that now we’re so in love it must be right,
That there really is such a thing as love at first internet sight…
<3
Interesting!
I know a couple who met just like that! It can happen.
A good friend of mine met her husband the same way, and they are very happy. Good one.
thank you
I thought it very modern !
In the misted morning
you come to me
long ago daddy
to boom Good Morning
your voice the key
opening all – first
and forever
So touching!
Thanks Marie
I liked this – especially
your voice the key
opening all – first
and forever
Thanks Mosk
after reading the sound of that voice comes again and again
Hmmm IPAD or something disappeared my thanks ….. Jane your comment misted my eyes….kindness spilled from yesterday’s prompt always with you.
Jane….your comments are poetry!
Mhmmm actually my first comment to you appeared under Marie’s poem… Probably was a confusing comment to her poem
growing inside me
a healthy two pound tumor –
I do not feel love
” a healthy two pound tumor” WOW Michelle three lines absolutely perfect for love-anti/love ….
The poetry doesn’t get any better than this….
Thank you Pearl.
What PKP says.
Wow. Quietly powerful.
powerful expression !
Incredible, Michelle!
mutant cells
invisible to the eyes -
where’s my light saber?
Oh, Michelle … Prayers and well wishes a-plenty for you.
Sorry Marie, but my poems this month are not about me – purely fictional.
Glad to hear it, Michelle. Great work!
As crystal beakers
combined in the
maddened laboratory
of science past
each memory from
toe tingled kiss to
first slap, running
through fields, sobbing
in the night, your muscled
arms making me into
something impossibly small,
the roll of music,
the dangerous silences
the spit that sprayed venom
that day you sat on the floor
and cried while I washed
dishes and waited for the
door to finally close
each flash conflated
clear and combined as a
the first trill of the morning
songbird still calling
This is beautiful – the change of imagery as we move through the poem is really effective.
Ina – thank you it is lovely to be read
I keep reading this and re-reading and see something beautiful each time. This is lovely.
Domino – what a wonderful compliment – thank you – you have truly moved me:)
Intense story. Felt the heaviness intensify and finality arrive at “the door”, greeted by “the first thrill of the morning songbird”.
a.paige – Yes it was getting heavier as it moved along… I like your take on the door and that first morning songbird… (BTW I like your typo or misreading gives a new meaning to the songbird!…everything is poetry)
“date night”
this mother who sits at the window
gripped by midnight
the open bedroom door
hollow creaks in the floor.
watching.
Can see and feel
! Absolutely love and anti-love feelings drifting in those waiting nights,!
love this one!
feathers fluffed out
lovebirds huddled together –
snow storm
can see the puffed-up-ness against the snow
Another winner!
LELAND
I do not often use the term “unfair.”
It sounds petty and childish.
Yet, when the love of a noble man’s life
Is snuffed out as a candle flame
And his retirement is left to ashes,
I cry for his lonely heart …
And “fair” comes into question.
I’m sorry, Marie. Heartbreaking.
totally unfair ! sigh !
I do this because
you understand I love you
belt burns flesh – I don’t
Earth
Smiling so hard
her face is full of cracks
but she is hopeful,
she waits,
and is finally rewarded
and all her cracks and wrinkles disappear
when the rain finally comes.
i always like this love between earth and rains
Ah! Blessed rain!
wonderful…as the earth drinks the rain and produces vegetation.
you won’t listen, but…
If you must love
keep in mind: love ends.
And know this, that the end of love
is not an easy death. Love
doesn’t drift away while asleep, peaceful smile and all, leaving
you with sweet recollections of stick figures in the sun, laughing.
The end of love
turns your gut against you. Deliciousness laced with e.coli, love
ending leaves you writhing. Your jaw locks, and you live on
unable to smile without pain. The end of love
empties your hands, and dries you into something lasting,
eternally shriveled wrapped in its own arms. Love
gone, you hold yourself tight
and your loss, the ending, tighter.
WOW, WOW, WOW.
WOW.
In agreement here, Barbara!! Amazingly captured!
I hear you. This is year-one’s-heart-out gorgeous.
Yes WOW! Excellent poem.
Barbara….echoes of all said above BRAVO …..
Felt the “shrivel”, shivering and rendered speechless.
Yet echoing everyone,
Wow!
Been there, done that, and you have described it superlatively well. Thank you, Brenda.
Left me totally speechless. Really excellent.
Well said.
Wow! “Deliciousness laced with e.coli” My gut feel wrenched.
Knitting Class
(My Heart Unto Yours is Knit)
If you ask me
how my knitting classes are going
I’d say that I like the orderly progression of the stitches,
each row of loops on the needle,
posed like a chorus line facing left.
I love to slide my fingers over the alpaca,
to feel the rhythm that builds with needles and yarn.
I am mesmerized by the subtle dance of knit and purl,
the growing weight of the piece as it shifts on my lap.
I clutch the bamboo needles
like a Newfoundland trucker who knits while he drives.
My hands explore new territory and acquire their own memory.
I work the fibers of Incan royalty
and the stitches leapfrog into stockinettes and ribs;
slip, slip, knit, slip, slip, knit
the thin wood pursuing strands of pistachio, poppy and purple.
I start the hank with a long-tail cast on,
then selvage the place where seams disappear.
I want to knit one, purl one, laugh one.
I want to make gloves that start with my fingers
when I lift the strand between the needles
and embrace yours when you split wood beside the barn.
this is so fine – crafted warm and close like love
Such crisp imagery makes me want to knit !
“like a chorus line…Incan royalty…wood pursuing strands…
and embrace yours when you split wood beside the barn”
Bravo!
This is perfect, pomodoro! Exactly what it feels like. My sister would LOVE this! We both knit but she’s better at it. This embodies such a comforting home feeling, with the splitting wood and all, too!
You might like this ~http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/
I really like the heft of this, but it’s the trucker that makes it for me.
That’s kinda where it all started, with the trucker in Annie Proulx’s Shipping News. Book and movie, my faves.
Same. After driving in Newfoundland, sure hope that knitting truckers is only a legend!!!!!
A Widow Looks Back
I used to saqy you’re going to drive me crazy.
You used to say I’d be the death of you.
Maybe I was, you snuck away so easy,
from the couch, watching the evening news
while I washed the dishes, never realizing
the news was going on without you, I turned
to change the chanel. You looked so peaceful
It took a moment or two before I learned…
Six seasons passed, yet still I feel your presence.
So often will I pause, believing I have heard
You clear your throat, your cough and then your sigh
We watched our faces wrinkle, our children grow
And enrter into their own histories. The trees grown high
but beautiful, today, they are filling up with snow.
Time, that old buzzard, sits and waits. Going first is the lucky one.
Saying good-dbye to you, my love, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Absolutely excellent – and heartbreaking, been there. captured it perfectly.
so sad, and lovely.
Wow, got chills reading this. So lovely and heartbreaking and so beautifully said.
This is very good. Put a lump in my throat.
My greatest fear in your poem.
This is so moving,
Tears in my eyes… Perfectly poemed
This is achingly stunning.
Love you
good that you never asked,
how much love I had for you -
nor did you ever wish to know
how long would it last,
else I would have never known,
I loved you more than,
and now,for better reasons ….
About Erasures
on the smooth white page
pair of yellow pencils take
their turns today
one erasing slow
a tearful scar-stitched word
the other writing
on of sun and sky
how the bluebirds never lie
only sing and call
the other busy
still, makes clear the emptiness
ready for new leaves
Jane Penland Hoover
November 15, 2011
Prompt Love Love Anti Love
PAD 15
“the other…ready for new leaves.”
Love your vivid imagery for the emptiness.
” makes clear the emptiness “. Lovely
Love the feeling in this, Jane. Choosing to write of “tearful scar-stitched word/s,” or to write of the beautiful things. About Erasures fits.
such generous feedback
from you three
thank you
NO LOVE LIKE TODAY
We live in the moment
for life is fleeting and opportunitites
crumble when we least expect.
But, love becomes the glue,
the thing that sticks hearts together.
Pieces of broken dreams come together
nicely when held with an unconditional
application of love’s precious power.
Hour-by-hour passes, and being in the grip
of love fills every moment completely.
What has gone before vanishes in the
wave of faded memory. But the ember
that glows at this point in time
begins to warm and placate.
We can’t wait for tomorrow,
for those moments are borrowed.
We have no love but today.
Exactly! Love in the moment. Well said, Walt.
How do I love thee
Sleep in and I’ll make breakfast
Serving is my quest
Ahh… Love.
loving caring senryu
“write”
when your
hand, weathered/worn
gets lost
in thought
breaking/filling me
shaking heaven,
I am whole
. . . and earth is laughing
I really am useless at love poetry. So I chose to write my PAD 15 contribution using the We Write Poems prompt to make a list of memory jogging words and use them to write poemlets. My first few words were the jog that sent me back more than a quarter of a century to how I met my husband.
Love poemlets
blind date, unwanted, unasked
by disillusioned divorcee
delicious dancing banished loneliness
funny stories first time heard
lives blended, families merged
in ventures blithely undertaken
all passion spent, the love remains
comfortable, comforting
through rarely thick and often thin
mutual dependence intertwined
with constant laughter
Far from useless my dear Viv!
Silly woman. You write love poems to that man all the time. This is (these are?) a fine set.
ViV: absolutely, unequivocally full of love!
I’d love to hate to choose but must.
To write or not to write,
or paint or not to paint.
To breathe or keep it in,
the beauty from without
examined from within,
to live or not to love.
The words they float about,
like fish inside my head.
Images tease my soul,
food for my spirit.
To choose which ones to use,
to opt for arms or legs.
But pick I must from these
visions that seek the light.
Images, messages
as legs…as arms…and yet
others stay submerged
until they, too, are chosen.
To poem and not to paint,
or paint and not to write.
To live or keep it in,
the beauty from without
examined from within,
to live and not to love.
Journey
Someday I will wither
but today I wander
over the hills and vales
on a quest with its own trails
seeking answers
which cannot be given,
looking for truths
riddled with falsehoods
rendezvousing with love
and meeting hate
dancing with dilemmas
and coming in late
pondering each and every word
freely spoken or read
leaving no stones in place
nor roads empty
searching for the greatest gift
searching throughout my life
searching for the new and the old
searching quietly and bold
searching for my faith.
my comment was mistakenly posted two comments below,
I blame the IPad and the system.
DON’T TELL ME YOU LOVE ME
Taking advantage of a once was love,
denegrates its function. And our
compunction is to go through motions,
a half-hearted devotion to a textbook
definition. Nothing but conditions and
requirements; they prevent us from
what our hearts once held true.
We were us once; now a me and a you
stands across the strand of the only nerve
that remains. Happy faces, having been replaced
by these masquerades. A wordless game
of charades that speaks volumes of
our discontent. You lament your loss of youth,
but the truth stings much more deeply.
We’ve left the same page years ago.
The book of love is out of print.
And as far as I know, Love remains
a four-letter word. Don’t tell me you love me.
I don’t want to know!
You have touched my heart,
tender caresses of hands
warmed by love’s fire.
goes deeper and profound than one can imagine
beautiful imagery involved here! loved it.
I wish there was a like button on here!
*grin*
leaving no stones “unturned”?
Enjoy the journey.
“Not all those who wander are lost.”
This comment is for Michelle’s “Journey”.
You could have just left,
leaving me to walk away.
But you broke my legs.
The last line is a total shocker!
ouch. That is one nasty parting.
Very clever Walt!
wow.
Yes, that’s the way it feels. Shocking and awful.
What a great last line!
I hate that the IPad temporarily blacks out for every scroll or comment.
It slows me down and eats my time for reading all the posts
Marie ….have to go but love the Big Guy ( both of them!) in your Poppa poem! The joy of Second Chances….. Beautiful
Thought these things only happened to me!
Lumberjack Man
who sings to birds,
croons to the cat who nuzzles his shoulder,
carried my pink phone for six months,
matches the Fiesta in neat stacks.
Writes poems. Can’t sew, can bake bread,
can change a tire but tries not to. Understands
mortgages, beermaking, psychology.
Suspicious of church, children, ghosts.
Taller than me by seven inches, tried
to teach me chess when we were thirteen,
lost his mother young. Hates cruelty,
most musicals, traffic. Would drive
across the country to make me laugh.
Eyes every color of a river. Perfect shoulders.
Makes me laugh. Laughs at me.
Pamela Murray Winters
Wrote this one for Poetic Bloomings this week:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2011/11/14/fall-in-love/
(Click into ‘comments’ for their link. Great site, come write!)
Back later with a new one.
Beautiful!
Thanks, Jacqueline!
First Love
tattooed within my tattered heart, our
initials. first love I thought stronger
than a live oak tree. but then I found
myself in line. salivating hounds these
hoards of hungry hands, reaching out for
you. while I crashed into your weakened
trunk. a tire swing wrapped around what
used to be, but is now fallow. beneath
uprooted dreams I reach for you. but all
I have are your initials, smooth within
abrasive bark. forever etched, my first.
Tumultuous emotions, captured so well, Laurie.
I know that ache well – this was bittersweet and beautiful.
Agreed.
Thanks for your comments.
~MIXED MESSAGE~
What of this word
This love word?
Caressing shores
Sandy feet find
Passion.
Found in palming
soft speckled stones,
Peering sun ward
Through bits
Of broken glass;
Sea-blue,
Your eyes
Mesmerized
By beauty.
Sea-salted senses
You’re hypnotized.
What of this
Love word professed
Litter and oil
Rise upon my shores
Riddling the tides.
Tale of mixed message:
You love me
When its convenient.
Love this Tale of mixed message, not the mixed message, which is enough to make one feel like he or she is being made to drink “bits of broken glass”, not merely walk on eggshells.
It IS painful isn’t it? Because even if we individually try to live carefully, consciously making efforts to protect the ocean there are things that happen on this planet that we can’t control. Thanks for your comment, a. paige.
Oof. that ending… sad, but its so true too. Mixed message, like Paige says..
I’m glad the message was clear. Thank you, Leo!
those last two lines are amazing.
Ina!! I appreciate that, thank you!
A definite “WOW,” Sweet Hannah. Your way of weaving loveliness through both the beauty and the sad destruction is absolutely stunning. Nobody else writes quite like you do. <3
Oh boy!! I’m glad I checked back!! What a generous comment. You make me feel so valuable!
Your work is instantly recognizable. I love the style of your poetry, Hannah.
Thank you so much, Sara! This really means a great deal to me!
Is there a sticking out your tongue symbol?
Okay, won’t be a spoil sport….such terrific poetry here want to reply …and write…miss the days when one could skip down and around the old neighborhood….but … It is all about the poetry
Marie ….have to go but love the Big Guy ( both of them!) in your Poppa poem! The joy of Second Chances….. Beautiful
Thank you, PKP ! Now I know it wasn’t just my imaginings, largely due to writing.
-Amica
Thank you, Pearl! Yep, my Keith is special. I am blessed.
PKP: Sticking out tongue symbol is a colon dash and then capital P
: – P
Just call me a mine of totally useless info
: – P !
:;)
HowzTHAT for messin’ up?! LOL!
Self: a Fishing Tale
I’d seen my girlfriends hooked
on farm house love, on endless day,
hard-fisted, taken-for-granted love,
flopping breathless on the ground
of their young hopes, no swim left
by the time they were thirty,
flirting with death or some other
good old boy with a promise.
At seventeen, I thought I knew enough
to learn vicarious lessons, avoid
their pitfalls, telling you I was too young
to settle, that I was after a bigger fish.
But you misunderstood just what I meant,
thinking other men were on my mind.
I had for once listened to my mother
preach that love began with self and
moved outward as it overflowed.
In my youthful fantasy, Tchaikovsky
providing mood music, I run through
a blooming meadow, butterflies lifting
in my wake, loping in slow motion
into my own arms, and I am happy.
You could not imagine, I see now,
that my biggest catch was me,
becoming a me I could be glad to know,
a me I could offer as a gift to anyone
I love, joyful, unashamed, and free,
men not the only fishes in the sea.
Oh, how I love the message in this, Jane!! Every teen-girl (and boy for that matter), should read this. I wish I had!
’s to you!
I second that wish. Lovely and powerful, Jane.
Peaceful Seas
A wave
Flash of blue
Just an image
Can inspire and soothe
Deep Blue
Frothy caps
Currents that capsize
Broken hearts and
Lives make seas a deeper blue
Sorry, had pasted my poem in comment–forgot to hit “post” and then when scrolling–when I went to “reply” on your lovely poem, it pasted mine there instead. Ah technology…;-)
This is gorgeous! I love the last line especially!
’520′
I kept every letter that you wrote
Memorized each word
Each syllable, each letter raptured me
Smelled the perfume and kissed the
Kiss mark you left as a signature of your affection
I smudged the ink with lonely teardrops
Creating rivers in your perfectly defined penmanship
I swam through the waves and with each breast stroke I drew closer and closer to your heart
Your true emotion
That you use to bottle up in an urn
I’ve watch your rose rise
I’ve seen your sun rise
I see your wings rise
And finally set to flight
The words in your letter illuminated and left a lasting impression
3D imagery tantalizing my 5 senses
I can hear your woo, wooing till the morning dawn
Feel your heart beating in and out like the beating of the African drums in a sacred ceremonial beating faster and faster as the service reach its climax
Taste your sweet lips through the verses of your prose
Smell…smell the southern home cooked meals as you serve it with a glass of my favorite wine, intoxicate, not by the wine, but by the curve of your spine as your aroma blows my mind
I see the purity of your transformation
Your metamorphosis from evil to beauty
All wrapped up in your letters that I hold so dear
Like a school girl you picked each petal to find the fate of your future
He loves me
He love me not
He loves me
He loves me
You have accepted my sin and through you, showed me my salvation
52 weeks in a year, 10 years
520 letters in all
And each letter strengthens me to stay alive
10 more years to go, and I will be able to see you
No reply letter, see my return will summarize my love
And I do love you
And like the return of Jesus I will wait
And look forward towards memorizing the next 520 letters
Intriguing and multilayered, esp.
intoxicate, not by the wine, but by the curve of your spine as your aroma blows my mind
great – mosk
Absolutely loved the lines:
I smudged the ink with lonely teardrops
Creating rivers in your perfectly defined penmanship
I swam through the waves and with each breast stroke I drew closer and closer to your heart
…as well as the promise of 520 more letters.
~Paula
Stay away
My poem for today!
A senryu:
Whispers..
Where Is the Love? (An Early Valentine)
Love is everywhere,
in the coffee in the morning,
in the movies that we share,
in the songs that others sing.
Love is in the air,
in odd spaces so it seems,
in the cats for whom we care,
in wishes, hopes and dreams.
Love is not so rare,
not very far away,
seen by those who dare,
beside the place I stay.
Love is always there,
when it seems even not to be,
for you the Mrs. fair,
standing next to me.
Brought a smile
moskowitz
One Love
One love for all the world to see.
One love for all eternity.
Love that lives forever in the soul.
One love so blessed and so true.
One love reserved for only you.
Love that grows inside and makes us whole.
By Michael Grove
So sweet and romantic, Mike!
Peaceful Seas
A flash of
White on blue
Just an image
Can inspire and soothe
Deep Blue
Frothy caps
Currents that capsize
Broken hearts and
Lives make seas a deeper blue
Tears and Tequila
“Here’s to red-haired cowboys
Who ride the wind to a lonely gas station
And steal an innocent heart,
The dreams set free for reasons still unknown,
And the nights I clung to my pillow instead of you.”
I stare at the ashen November sky
And savor my cocktail of tears and tequila,
Searching for the place in my yesterday
Where that seventeen year old is still in love with you.
Wow-ee that was good! Excellent!
I love this poem. I just love it!
Mary, love that title!
Last Words
Before I moved half a world away,
They worried overtime, eulogizing,
Fretting, making sense of fear.
And their last words to me
Proved how they saw the world
And moved in it each day.
He held me longer than he’d planned,
Then said, “Trust no one. People can
Hurt you—watch your back. Come back.”
But she just looked at me so deeply
That I cried, and said, “Remember, love
Is all there is. Nothing else is important.”
Nice! I think this would speak to anyone who, like me, moved far away from family.
I’m not crazy about the second one of these. But it was a shadorma and ovillejo kind of morning. Maybe I’ll write a better one later.
…
Pact
I’ll kill you
if you want me to,
if they think
there’s no hope,
if the alternative is
brain-death; vanishment;
say the word
and I will do it,
even though
my own mind
will shred like paper with it,
fold up like a moth.
…
Ancient History
He loved the classics more than me,
you see.
The brushstroke and scribal letter
were better.
He said, study’s what I first must do–
then you.
i wanted to say, I’m busy too:
thesis and finals weighing like lead.
But somehow, I found time for your bed.
You see? I’m better than you.
Epithet
I don’t recall the day my name be
-came a swearword on your forked
tongue; perhaps always there, wait
-ing to be spit into the dying embers
of us. Consonant, vowel, disembowel
-ed and left for dead, the dread of the
keys in the lock or the knock that meant
you misplaced them again, the linger
-ing scent of sin on your skin and the
way your burning eyes no longer see me,
the yearning in my bones for something
more, the way the door feels so very far
away. The day I cracked this tilted cage,
crumbled this tired rage, fumbled, fled
and found what had been waiting all
along: These syllables of me, a song.
Oh.My.Goodness.
I read this aloud and it is performance worthy.
Not sure if I covet your abilities or merely envy them, either way
when you finally write that book, I’ll buy!
Thanks De, Moskoroo
Powerful! Wow! My tongue’s been tied.
Thanks so much, guys.
Another De wonder.
True Love in Disguise as a Blind Man and an Orphan
By Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 15. 2011
He was thirty-seven years of age and blind,
She was only twenty and raised as an orphan,
They met under fateful circumstances kind,
Both were destitute of substance with poor kin.
Nothing in this world to offer one another,
Except what counts if you can find its’ secret,
True love is blind they say, without father or mother,
But when it comes– it’s pure white as a snowy egret.
August 17, 1941 in Portland, Maine–that day,
David Henry married Eva Viola Dyer, and she
Became an ATWATER by married name-say,
And through the years: “To be, or not to be”–
Became reality: her initials in reverse told the story:
D. A. V. E. from Eva D. spelt his own first name,
I was number four of the twelve children she carry
Into life as siblings of their noble clan without fame.
They became grandparents to sixty-five newborn babies,
Today the great grand kids number more than 120!
She died of cancer this very week coming–no maybe’s,
On Thanksgiving Day Nov. 24, 1994 with “good and plenty”
Posterity of ancestral line; He died 45 days past age 100,
May 23, 2004 in Salt Lake City, yet they are buried
Side by side, as in life, in our hometown of Saco, Maine–wondered
If YOU would call it True Love — the day they married?
Poet’s Note:
Written for the prompt word of a Love Poem for this date
of November 15, 2011 but in commemoration of the 17th
anniversary of the death of my mother on Thanksgiving Day.
And in memory of my Nova Scotia immigrant father who
lived a Patriarchal life past age one hundred. My Mom was
left in a basket on the porch of a home only a block behind
the boyhood home of poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
moments after her Mom died of childbearing of her only
full brother whom she never met until they were both age
72 and 73 respectively just before their deaths. Each was
raised as orphans with different names. My Dad sired twelve
children with his chosen mate but never got to see any of them
by sight in life since he was totally blind. The Blind Man and the
Orphan is the title of my next book (#26) to cover their life.
True Love in Disguise as a Blind Man and an Orphan
By Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 15. 2011
He was thirty-seven years of age and blind,
She was only twenty and raised as an orphan,
They met under fateful circumstances kind,
Both were destitute of substance with poor kin.
Nothing in this world to offer one another,
Except what counts if you can find its’ secret,
True love is blind they say, without father or mother,
But when it comes it’s pure white as a snowy egret.
August 17, 1941 in Portland, Maine–that day,
David Henry married Eva Viola Dyer, and she
Became an ATWATER by married name-say,
And through the years: “To be, or not to be”–
Became reality
There is No Cure for the Hole in My Soul
There is no cure
for the hole
in my soul
for when I keep trying
to fill it,
it still remains empty.
God hasn’t filled it,
nor has Anita,
the same for my kids
and my beloved animals.
The writing
sure as hell doesn’t help,
often it makes it worse.
The only thing
resembling a cure
appears
when I lose myself
in loving others.
I know
this doesn’t cure
the hole in my soul,
but it keeps me
from obsessing
over
my incompleteness.
Sweetly bittersweet… and so Buddhist.
This is really good, well done, and says so much.
I’ve often thought that some things aren’t meant to be ‘cured’; there are lessons to be learnt in searching.
I agree that helping others gets us out of the hole, but God is the anchor that lifts us (just my opinion, though).
sorry for the multiples on my posting today. The BLOG rejected my post over a dozen times and had great problems trying to get it to take it. Looks like it finally went through. RMA
Robert, I ♥ your poem.
I cannot possibly do this amazing story justice, and I also cannot figure out how to get the Hindi syllable to come over here, as my title…but perhaps “Untitled” is just as fitting…
Untitled
They tell me
I may now name myself.
No longer Nakusa
Unwanted
I rub its ugly syllables
into this raw earth
grasp the paper in my hands,
my freedom song.
Trembling,
I choose
Pyāra
Loved.
Read do read the amazing story, here:
http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/10/22/hundreds-indian-girls-named-unwanted-choose-new-names/
I think you done good, de. -Mosk (who also named himself)
A terrific thing to write about. When I was born, my father’s family told my mother to drown me because I was a girl. She explained very carefully that in America people LIKE girls. Sheesh.
Thank you so much, both of you. It’s such an amazing story.
Wow, Ina. I’m so thankful you were born in America.
Mosk, I kinda named myself, too.
It’s a really remarkable poem on a great subject. I hope lots more eyes get to see it (and yes, almost every day, I find another reason to be grateful that my parents got over here as fast as they could)
This poem set me thinking in the most wonderful way. Thanks, de.
de,
I’m constantly in awe of you.
pw
True Love
I once thought love
was endless bliss
consecrated by marriage
and sealed with a kiss.
Now thirty-two years
have flown by
and I’m still married
to the same old guy.
And I finally think
I begin to see
just what true love
really means to me.
It’s him rising early
when there’s thick, dense fog
to feed the cats
and walk the dog.
–Cara Holman
oh, that’s really sweet, and really true.
Sweet !
Like it!
So agree–Nov.24 will be our 28th anniversary & still finding the magic of the those everyday moments!
Love is always captured best in the small gestures. Wonderful poem.
Thank you Ina, Amica, Patricia and Shannon.
And happy anniversary in advance to you, Patricia. An anniversary on Thanksgiving Day– how cool!
Went to Ardenwood this weekend to see the migrating monarchs;it’s really lovely that sometimes a life changing experience can be a good one.
Where you find love
bells of brown flowers at branch end
become suddenly – butterflies.
a flash of orange, as ruffled
by the wind they fly, sussuring,
never landing on your outspread
arms, but close enough that you feel
tiny breezes on your shoulder
like the gentle fingers of God.
An altogether lovely poem! I especially love the final lines, which sound like something Hannah would write. Beautiful!
Thank you so much, Marie, that IS a compliment !
I wish I’d have been there with you! This is just mesmerizing! The whole poem leads up to such a beautiful metaphor! Thank you both, Marie and Ina for your compliments as well!
OK. Half the month is through and after moving and being sick, I’m back on the wagon in earnest. Here’s today’s love poem.
TREASURED
We laugh like
kindergartners exploring the
playground as pirates,
seeing the world
more clearly with
eye patches in
place than with
the grown-up glasses
that we wear
Wow.. being in love does bring out the child in us than the maturity..
Thanks, Leo.
I once heard someone say that love isn’t two incomplete people trying to make each other whole, but two whole people who like playing together.
This made me smile!
So true.
Yes! Thanks Robert.
It’s two for Tuesday. I’ll be back later for my double prompt Burger!
Running Through Frost
I took the dogs along the canal that day in December
when the grass along the banks was rimed with frost
like spikes of white steel, and the stones I threw
broke through ice and made a sound like tempered glass
shattering against the still, quiet air of the winter morning.
I could see the dog’s breath steam against the cold.
They didn’t care that you were dead,
didn’t understand that there’s be no coarse hand
to reach down and touch their fur
in the kitchen glow of a midnight aga.
Fir now, right now, they loved the path
of frozen mus, the tracks of dog and fox and duck
preserved until the weather turned,
The piles of leaves where hedgehogs hibernated through the cold
and the sharp, schoolroom smell of pencil cedars
by the by.
And when we return, they don’t realise
it was they last walk I’ll ever take them
and they look for you but you are gone
and my sister stands by the aga
crying.
Hypnotic.
Following the Butterfly
My longest day was not the day it was supposed to be.
That longest day went not the way it was supposed to go.
This longest day was supposed to be a story to tell
and it was, but not the story I thought it would be.
Everything was planned down to the last detail. Hours of
attention and action, so unlike my normal manner and method.
The date, the place, the clothes. A pocketful of promises carefully chosen
The flowers. The greeting at the door. The kiss. The drive.
But, you flittered away like the butterfly you love.
Knowing something was truly up and steamrolling your way.
Right there in the gas station parking lot, you dug in your little butterfly heels
and demanded answers when what I had was a question
So instead of an elegant dinner in a romantic dining spot
with soft music and ‘our’ champagne and the broad smiles
and envious glances I would get from other men.
As I got down on one knee.
Instead you stopped the steamroller you’d set in motion.
There in the parking lot. With the light of my plan shining
from across the street, I had to pull out the ring and tell you
what you already knew, and ask what you expected.
It could have gone the way I planned; my ‘I love You’.
My proposal would have been a tale to tell our grandchildren
but it went the way it was supposed to go. Including your ‘Yes’.
And so kids, I’ve been following my stubborn butterfly ever since.
Butterflies seem somehow to be like embodied love, and to love someone who dances around – life is never boring
NIGHT VISITOR
She comes in dream without
my bidding. Dark-eyed
with dainty paws, masked as if
she’d stuck her muzzle
into ebony paint.
I held her puppy-form
in my hand, placed stethoscope
to her tiny chest, till her
heartbeat rocketed beyond
my counting. Nothing could
contain her. She tested
us every day. Reincarnation of
all the dogs who came
running to our call; wag-
pirouettes; the ones we tried
to hold, until
we lowered their old-dog
bodies into soil.
What is this dream,
if not love?
choking up at this, Taylor. Really moved by all of it, esp. the last few lines. And I adore “wag- / pirouettes”
Heaviness.
So moving!
What, indeed. A beautiful poem and wonderful tribute to the animals that teach us love.
(Day 15 of Poem a Day for November)
Love Poem
I was going to write you a love poem,
But I thought better of it,
And spent the time writing about –
The difference between dawn and day.
I was considering writing you a love poem,
But I wanted to paint a new color,
That was not blue or green,
But had the inference of violet.
I was going to write you a love poem,
But my friend, Maria, came by for a coffee
And we left before I had time to develop,
Any sense of what that feeling might entail.
This seems like a love and anti-love poem all in one. Well written.
Beautifully written. Mesmerizing.
How We Love Our Fathers
We love our fathers
In a silent way, in the way
We love light switches,
Cars that don’t need maintenance,
And working freezers.
We love them so much
Ties boxed with a matching
Polyester shirt are purchased
In celebration of their
Being around the house
And in turn fathers love
Us silently by replacing
Broken switches, changing
Every kind of fluid (not to
Mention windshield wipers)
And wearing that tie and shirt.
-Cory Funk
Awww!!! <3
Love Poem 2
Because I am who I am -
I have loved you from a distance
As much as if we were together
Today.
Like fish in a great water,
Traveling together and through
The blue, starry cosmos of time,
I see who you are and know,
You are physically, far away -
But for me, you are here.
In memory-less spirit and heart
Having affected me,
Forever.
Very nice. I like it! (and not just because I reference butterflies in my entry today)
This was supposed to be a comment for Ina’s poem, but the ‘You are posting comments too quickly’ bug bounced it around somehow.
Thank you! I guess it was somehow a butterfly day, despite the winter!
LOVE this prompt so much, Robert ! Had to come back sooner.
Title Is The Line—Ending.
Love
Overcomes
Vast
Enemies.
Love Overtakes Vicious Emptiness.
L O V E outstretched verily, effortfully.
Evil Vilifies…Opposing Life.
Love Energy.
Offers Vital
Victory Offers
Endlessly. Love
Oh love, oh love,
a dove! a sign!-
from God
overpowers all,
the world, the earth,
and all mankind.
Love Outdoes…Outruns…Outshines…Vicarious Life.
That’s looove for you and me!
Love, Outpoured…Victory, Ensured.
A life bereft of love is not,
for love is life.
And thus,
Love’s Occasional Vagaries Emerge, Sometimes.
Love’s antithesis is Evil, the reverse of Live.
Impressive and LOVEly!
Thanks, Marie !
My Heart is Yours
Why do poets
ascribe love
to that muscle,
that one in the
center of our chests?
Is it because my love
is like the very blood
that pours and
channels
through my veins
and arteries
sustaining
and reviving
me
every minute,
every day?
Is it because
that feeling of
overwhelming
joy, that feeling
that the one person
in the universe for you
is near
centers there,
in the middle
of the chest?
Is it because every
beat
beats
for
you?
###
Love’s Antithesis
A winter wind blows inside
It’s not hate at all
It feels more like apathy.
Diana Terrill Clark
Will come back again later to read and comment on other posts
Baby we love you.
You have his eyes,
my nose,
and your own way
of doing everything.
I look at you
and sigh
twice or more each day
in exasperation.
You have his eyes,
my nose,
both hearts invested
one hundred per cent in you;
No pressure there then.
Michele Brenton 15th November 2011
Here’s my anti-love poem
Pieces of hate.
I would tear out my heart
rip it from my body
seal it in a casket
like that bloke from the pirate film.
Maybe I would cast it,
hurl it, into the sea
let it reach the bottom
making no note of where it went.
It might be safer if
I burnt it into ash
let it be blown away
no danger of recombining.
I would tear out my heart
but you beat me to it.
Do you enjoy squeezing
it tight within your fist?
Michele Brenton
Ouch!
I second the expression, “Ouch!”.
hate,the most unkindest cut of all, Shakespeare says…Rod Stewart’s song, the first cut is the deepest, doesn’t say it as well as you.
Certainly fits Anti with a bang!
Sure, no pressure left to use, since all 100% of it, and then some, has been clearly expressed.
Thanks for the comments – much appreciated. XXX to all.
Raven Hair
The raven drops its head, looks sideways at something
where the grass used to be yesterday.
I see the feathers of its neck fluff darkly against the snow
falling so soft and quiet in the morning half-light.
I think of your soft white neck against the dark fall
of the hair you had when we were young.
My lips touch there, feeling the warmth, the pulse of you
and I am winged like the raven, and free to fly again.
Lovely.
Believe
When tomorrow passes and
We long for each other more
Than today –
We shall smile at our yesterdays
And believe in love.
But, should we be denied tomorrow,
Let us sit hand in hand and
Enjoy today –
Smile at me as we forget yesterday
And believe in love.
So very beautiful. Thank you for the reminder.
Had to read the first stanza twice, having that nice circular flow, reminding me of the time turner scene in The Prisoner of Azkaban, which neatly reverts to the perfect seam of the moment now, or today.
For L
(a loose queron)
Bring our marriage to The Antique Road Show
and they’ll set it on a felt-topped folding table
restraining their enthusiasm about its monogram
and filigree and pedigree and, at last, its je ne sais,
finding it worthy of the best-in-show showcase
even though we’re in bed watching TV, Tuesday,
adrift in blankets and the broad seas of regular
passing between office and kindergarten days,
the studio and the grocery store, landing weary
with few words and a slight furrow in the brow.
But how else to celebrate what we have except here
in the flats and calms equally as in the blusters
and breakers? By now we know it will reappear
in the attic where we left it, the prize a little dusty,
but still the prize we seized on before the gray.
It always here, inert or used, ignored or discussed,
ever precious, ever deepening its complex luster.
“Bring our marriage to The Antique Road Show
and they’ll set it on a felt-topped folding table
restraining their enthusiasm about its monogram
and filigree and pedigree and, at last, its je ne sais,
finding it worthy of the best-in-show showcase”
Holy cow, Daniel. You never cease to amaze.
Treasures abound on The Antique Road Show!:)
I agree. Funny and fabulous.
Beautiful.
ARROW THROUGH ME
Something has changed, a feeling.
It has set my heart reeling
What is this feeling.
My steps no longer trudge or shuffle,
my voice is never muffled,
my feathers have been ruffled.
I have a certain bounce here,
the reasons are becoming clear,
an elation born of abject cheer.
Influenza, you may ask?
Inebriation from a flask?
There is a glow inwhich I bask.
Is it contagious this malady?
Does it sing, this melody?
It from my lady?
It might be as I can see,
from the projectile’s true trajectory,
this thing might be the death of me.
Oh, intelligent cherubic sort,
St. Valentine’s quite short cohort.
I’m not here just for your sport.
A lightning flash sent from above,
a gentle nudge, a ardored shove
a crazy little thing called love.
So, Cupid shoot your arrow, DO ME!
Shoot it straight and true to me.
Pierce me with an arrow through me!
How fun is that!! Great use of rhyme, Walt. Some poems just wouldn’t be nearly as fun without it, and this is one. EXCELLENT!
…influenza!? *giggling* The FLU never made me feel the way your words have described. But if it did, I think I’d have passed on the FLU SHOT. (Or is that what Cupid is shooting your way!?)
A very fun poem, Walt.
Twenty-five cents
Hello? It’s me – listen, I’ve only got
a quarter, and there’s not much time before
we get cut off. There’s just so much to say.
I love the way the sun illuminates
your skin stretched out next to me on Sunday
mornings, how I can sit and watch you dream.
I love the smell of your hair, your pert lips,
the way your eyes blaze when you are angry.
I love the feeling in my stomach when
I watch you walk into a crowded room
and think: I get to take her home tonight!
I’m really okay with the new sofa
and I was kidding about your giving
that donation to the World Wildlife Fund.
I’m still not sure what happened with your keys,
there’s a funny smell outside the back door,
we still owe the baby sitter five bucks,
I hate the way we argue just before…
Love it. Love it. LOVE it!! SO down to earth, and true to love!
This really made me smile – imaginative and vivid. Nice.
In a time of texting, this gives a whole different perspective! Great work!
sweet, kind, funny, I love it.
In the Wake of Diagnosis
I feel your hand against my back,
a river of devotion flowing over me,
recognition of our vows exalted
at the palm of your hand.
You work like men do to steady me;
the ground, shaking beneath your feet,
gives in to you offering you no footing,
nothing to cling to. You assure me
there is a place, where hope spreads
generously on long stems. It is grounded
in faith and a sense of knowing
you try desperately to pass into me.
You offer me the last of yourself,
that which has held you from collapsing.
A black hole opens, offering you solace
but you stay instead. Your hand to my back.
A constant reminder of my strength.
Is there a love greater than this?
This is amazing.
Not Love
What was it, then, in my closet,
talking to him with my back against
the white wire shelves that held
my T-shirts? After school, a bit of
flirting, “I’ll call you tonight”;
and then he did, and I was always
so surprised. What was it when
I kept my voice low, not wanting
my parents to know that
something new was happening?
Over the phone, in the hush
of stale air, I could forget
his awkward stance, his
patches of facial hair, new
and random, like velvet
on a yearling’s antler.
An Emotional Beach Ball
Her search for love
was a scavenger hunt.
A list of emotional deficits
that begged to be filled.
She was one tear away
from a dry well with a bucket
swinging from an unraveled rope.
A metronome pinned to her heart,
beating out of habit rather
than necessity. And come weekends,
she was a vibrant beach ball,
completely hollow, and bouncing
aimlessly from one encounter
to another. She hated herself
and the choices she felt compelled
to make. They were as empty
as she felt. How could she love
someone when she couldn’t
recognise it in herself.
And here’s my love poem that I wrote for Poetic Bloomings this morning.
http://miskmask.wordpress.com/2011/11/14/a-steady-road/
Anti….
Why?
My little girl wanted us to read
The Little Matchstick Girl
From her book of children’s tales.
I could tell from watching her face,
As the story began to unfold,
That they were coming – questions.
“Daddy, why doesn’t she have a coat?”
“Why isn’t she home after dark?”
“Why, Daddy, would her Daddy beat her
just for not selling matches?”
“Why isn’t anyone helping her?”
“Why did she die, Daddy?
Didn’t anyone lover her?”
I held her close,
And gave her the only answer I had.
“I don’t know, baby.
I just don’t know….”
Fathers and daughters, so special.
Anti-Love Poem for You
Aint it ashamed you said goodbye
Run off yesterday with some other guy
Left me holding the bag, as they say
I aint too surprised it turned out this way
You lied; you said you were at work
But really you were out with that jerk
Yep, it’s as clear as the nose on my face
Everything is over between us, I’m disgraced
But I’ll be alright, I still got my dog
Got my laptop and got my new blog
Everything I need is here with me
So, I’ll write an anti-love poem, you’ll see
’nuff said.
Pingback: Love / Anti-Love (NaNoWriMo – Day 15) « echoes from the silence
Love Poem (a tanka)
In tunnel vision
your love paves a golden path,
pellucid prism
formed of exquisite amber,
unmarred by nonbelievers.
—————————————
Anti-Love Poem
A love that lingers
for too long
smothers flames
of smoldering passion, lit
by that first struck match.
No Greater Love
The Son said, like I’m loved by God,
love each one, though it may be hard.
In selfless love don’t be remiss,
there is no greater love than this.
Great love commits until the end.
Great love lays life down for his friend.
Great love forgives a traitor’s kiss.
There is no greater love than this.
Executed for humankind,
search time and place and you will find
there is no greater love than this.
There is no greater love than this.
The Opposite of Love
The encroaching grey apathy
Creeps into the corners of our lives,
Writhing tentacles
Devouring light and memory,
Leaving two solitary heart
Trapped in an endless void
“Encroaching grey apathy”, too, is our enemy.
Faith, Hope, and Love, I know…
but what if evil acts are sown?
(my anti-love)
I cannot lie and truth be told
that when I err and don’t abide
in love I hope for Grace instead,
that she covers me the same.
since she’s bound to life.
But what of human predators?—
of traffickers and murderers?
Does Grace also reach out to them,
while bleeding hearts cry out?
I don’t believe so.
I cannot lie and truth be told that I,
too, err and don’t abide in love sometimes.
But what of those evil acts, those vil-e crimes
that spill the blood of silent cries?
I don’t think Grace should extend her arms to them.
God’s Love Will Be There
No matter where I go,
No matter what I do,
No matter what may ensue,
God’s love will be there.
If the demons come out
Or the angels fly by
It makes no difference,
God’s love will be there.
Whether I live or die,
Now or in the future,
One fact will remain,
God’s love will be there.
If I’m at the mountaintop
Or the bottom of the sea
Wherever I may be
God’s love will be there.
I cannot escape it.
But why would I want?
I’m glad for the fact that
God’s love will be there.
Wrote this a few days ago, but still must post it.
Hope it’s alright, else I’d find out either way.
Faith, Hope, and Love…and hope is all I have.
I used to think that I could hear
you talk to me—such godly voice so dear
But years have passed that shut my ears,
as things evoked relentless fears,
moistened by undying tears.
Why couldn’t fleeting joys be lasting cheers?
Why couldn’t loved ones far be ever near?
Is it too much to ask for endless cheer?
Is it too much to ask if you are here?
Or are you just way too high up there to hear?
I’ve gotten used to this, I know.
Don’t know what kind of seeds I sow,
when faith has failed, it wouldn’t grow.
Now my hope is all I have, you know.
That love would pull me through, I hope.
This is my attempt at anti-love or frayed love, more likely, in blank verse.
When the Party’s Over
I see you’ve got your love coat on again,
the camel hair one, soft as puppy ears,
snuggly and snug, that fits you like a warm
well-tailored glove, that women long to pet,
can’t help themselves, really, for it’s so soft.
I see you groom yourself for near an hour,
smoothing your neck and fluffing thinning hair,
practicing smiles and eyes, your wolfish grin,
imagining the room you may be in
crowded with lovelies, alas, far too few men.
The hosts can count on you to bridge the gap
charming the ladies as only you can do,
admiring their young minds and cleavages,
tucking names away for future use.
Your tie is tasteful and the after-shave
Adds just that hint of hither-come you need.
You need not drive, good grief, I’ll drop you there,
so you can drink and stay long as you like.
This ritual would have hurt me when I cared,
but now I don’t, have fun, don’t call tonight.
LOVED this, Jane!
Thanks, Nikki.
Great one, Jane.
Amidst autumn glory, my daughter’s wedding so green, took place in the garden of a small inn in a village on the shore of Lake Huron. She & her beau so wanted to be in sync with nature & the environment.
SEPTEMBER WEDDING
Young and full of promise
they stood there in the garden,
in the shade of centuries old black walnut trees.
Surrounded by
family and friends and
a host of green leafed flowers of red and gold,
they took each other’s hands.
Looking into each other’s eyes
they exchanged their vows.
These words, said the minister,
each had written on their own;
uncannily, they both expressed
a commonality of hope and commitment
for a life together that surprised the minister.
Kismet?
Seemed to me this was love.
[In the fall dark]
In the fall dark, the distant
bark of a lone dog goes
WOLPWOLPWOLP, the way
my heart did when it
saw you first, because
it thought you were
something else, something
new, the coast of a fresh
continent, an undiscovered
element named thrillium
or amazeium, and that
dumb pump smacked its
red head into my chest
the way the smitten ram
smashes the challenger
full on his curly noggin,
seeing the goat version of
stars, and I saw the flash
that illuminates, ignites
the flesh, the flush of
blood we confuse with
revelation, and that mutt
in the dark knows more
than I about how love
gets made or done, but
maybe if I howl here
in my cold corner chair
you’ll hear the truth:
I wait by the door
because without you
there’s nowhere to go.
Haiku time again.
Cramped
It’s hard to fit love
into such tiny spaces
as poems and hearts.
Beautiful. It’s always amazing to me, though, how a heart can expand to receive more love
Enjoyed this
Love is a flexible organ. A great haiku, Nikolas.
Perfect!
graveyard shift
been cramping for weeks
knot in my stomach won’t go away
anxiety in my chest as i crawl into a ball
begging the angel of mercy for some sleep
shrieking pipes, squeaking floors, neighbors banging doors
imaginary intruders = unwelcome suitors
spooning a ritual since we first said our vows
hate Mondays and Tuesdays now
I Gotta Love Me
I love you, I really do, but I gotta love me first.
Sometimes love is tough and sometimes it hurts.
That’s why I need reserves and I gotta love me first.
It may sound selfish but I’ll tell you something true.
If I quit loving me, how can I love you?
Love is not always wine and roses sometimes it’s a test,
But I gotta love me before there’s any for the rest.
“Drops of Liking”
Drops of liking
Spatter the roof,
Oozing their way
Through every
Crack to the room
Littered with chipped
China teacups, frying
Pans, and flower pots
Scattered on nightstands,
Mantels, and worn
Turkish rugs, desperate to
Gather the bits of
Affection that might
Someday add up to love.
Love this!!!! I love your style of writing!
Thanks Jacqueline! I feel like I’m just “finding” my voice so that really means a lot to me!
Nikki, I love this!
Thanks Shannon! This is my least favorite prompt ever! It’s sooooo hard for me and yet it’s there every challenge to haunt me lol
Not happy with it, but it’s getting late, and it’ll have to do: :-]
“Love of his Life”
She was the love of his life,
(bore him two fine daughters
on which they both doted), then,
died, far too soon. Her passing,
(no easy task), convinced him
he’d seen enough of pain; no longer
looking for love (so to speak), he seeks
companionship in a pretty package.
But, I can’t help but wonder:
what young woman would be satisfied
serving as merely a stopgap, between
the love of his life and the end of it?
Beach Walk
We walk the shoreline at dusk
as the sky catches fire
barefoot, carrying sandals
we walk the shoreline at dusk
our feet washed in gentle surf
barefoot, carrying sandals
our footprints fade behind us
our feet washed in gentle surf
we talk about our future
our footprints fade behind us
we barely touch the tide’s edge
we talk about our future
our plans entwine with our hands
we barely touch the tide’s edge
as the sky catches fire
our plans entwine with our hands
[This is a form I created this month which I'm calling the "pan-ku". I was inspired by a poet friend, Anna Evans, who recently created the "haikoum", a cross between the haiku and pantoum, with haiku structure and pantoum-like repetition. My form is a little less intricate and sparer, I think: 1. Couplets of seven syllables each (like the "long" line of a haiku), 2. No particular line limit (though shorter - say, 14 lines or less - seems more effective), 3. a repeated line scheme of A-B, C-A, D-C, E-D, F-E....Y-X, B-Y (line B is always the next to last line). 4. A nature theme is preferred, but unlike haiku, similes and metaphors are okay. My poem from Day 4, "Bat", is in this form.]
The Way to Her Heart
Because my day has gotten away
from me, and poetry has not been
written, and even though he only
just got home from work himself,
and put the chickens all to bed,
and helped me from my car with all
my bags, and fed the dog and cats,
still listening to my list of still-to-dos,
while he pulled out cutting board and knife,
then let me settle in at desk
with keyboard clacking, lacking
brilliant inspiration, now, I sniff,
fresh red sauce, full of garlic and basil,
heart full, the smell of love.
Hey Kit,
Wonderful poetry! I have been enjoying your contribution here keep it up!
Yes, he understands the way to a girl’s heart all right, especially if he does the dishes later;-). Great poem.
Nice!
What you saved for me
I’m glad you let me go
when you let me go
and went your separate way
without a word.
I’m glad we did not argue,
that we still thought fondly.
I’m glad that you returned
and knew that I had changed.
I’m glad you kept my sock
for all of those years.
Pingback: love & eggs « lost in translation
METAPHOR
We had the place to ourselves, four of us
at the long wooden table in back.
You were reading a poem about war, farm-boys
going to battle for a crown – drumbeats,
tattoo of boots keeping time with the formal
meter, drip of rain down collars, rumor
of cannon-fire in the distance.
A couple of guys in sweats came in,
sat down across from us, scraping chairs
on linoleum, settling heavily; talking
loud. Your poem got lost in “snap shots
on the ice” and “penalties.” We
strained to hear the verse; you raised your
voice a little louder. “I hate
poetry,” from across the aisle. “Now
let me tell you,” to his buddy
and the world “about that moonshot” –
lovely metaphor for something involving,
I guess, a puck.
Taylor, this is wonderful, especially the ending.
VOWED LOVE
As I look and peer
into your eyes
noticing your poor
disheveled countenance
discerning the index of your eyes
as I often do
doubts arise
in genuine concern
for your beloved grandfather
who is alive but can
no longer walk and whose
health is now uncertain
sobs break forth
tears stream
in rapid succession
down each cheek
striking a painful cord
deep in my heart
bringing to remembrance that day
that sweet wedding day
I uttered those words
to cherish you always
and wipe away
each
tear…
The Dance
we tap willing thoughts
wrought with smooth breezy chasses
swaying like tango
together melding
and compelling each other
to rise or to fall
like the waltz flowers
it is our time to bloom
making room for love
Love Is Patient?
This
is
a bit
ironic:
during my wedding
to my beautiful bride
the Bible verse was read about love being patient,
but all I could think about was
stripping off her gown
so we could
express
our
love.
YYYYYYEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Way to go Rob! You get a high five for that one pal!
I love irony.
And I really loved this poem!
What a lucky bride.
Ain’t no love here for ya’
Listen.
We have to talk.
This is going to be tough for you, I know.
Well…There’s no sense of walking on egg shells.
Let’s just get the cat out of the bag.
The truth is I don’t love you.
I never did and never will.
So you can take that straight to the bank.
Good. I’m glad we got that worked out…
Soap Operas
Church’s Chicken
Chicken livers
Clam Chowder
LOVE OF JOY
To be on earth,
Invites in mirth!
Brilliance of chance,
Sing and delightfully dance,
Float among the best of clouds,
Dazzle one’s humor in many crowds!
Join a hummingbird in mid-flight!
Relishing any fresh insight!
Accompanying dolphins on their swim,
Spontaneously hugging one’s father,
Watching him grin!
Cradle a baby in one’s arm,
Discover a newly built organic farm,
Hold each moment precious and dear,
Erasing any age old fear,
Being oh, so grateful to be alive,
Making up your own song while you drive,
Laughing as you spill ice cream on your shirt!
Cherishing the moments you did in the dirt!
Embracing storms, honoring nature’s cry,
Respecting the truth, cancel each lie!
Open your eyes to compassion,
Especially for the people life can pass on!
Be grateful for every breath,
Offer understanding after a death!
Feel or say thank you for all you have!
Let it heal you like the best salve!
Hold each moment as a heartfelt yes,
You will fully know joy then . . .
That’s my best guess!
LOVE OF MONEY
Will sink you fast,
Best advice . . . let it go past!
Trust what you have is good,
Be grateful for that, I would!
Money can come and quickly go!
Love is the constant, good to know!
Money doesn’t truly define us,
It is Love that can refine us!
Playing to money,
Is never funny!
Frankly it doesn’t carry any tune!
Truly it can disappear too soon!
Love of money can take us under,
In fact it can pull a family asunder!
Loving money is really sticky,
It can off color beauty, making it icky!
We can get lost attempting to hoard it,
Like a doomed plane if we tried to board it!
It can take us spiraling out of control,
Like a fast paced snowball on a speedy roll!
Only through gratitude,
Can you have the right attitude!
Yes, open to correctly receive,
For certain stay positive and believe,
But hold tight to the fear and deceive . . .
Or cling to the love for money,
Not a good idea, Honey,
If it should leave,
You’ll be at the bottom . . .
And endlessly grieve!
JRC–Your name alone says it all–a poetic play on words “Janice Rice Carnahan” even sounds poetic to the ear. Your two latest “takes” Sentimental journey and sound advise from a true poetic philosopher–YOURS truly Sir Richard “Obi-Wan” Poet ATWATER
Rhymes Never Lie
When I say I love you,
When I tell you that I love you,
you really should believe me,
every single time.
When I say I love you,
When I tell you that I love you,
you really must believe me,
because lies never rhyme.
And if you say the same thing,
You’d better make the words sing,
you’d better have a gold ring,
you’d better make me sigh.
Because if you say the same thing,
but your words are just a bad swing,
I’ll know it’s not the real thing
because rhymes never lie.
Pingback: Poem: Love Is Patient? « Wanna Get Published, Write!
“Ironic”: The Opposite Of Ironic?
L is for the many ways they compLicate your day
O is for Alright, dOn’t have a cOw!
V is for aggression, passiVe and the other way
E is what you wantEd. Happy now?
Put them all together, there they’ll sit.
(I’m not your maid!)
Teenagers: Like feral cats, except they can’t be spayed.
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Haha! Love it!
Written yesterday for the “love” prompt at Poetic Bloomings…thought I’d share it here, too:
COMPLEX LESSONS
I studied her,
motionless,
from the safety
of the stairs – at just
the right point
where I could watch
but not be seen –
my gaze
hidden by the banister…
I learned about life.
From my perch
I could see her
busy herself,
cleaning the home
of her family –
lovingly, yet rapidly
she worked
to complete her tasks…
Other times I witnessed
her inner strength
amidst crises of all sizes –
misplaced papers,
or times when lives hung
in the balance –
her words comforted
loved ones; her prayers,
eloquent; perfect…
My lessons about birds
and bees
came through
the banister rails as well,
I caught glimpses
of a painted coral fingertip
curling seductively,
the swivel of hips,
a wordless call
to her lover…
Some people say
I developed a complex –
however,
I believe I learned
the best lessons in life;
I fell in love with my mother
which helped me find
my soulmate, my wife.
great “take” PM I wasn’t sure if you were a man or a woman when i commented on REPLY to you Nov 14–now I know–a true gentleman RMA
Ah, Richard….thank you for that fine compliment! Not on being a true gentleman, but being able to write words that portray me as such…for I am all woman.
P(aula)MWanken
PASSING GLANCES*
You were waiting for the bus, and I stood beside
my car in the parking lot. I don’t know what it was
about you. It was something special. The calm disposition,
maybe. Of all the people standing at the stop, your body language
spoke to me. Yeah
I was in sales for a long time. I notice things
about people. I miss the challenge. It was as if
I wanted to run up and
offer you a ride, but I didn’t.
It might seem as if I was stalking. That’s against the law
so I let it go. Then the next day . . .
there you were walking past me towards the end of the room,
It was you. I wanted to get up and stop you, offer directions, yet
it might confuse you, me stopping you
in your tracks.on your way to wherever
perhaps
I would catch you on a coffee break. Right
everybody goes into the kitchenette midway through the hall. We scatter
the breaks. It’s possible to be alone with you. It’s possible, then
to strike up a conversation. Good, I’ll do that . . . if it’s possible.
Yes, I get on top of that right away, I smile at the manager. I could ask
him if there are additions to the staff. If anybody knows, it’s
one way to do it. God only knows
how I can get to talk to you . . . Take hold of yourself. There are other things
in life. There must be a way
to teach the eyes to hold back a passing observation
and leave it be. I can’t keep thinking of anything
but you
I’ll wait until it’s time for the lunch break. I’ll say,
I noticed you at the bus stop yesterday. I was impressed
by the way you stood at the bus stop. Okay, it’s stupid,
but it’s me. If it gets us talking, so be it,
I’ll try,
I must requite my love
the sooner the better, if not now, when. Then,
there, standing behind you at lunch, I saw you at the bus stop,
I say. I saw you
waiting for me at your car
in the parking lot, she said, What kept you.
I can’t say, about yesterday, but
if you don’t mind, this is one on me, for you. Why not,
of course, she smiles. So it’s a date, I nod my head.
So it is, we hold hands.
Zev Davis
Pingback: November PAD Challenge 15 | Set it alight « You have my word.
Up the Anti and Pass the Chips
Rich Atwater Nov 15, 2011 prompt second for a Tuesday but written a day late on a Wednesday
I never was a gambler, so I never collected “chips”,
Except at home movie time along with the popcorn,
In Las Vegas they say “up the anti” with coin flips,
To seek the “bootie” prize that only evades, forlorn!
I know there is anti-matter in physics, and relations
Include an Uncle and an “Auntie” to nephews and nieces,
But I wonder if there truly is such conflagulations
As anti-love; me thinks it isn’t sound, and falls to pieces.
sara McNulty and PMWanken–please check reply comments for 14 Nov in response to your nice words RMA
CATCHING SNOWFLAKES
Chasing like children
running from here to there,
tongue extended. The first
snow of the season,who needs
a reason for such fun.
And so we run, chasing
large, fluffy flakes to alight
melting for a taste. Coming
together I slip pulling you
to the ground, mouths meeting
an impromptu kiss. Bliss
on a late November day.
Rolling in the snow passions
loose control, the kiss lingers.
Erotic snow angels on the ground.
he looks at me
and softly whispers
words of love
through the prison bars
turning my world upside down
Motherhood
is a thankless task
full of hard work, sacrifice,
but wonderful too,
bringing new life to the world
and showering it with love
My Valentine
He hasn’t shown up.
I sit here, waiting for my steak and chips
all alone, surrounded by lovers.
The young ones are mostly
too wrapped up in each other
to notice the sad singleton
in the corner.
Though one girl keeps glancing over,
sniggering and whispering with her beau.
An older woman at the next table
also looks over from time to time,
but her eyes are kind, warm,
her smile one of sympathy.
I resent one as much as the other.
My cheeks hot, I keep my eyes
downcast, and my body sinks
further into my seat, hoping
the floor will open up
and remove me from sight.
I should just leave but, dammit,
if there’s to be no sex tonight
at least let me feed one hunger.
At last, here comes
my steak and chips.
Love So Blind
They were both far, far too young
When they ran away together
Neglecting the advice of friends
That told them to slow down
Neglecting the warnings of family
That they just weren’t ready
They knew better
They were in love
And love would see them through
They had very little money
They had no jobs
They had no plan
They had no place to live
All they had was a car
And a couple of suitcases
Mostly empty
But they had each other
They had love
And love would see them through
Determined to make things work out
They headed for the big city
Tank ran dry near a homeless shelter
So they swallowed their pride
And walked inside
But because of the rules
And the missing wedding bands
They had to bunk separately
It would be temporary
They both found jobs
Minimum wage
They both worked hard
But the stress increased
They wanted to be together
They wanted to be wed
Separation was cruel
But they followed the rules
Then one cold winter day
A visitor was waiting
When they returned from work
A stranger to both of them
With an offer they couldn’t refuse
An offer of better times
And a chance for a better life
Together
All they had to do was ask
All they had to do was want
And all they had to do was return
Home
They talked it over
They realized their selfishness
They realized their plight
They cried with joy
And they returned home
Welcomed with love
Forgiveness and understanding
They vowed to their parents
That they would do things right
Then they vowed to each other
The same
A Love Story
When I found your father
His eyes were still open
His head was turned
And his lips were slightly parted
As though he still
had something
He needed me to tell you
That autumn evening
At the night market
Every time she moved
She left a lonely space
That gentle breezes couldn’t fill
And he followed close behind
To see her face look toward
The vendor’s open fires
And then lost his way
returning home that night
And for days had to look
And look again to remember
The village streets and alleys
And for thirty years to follow
There was never a moonlight
Cool enough to quiet
The embers of his heart
apples and nettles
for twenty years there has been love/no love
we dance our hearts out anyway
bringing gifts of apples and nettles and silence
dropping them in the unconditional well
we dance our hearts out anyway
bringing gifts of apples and nettles and silence
for twenty years there has been love/no love
dropping them in the unconditional wail
bringing gifts of apples and nettles and silence
we dance our hearts out anyway
for twenty years there has been love/no love
dropping them in the unconditional way
dropping them in the unconditional well
for twenty years there has been love/no love
we dance our hearts out anyway
bringing gifts of apples and nettles and silence
Write a love poem.
Love Is a Verb
The feelings of white-hot infatuation
cool quickly.
Lovers are fooled into believing
after the honeymoon wanes
that what they felt only feigned love.
They weren’t willing to toss the petals
into a deepening well
and hear the echoes of the years,
wise with pain, brilliant with laughter,
call back,
“I love you now more than ever.”
I look at the one who snores gently beside me,
knowing every crease in his face
and every silver hair on his head,
and the contentment wells,
pouring peace on a heart not so giddy
but grateful, looking forward to waking
to another day with him.
Paris Stole My Heart But Then There Was Rome …
First glimpse of the Louvre’s idiosyncratic pyramid
Shimmering copper as the sun slid from the sky
Coincided with my first evening in Paris
Confirmed a suspicion long-held at a distance:
I would fall in love with Paris if ever
Given the chance
That love affair has never wavered
Even after spending a sweltering week
Ensconced in a tiny apartment in mid-town
Paris, using all manner of well-worn public transit
Visiting every crowded tourist trap imaginable
Including the left bank of the Seine
Which is lovely but as smelly as advertised
However, last year – Rome came on my radar
Ah – larger than life, the eternal city
Quickly showed multiple reasons for my large
Heart to adopt another favourite
It is hard to imagine a more breath-taking
Place; around every corner another historical
Spectacle or piece of architecture or cathedral
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised
The loves of my life are big cities
After all, my favourite place
In the world is still New York …
No matter what – I don’t expect
That will ever change
Born in Toronto, it’s odd
That I don’t have a particular
Affinity for that city
In Canada I reserve my ardour
For the city I reside in – Edmonton
But, truth be told – cities I love
Are like mistresses – for visiting only
Loving ardently but only short-term
For living? If I had my druthers …
I’d live far out in the country
Even in the woods if possible
Now that I’d love
SOLAR LOVE ECLIPSED (Poetic Bloomings prompt)
Once upon a time
many moons ago
we were in the midst
of the day
basking in the sunshine
soaking up the ray
wrestling in the meadow
making out in the shadow
until our day was eclipsed
into sudden darkness
where I could no longer see your face
appreciate your beauty
and you vanished from reality
like a mist gone from the wind
Sevenling (A Horrible Poem)
“Love is the poetry of our feelings. But there are some horrible poems.” – Antonio Gala
Happy-in-Love is a gazillion viceroy butterflies batting about in your stomach,
it’s drawing two sets of initials in a sketchy blue ink heart on your school loose-leaf binder
and it’s staring out the window all googly-eyed and stuff.
Not-so-Happy-in-Love is a just bad bummer tummy ache,
some leaky blue ink that gets all over your school loose-leaf binder (and everything else, too)
and it’s also the fogging up of the window with all your heavy sighs and stuff.
This is a horrible poem, which means it’s probably love.
###
Love – a Quatern
How did I love you? Let me think.
Your azure eyes ignited mine
until I noticed how often
they lit up other women’s eyes.
After your first affair, I thought,
“How did I love you? Let me think.”
Our daughter has your golden hair;
our son, your shoulders, your blue eyes.
But when a seventeen-year-old
young woman caught your wand’ring eyes
“How did I love you? Let me think,”
I asked myself and changed my mind.
Love and Life
Love lies fallow in every lonely heart,
ready to sprout, take root. He hopes,
looks for the chance to bring sustenance
into his life, have someone to love and be
loved by. She prays she doesn’t miss
out or give up too soon, waits for the spark
when their eyes meet.
I want to tell them relax, it’s all chance,
a big gamble, nothing is ever for sure.
Enjoy today and the love you share,
there’s no guarantees about tomorrow.
channeling frida k
by juanita lewison-snyder
when frida speaks, she needles and pinches me,
throws folk art paint all over my good clothes
then rolls her eyes if i fuss.
“you are indio-latina,” she says, “so pecho affrente!”
she thumbs her nose at my cafe con leche,
but leers over my shoulders whenever i sit down to write
about my own self-portraits of suffering.
my relationships too are stormy and passionate
but my own frog prince is kinder and doesn’t stray.
“lucky coocoo,” she says, pinning up her hair,
“but you don’t have a movie and calendar deal now, verda?”
she has me there.
my house is not blue, which also displeases young frida,
nor does she think there are enough candles lying about.
“oh for gawd sakes,” i protest, “this isn’t a shrine,”
to which she replied, “if tomorrow you die, it might soon be.”
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
“Untitled” (Tanka)
his presence remains
gentle as her body aches
no longer holding
she unfolds before his eyes
with insides that whisper ‘stay’.
***
for when my hands make book
***
of course
young letters
of dear
crow and holy
scare
had to
survive
and the
papering
of my insides
with smoke
that, too,
and these: (a paw print she sponged from tile) (a cup the size
of devil hoof) (wrists of some giant
clay colossus) (who giggled in us poorly)
for love
edit
***
for when my hands make book
***
of course
young letters
of dear
crow and holy
scare
had to
survive
and the
papering
of my insides
with smoke
that, too,
and these: (a paw print she sponged from tile) (a cup the size
of devil hoof) (wrists
of clay colossus) (who giggled in us poorly)
for love
poems 15
Capsized
Well, what would a sailing trip
be if one of us didn’t go overboard?
My “dunk” in the turquoise sea
under a bright sky, left us
both laughing. You can’t be a sailor
if you can’t take a joke. Here’s
to more adventures in paradise.
You, me, the ocean…
it doesn’t get better than this.
Dos Lapas Rojas (Two Scarlet Macaws)
Here we are, looking
at each other still.
Two special birds–a pair
made for each other.
I am always happy to be perched
with you looking out at the world
even when it seems we are
on opposite sides. I love you
now and forever. No matter what
new plan you make,
you are stuck with me.
Picture Perfect Gets Broken Too
He wasn’t all that bad, just a little broken
she thought she could fix him, make him
almost new
Now the picture isn’t pretty
and nothing can fix it
’cause she’s broken too
Who will save them both
who can put it back together
they weren’t so bad,
just a somewhat broken