Editors Blog

2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 24

For today’s prompt, we’re faced with the final Two-for-Tuesday prompt of the month, which means we’re faced with these two options:

  1. Write a love poem.
  2. Write an anti-love poem.

Here’s my attempt:


In the morning, when we’re stumbling
like zombies through taking showers
or making lunches, I sometimes
vent about how tired I’m feeling,

even though we both know why our
young children slept more than us, but
our lack of sleep is always worth
understanding how we’re feeling.


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359 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 24

  1. taylor graham


    There she sits at the computer,
    chin on hands, mouthing words scrolled
    across the monitor – the lines of some
    poet who’s been dead these hundreds of years.
    A love poem? “The grave,” she reads,
    “’s a fine and private place.” What’s to brood
    about love? This fine May morning,
    birds in pairs are twitchering up
    a private spring in the oak boughs. Love!
    Lilac and lavender let loose
    their scent on currents of air, even the rock-
    rose is offering handouts
    of crimson flowers. What’s to ponder
    a long-ago dead line? Turn off
    the screen. What says this morning’s
    world about love?
    Just take a walk outside.

  2. foodpoet

    Love in Waiting

    In the quick sand of today
    I have no time
    To listen to spun lies

    You remain a ghost
    Just out of reach
    In the quicksand of today

    Work family all come before
    The spark of love until
    I have not time

    Promises of waiting
    Bitter taste
    Spun lies

  3. Marian O'Brien Paul

    Only Now that I Am Old

    Long, long years ago when we were young
    we fell in love and as lovers often do we wed
    thinking we would spend our lives together
    certain we’d have no obstacle we could not
    overcome. Even in our early arguments I said
    how angry I was but still was glad I’d married
    you. I did not suspect a day would come when
    I would regret having married you, would not
    understand why you lost your way in alcohol
    and debt until my only recourse was to leave
    you behind, take our children and strike out
    on my own, but that dreadful day did come.

    Only now that you‘ve been dead for years and
    I am old am I able to look back, the angry fire
    turned to ashes now, to see how I also wronged
    you. Only now am I able to realize how frail
    we humans are, how fragile are our lives. Only
    now is my heart wise enough to forgive you
    and to wish I could ask forgiveness from you.

  4. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    For my husband…

    The lid to my pot

    Don’t ask me why. I just knew
    you were the lid to my pot.
    We stuck together, like glue.
    Don’t ask me why. I just knew
    when I first laid eyes on you
    and caught a glimpse of your butt.
    Don’t ask me why. I just knew
    you were the lid to my pot.

    (c) JH 4/29/12

    True Story! ;)

  5. AC Leming

    Startide Rising

    pulls forth from our DNA
    genetic memories of Earth’s full moon,
    the fools come out for love.


    This way station you pass through is what I call home.
    You can’t start the shit you want to here, not without
    repercussions. An irate husband’s laser pressed
    into your gut, finger tight on the trigger. Yeah, we can flirt
    anonymously, one text at a time. Don’t pull me down
    to where I can’t stand any man on this way station
    circling that broken planet and too broke to escape
    the mess you can step onto a ship and leave behind.

  6. Jaywig

    Day 24 – love

    It begins with Sunday lunch
    and the platter of Greek Orthodox
    pastries and chocolate.

    Next evening on the couch
    watching television together.
    Her feet on my thighs.

    More actively, we exercise
    with other older women
    laughing at clumsiness.

    Moments of love, affinity
    and wellbeing: with various
    members of my family.

  7. randalljweiss


    Love is an act
    of memory.
    I remember walking
    through the art-lined halls of the Philbrook
    on our first date, the feel of my oar piercing
    Table Rock Lake as I paddled our canoe to
    the pebbled coast where I knelt for your hand,
    how our eyes met the instant before the minister
    urged our altar kiss, how your lips still feel
    so soft as they envelope mine.


  8. ceeess

    I suppose this is an anti-love poem. Or anti a particular love perhaps.

    Elegy for the Fragments

    Today I mourn for the years
    spent on a love one-sided
    a love all give, and give again
    for eyes closed too long against
    reality everyone else could see.

    I mourn for the fragments
    worn away from the self, worn
    down to chafe and inflammation
    worn to irritation under skin
    worn to grit under the tongue.

    Today I give thanks for sight
    for insight into the other of me
    she who repeats somewhere
    below conscious thought
    the need for letting go.

    Today there is the lightness
    of air, the upward flight of birds
    one feather falling, a freedom
    in the spirit, this window
    this new and opening door.

    Carol A. Stephen
    April 24, 2012

  9. cam45237

    We found a deer stand in the deep woods
    And I considered the hunter’s hunger
    Alert after hours
    Stretched long on six planks
    Nailed to a cross of branches
    Muscles stiff, nerves tight as twists of wire, eyes narrow
    Feather finger tightening
    Tracking the tell-tale dapple of sunlight
    On motion

    I’ve shot a gun
    And felt the burst
    Fill heart and head
    As the marked core of the skeet explodes.
    Fractions in the air
    Deteriorate down
    To the earth from whence they came.

    I know there is a pride and a joy
    In a clean shot well-taken.
    For me , a clay pigeon
    For him the beating heart of a deer

  10. seingraham

    love in the age of old

    you keep telling me
    you are getting old and decrepit
    then jumping my bones
    belying your words
    leaving me breathless
    stealing my heart
    making me wonder
    if this is old
    how is it different
    from young
    i don’t remember
    young being better
    than this
    i really do not

    and …


    she doesn’t know when
    it happened
    she doesn’t know how
    it started
    just one day he no longer
    came home
    feeling the way he did
    when he left

    at least that’s how it
    to her but she knew
    it could not
    have been that fast
    it could not
    have gone cold over
    a day she
    knew in her heart
    she must
    not have been paying

    still she sits at the table
    alone now
    toying with her food
    and her fork
    waiting for him to come
    through the door
    waiting for the sky to
    grow dark

    eventually she knows
    she’ll get up
    but she doesn’t know
    yet what
    she’ll do
    she might go to bed
    and start over
    she might kill herself
    and just stop

  11. Yolee

    Get Behind the Thunder of My Drenched Heart

    It is the hope of things I cannot count,
    (because we have not begun
    the mathematics of it all,)
    that I drive 20 miles to the next town
    in search of the loquats you crave.

    I want additions and subtractions
    to work out their idea of us
    as we pull them in or out
    of nothing or everything.

    As natural things move in their time,
    let us be still in the mysteries of love
    whether we’re under the moon’s
    fingernail or its belly, heavy with light.

    Later, when at last I hand you a paper
    bag, swollen with downy fruit
    I hope you’ll hear the noon chime

    of the old cathedral on Bear Lake
    echo from my day spent looking
    after things you can count on.

  12. Pat Carroll Marcantel


    To love is to open the gate that guards the heart.

    Love is sacred, born in the infinite mind of God,

    loaned to us that our time on earth might be borne.

    We are told that He is love itself, do we believe?

    This puts us at a crossroads, a watershed in the

    continuum of time itself. Not a linguist nor an angel,

    perhaps a noisy gong or clanging cymbal to some,

    my feelings now ride the waves of Tarsus wisdom:

    “Love is patient, kind, not jealous or boastful or proud. . .

    Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful,

    and endures through every circumstance.” By this alone

    I cringed and searched for a shell in which to hide. Waves

    of remorse washed over feelings, exposing empty pockets

    of my soul where I so miserably failed in love. I had guarded

    my heart like a Roman centurion, lashing out, indiscriminate

    in his effort to please Nero. When I met Love Itself, my last

    defenses crumbled: sand castles of ego washed away

    at high tide. I too met Him on the shore.

  13. Tanjamaltija

    Fresh Out Of Love

    You’ll know when it happens
    The vapid shell of loneliness
    The ache of reminiscence
    The screaming of the silence
    The echoes of the dreams
    And the stains of meandering tears
    Running down my face
    Looking back from the mirror;
    How can it remain
    So void of emotion and
    And empty of empathy?
    Routine, decorum, propriety
    Constancy and necessity
    Don’t count any more.

    Once I believed love was forever
    Building sandcastles in the air
    Now crumbed to dust. Again.

    The shards of shattered dreams
    Pierce my soul for a second time.
    Rainbow dreams dissolve into a murky mess
    Candles of new hope melt into congealed mounds of naught.
    Flames of passion stabbed to death with icicles of apathy
    And yesterday’s looks of love are today’s empty gazes.
    Hands once so warm no longer cherish
    And snatched moments of love, no longer sought.

    Far away in the recesses of my mind
    Struggling to survive, and thrive,
    The niggling fear.
    Of turning that corner
    And starting anew.

  14. tunesmiff

    Twenty years later
    on a bench beneath
    a blooming dogwood
    and an empty sky
    full of birdsong and
    aching blueness, he
    sees her as she was
    when he last saw her
    and as she is now,
    and nothing has changed;
    her beauty still puts
    the muses to shame,
    leaving him speechless,
    his heart aching like
    the infinite blue.
    He knows he has no
    right, and yet he hopes.

  15. Rosangela

    When in Love…

    What can be said
    about love
    is sort of
    never enough
    to explain
    the train
    of emotions
    and explosions
    that one can shove
    when in love.

  16. Mike Bayles

    Lunch with Rhea

    Dressed in a black top
    she’s a poet
    standing in front of me
    while she stirs my imagination.
    She suggests mozzarella stick
    as if she’s read my mind,
    and between conversations
    she brings them to me.
    When I observe her sense
    of grace,
    she’s a dancer to me,
    and I show her my poem,
    a soliloquy.
    I quiet tones we talk
    about the busy lives we keep
    and our jobs,
    and I listen to the undertones
    of words left to be said.
    Before I leave,
    we give each other
    a prolonged High Five,
    just to be touching hands,
    with the implied promise
    to see each other again.
    While I take another look
    at my beautiful friend,
    I know why
    a simple lunch
    can mean so much to me.

  17. Mike Bayles

    Lunch with Rhea

    Dress in a black top
    she’s a poet
    standing in front of me
    while she stirs my imagination.
    She suggests mozzarella stick
    as if she’s read my mind,
    and between conversations
    she brings them to me.
    When I observe her sense
    of grace,
    she’s a dancer to me,
    and I show her my poem,
    a soliloquy.
    In quiet tones we talk
    about the busy lives we keep
    and our jobs,
    and I listen to the undertones
    of words left to be said.
    Before I leave,
    we give each other
    a prolonged High Five,
    just to be touching hands,
    with the implied promise
    to see each other again.
    While I take another look
    at my beautiful friend,
    I know why
    a simple lunch
    can mean so much to me.

  18. Wendy Stevens


    Light touches caressing my skin,
    cool night air blows
    the scent of our bodies
    into the awakening dawn.
    We find a seed and plant it in the garden.
    Love sprouting up
    like flowers after a spring rain,
    branching out from limb to limb.
    We are the sun and the moon
    and the drop of rain on the bud.
    We are the culmination,the restoration,
    and the implantation of spirit.

  19. Jolanta.Stephens

    Today is ANZAC Day in Australia – A day where we remember those fallen and who fought in wars (especially those in WW1). Lest we forget you brave amazing soldiers.

    For Love and Hate

    For the love of his country
    Love of his freedom
    And love of his family
    He set off
    Hopes in his hand
    To fight for
    The love of his country
    His hate for those
    Who suppress
    Who invade
    To those, who
    When he returned
    Bloodied, bruised, broken
    Welcomed home a hero
    And wouldn’t listen
    To the horror befallen him
    He marched today
    To remind those who weren’t
    At his bloodied side
    That war is no beautiful thing
    Nothing to be celebrated
    But the freedom
    Oh the freedom
    May be tasted
    Because of the hated blood
    He had spilt.

    Lest We Forget
    *Dedicated to ANZAC Day heroes from Australia*

  20. cam45237

    I Never Leave You

    When I left you
    I left you writhing on the floor
    With ruptured organs
    Unable to stand, unable to walk, unable to reach the phone,
    Unable to call to me

    When I left again
    Your guts twisted
    And wrung your body like a rag
    Unable to work, unable to function, unable to cry or cry out,
    Unable to call to me

    Every time I leave you
    I tear a piece of my heart
    And leave it, a scrap of paper
    Taped to the TV
    Or tucked into your lunchbox
    So you will know
    That I never leave you

    And that when we are again together
    We will both heal
    And we will both be whole.

  21. eljulia

    PAD Therapy Day 24


    I hadn’t noticed
    you were my reference point
    my pin-in-the-map
    my tether to the earth.
    and now I’m leaking gravity
    a balloon adrift
    string slipped
    from a child’s wrist.

  22. Lynn Burton

    Unconditional Love

    Unlocking my heart was
    Not something anyone had ever
    Come close to.
    Once, when I wasn’t looking, you felt the
    Need or
    Desire to
    Insist on
    Tracing a path straight to my heart,
    Odd little
    Lovely and on display
    Like sparkling gems that
    Openly dance in the dark

  23. Brian Slusher


    Their claw bands cut,
    524 lobsters are freed
    back into the Atlantic
    by Buddhist monks
    who believe such good
    done on Wheel Turning Day
    will multiply, each ripple
    building to a tidal wave
    of cosmic love.
    And as they sink,
    suspended like a deadly scale,
    each armored monster hungers
    for the bottom dark, begins its
    hunt as soon as it is settled
    in the muck, while well beyond
    the range of their antennae
    the stars slide on like bright
    beads on an abacas.

      1. Brian Slusher

        No blog. I post poems to Facebook sometimes, but other than you can find some at the SC Poetry Society’s website under Prize-winning Poems. Thanks for reading my work!

    1. cam45237

      I love the juxtaposition of the armored monsters hungering for the bottom dark with the gorgeous simile of the stars sliding like bright beads on an abacus. Particularly taken by that image of the stars…

  24. Catherine Lee

    The Old Battle Axe

    I spent my early years
    Inside a glass case
    On display as much
    A warning as a promise

    Until you broke through
    And reached your hand
    Into the shatterings
    To grasp my body blade

    We ran together
    Into the fire

  25. Catherine Lee

    Ack! Please excuse the re-post.

    Point of View

    Second hand hearts beat louder than the unused
    Broken in skin more supple than the untouched

    But you only saw the silver scars from older cuts
    The patchwork of mismatched prints from other hands

  26. Catherine Lee

    Point of View

    Second hand hearts beats louder
    than the unused
    Broken in skin more supple
    than the untouched

    But you only saw the silver scars
    from older cuts
    The patckwork of mismatched prints
    from other hands

  27. Lana Walker

    Funny that
    day 24
    reminds me
    of the show
    I loved
    so much
    which is gone
    no longer
    who knows

    So many

    My favorite

    Oh how
    I loved

  28. Janet Rice Carnahan

    What a sweet and tender poem, Ina. Love the loyalty of “Blanche who knew to piss in the guitar case of the friend who would later betray me.” Now that’s love! :)

  29. De Jackson

    Hold still,

    for you are my world. Everything else
    is all tilted on this funky axis, revolv
    -ing around God-knows-what, unbound
    by gravity or grace, whirling into outer

    space on twisted tired wings. These
    microscopic things steal breath and
    hope and time; these imaginary seg.
    ment.ed lines: equator, latitude meri

    -dian, prime. Hold me, still. Fill my
    blue oceans with your salty kisses
    and your sacred breeze, blur these
    rounded edges, carve your name in

    -to my landlocked skin. This place is
    foreign, broken, bruised within, for I
    am shaken to the core, need you to be
    my center. And I, your fragile
    fallen star.

    1. ely the eel

      You know what I like most about this expressive beauty? It’s the fact that you posted it late in most PA folks’ day…maybe they’ll see it,maybe not…still, it belongs in the universe, so it is there. Thank you. I see it.

  30. Janet Rice Carnahan

    Love this duo of very clearly written poems, Linda! Sums up well both the love and anti-love concepts and the titles, “First Flush” and “Last Tear” are perfect! I especially like, “all that’s left is moving forward”! Very nice!

  31. ina


    She was Blanche for
    her white fur. She
    was Blanche because
    I was the kindness of
    a stranger. She was
    Blanche with eighteen
    years of grey ring tail
    and grey spot, askew
    on the top of her head.
    She was Blanche who
    knew to piss in the
    guitar case of the friend
    who would later betray
    me. She was Blanche
    who played fishing
    with her kibble the day
    she died. She was Blanche
    and I loved her.

  32. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    Getting to this “wicked” late, as they say here in New England. But, better late, than never – Right?

    First Flush

    the newness overwhelms
    senses are heightened
    everything appears to glow
    how we wish it will last forever

    Last Tear

    when its final
    when all is said and done
    when the door closes
    all that’s left is moving forward

  33. LCaramanna

    I Love You Best

    Of all the things I love
    sunshine smiles, raindrop puddles, wind whispers,
    snowflakes silent swirl, blue sky dazzle, diamond water sparkles,
    beach walk – toes in the sand, lavender lilacs, tree shade,
    strawberry fields, starlight, moonbeams, fireworks on the fifth of July
    I love you best.

    Of all the things I love
    ha cha cha chocolate, white wine on ice, burger and fries, apple pie,
    fresh-baked cookies, pizza delivered, chicken noodle soup,
    broccoli with cheese sauce, lasagna, tossed salad,
    warm bread and butter, peppermint patties, ice cream cones
    I love you best.

    Of all the things I love
    city sights, musical theater, sing-a-long songs, concerts in the park,
    new days dawn, dog kisses, bear hugs, hands to hold, Saturday adventures
    I love you best.
    I always will.

  34. deedeekm

    I tell him to remind me
    To pick up the dry cleaning
    He tells me to remind him
    To take out the trash
    We laugh
    Each can blame the other
    For forgetting
    This is what it’s like
    To grow old together

  35. PassionateQuill


    love is a shadow,
    moving with the heat of the sun
    its cool presence inviting
    but watch lest in complacency
    you find yourself alone
    in the scorching sun
    lips parched, throat dry
    life respiring from every pore

  36. cstewart

    Some Kinda Wonderful; (the dark side)

    Well we all know what this guy was feeling.
    Yes we do –

    Some kinda wonderful with a special person,
    That’s how a lot of people think of love.
    Special person, therefore, special life.
    I am here to tell you it does not always work out
    That way.
    And once in a great while it does.

    But usually it is two forces coming together,
    Without much inclination towards knowing
    What the other person or themselves is really about
    When they look more deeply and find out –
    They realize they should have run the other way.
    Or, they re-lock themselves into the fray due to economics.
    (I think that is called re-commitment, but don’t quote me on that)

    So keep it light and fresh. Peace, Out.

    Some Kind of Wonderful:
    The Drifters, Carole King, and Grand Funk Railroad
    And others.

  37. Kendall A. Bell

    A wreck cannot take everything

    When they pulled her from the wreckage,
    her body as battered and crushed as the
    vehicle, one of her limbs was swallowed
    by the scene of the accident and left behind.

    When she woke in the hospital bed, she
    cried, asked me how she will be able to write
    her name on an anniversary card without her
    right hand, how I could love three quarters of a girl.

    When doctors said they could not save the mangled
    meat that remained of her left arm, she asked me
    how she will be able to touch my face, to brush her
    teeth, to hold a daughter, or me.

    When her bruised, weary legs carried her through
    our front door, I became her limbs, became her hands.
    I skywrote forever hearts while she told me I loved
    half a girl, told her that we are a circle, a constant
    and neverending love.

    At night, I wrap her with my warmth, press my cheek to
    hers, whisper in her ear, “You are stuck with 100% of me.”

  38. cstewart

    When Love Goes Wrong

    When love goes wrong
    People put it to song
    Like: What’s love got to do with it
    Or: Love is just a four letter word.

    About love I tend to like:
    Tangled up in blue or –
    Visions of Johanna.
    Or Leonard Cohen singing
    I’m your man.

    Love holds a lot of meanings,
    For each person.
    As long as you can work your life
    Through love, then I guess
    You’re all right.

  39. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Love and anti-love sounds so deep,
    I love rest unless I just can’t sleep,
    And spilling butter on a yellow shirt,
    Hiding that small sprinkle of dirt,
    A little secret I’d love to keep!

    On the other hand,
    Something I can’t stand,
    Is to attend a dressy dinner,
    Wearing white,
    With a white napkin on your lap,
    Not quite,
    When you stand to go, you hope it won’t show,
    If so . . .

    You pray someone will understand!

  40. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Love as a real emotion,
    Ebbs and flows, like an ocean,
    Love cannot empty,
    Draining you or even me,
    When we allow it to refill,
    Love can and it will,
    Sweet intent is to grow,
    Intuitively we know,
    It links us to others,
    Beyond sisters and brothers,
    Hand in hand,
    Across this land,
    Near and far,
    Through the sun, each star,
    Love expands us, touching everything,
    Color of twilight, birds that sing!
    It extends to the Universe,
    Echoing its song, one verse,
    Love is the healing force,
    Guiding our path one source,
    It doesn’t ignore those left out,
    Love shows them they are love . . .

    Gently removing the doubt!


    Hate is a poison,
    Sharp as a pin,
    Entering the blood stream,
    Taints at the seam!
    Altering the heart,
    No joy can start!
    Dims the inner light,
    With each edgy fight,
    Pulls down what positive,
    To not let it live,
    Dulling any good vibration,
    Letting energy know it’s done!
    Turns people against each other,
    Unity gone, brother to brother,
    Hatred’s no gift,
    To every uplift,
    Hatred reduces life,
    No end of endless strife,
    Funny how some of the letters of “heart”,
    Contain “hate” like some hidden dart,
    When we spell “raw” backwards,
    A nasty revelation of words,
    Something hatred wants more and more,
    It so plainly spells . . .


  41. Andrea B

    Love Lies

    love lies on my dashboard
    a flimsy 35 mm print
    sun faded, coffee scalded

    I roll through stop signs
    hopped up on yesterday
    when hybrids were flowers
    in braids

    and prison sentences


    When you backed out,
    I thought you
    would yield,

    but you continued
    down the road
    alongside the

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      I enjoyed your poem, Andrea! Especially liked, “love lies on my dashboard, a flimsy 35 mm print, sun faded, coffee scaled.” What a perfect vision and ending with, “you continued down the road, alongside the neighbor’s dog.” Yes, isn’t love grand? :)

  42. emmajordan

    Thirteen Trees

    Another move,
    not so strange.
    I am used to being
    now, it’s happened so
    New house I don’t care
    Back yard
    a wonder
    with thirteen trees
    bird bath
    forsythia crash blooms
    so yellow
    in spring.
    Blue jays
    chattering from the trees
    streak red low across the
    Mountain Blue Birds
    so fragile
    an amazing blur
    black white red-headed
    incredibly strong
    how they sing
    soaring dodging swooping
    at night
    tail-flicking running
    branch to branch
    living in the hollow of a tree.
    Peace is something I
    had never been aware of before
    I truly love
    this yard.

    (I was 10 when I lived here. This was my first love.)

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Loved your poem, emmajordan! I could feel your love in each description and the joy of being so connected to the nature of the yard. Truly something to love!

  43. Benjamin Thomas

    Ashes (an anti-love poem)

    It was nothing less than
    your hazardous double-edged
    discernment that hacked us into pieces.

    Our lingering hopes were shredded
    by your serrated attitudes.
    Our marriage, irreconcilably minced.

    Our union reduced to sawdust;
    clambered in the wind
    and scattered like chaff.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      WOW . . . Benjamin . . . the use of “double -edged” aspects were truly gripping! “Hacked to pieces”, “hopes were shredded”, “serrated attitudes” and “marriage irreconcilably minced”! Ouch! Most effective as a anti-love poem! WOW!

  44. omavi

    “… She Chose Him”

    Glossless passion may soul scorn hurt becomes
    Such a needed thing because feelings lost

    Sky falls on a barren earth needing quenched
    Drought of the soul is what occurs when lost

    No laughter joy broken and dismembered
    Clay shell of one born from dirt broken lost

    Drink all night because this pain can be drowned
    Or that’s the lie the mouth says to mind lost

    Lovebirds singing, quell the music from deep with
    Songs will no longer move that thing so lost

    Terrible nightmare riding on retreating thoughts
    States of cognizant brings death to those lost

    Flower does tend to blossom on earth dry
    True heart beats no longer when words are lost

    Shout from mountain top platitudes of love
    Darkness consumes and devastates voice lost

    Star shine as light dies as need decomposes
    Beacon of entrance to hell’s door to the lost

    Angel worshipped and back bent, absolution
    Even God vacates the path of man lost

    I once had a love, so complete to me
    So whole and pure, how could I be so lost

    A battle is not always won by strong
    Sword firmly planted – blood loss – I have lost

  45. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    The Trouble With Love

    The trouble with love
    is just what your mother always told you:
    it will end in tears.
    The more love, the more weeping.

    The trouble with love is
    you do it anyway;
    it gets you,
    in spite of all the warnings.

    You wake up one morning and notice:
    Oh! Yes! The world
    is a place of happiness now;
    it has a shine.

    The world, you notice,
    is focused around
    the presence of that one person …
    that one radiance making the whole world glow.

    You wake and it’s
    immediate: you open your eyes to light,
    a rich enhancement of daylight. You open
    to immediate delight.

    Oh, love! The long daylight hours
    of its duration
    are changeable with the time and weather.
    Then comes night.

    Sleep tight, little lovers.
    Descend not into nightmares.
    The day is over.
    Say your prayers, and hope to survive.

    The trouble with love is
    it ends. We all know this.
    After a moment it ends, or after a lifetime.
    It ends. We are left weeping.

    Goodbye, my dear love.
    I see you are going
    leaving me richer by far, and weeping
    after such influx of light.

    (This April, for these ‘Two for Tuesday’ double prompts, I have been trying to combine both into one poem.)

  46. Arrvada

    I loved you
    I loved you
    That was never a lie
    I would have died for you
    So deep was my desire
    To be true to you
    Was all I ever wanted
    I loved you
    The you I thought you were
    But I didn’t look deep enough
    I loved you
    The thought of what you could be to me
    I didn’t want to see
    I loved you
    No, I still love you

  47. Arrvada

    Lied to Me
    You called it love
    This controlling, obsessive thing
    That kept me trapped and controlled
    That ruled my life with fear
    You did these things out of love
    You said
    But for me
    There was nothing but pain
    Love should be clean
    But yours was dark and mean
    You lied to me
    You called it love
    And all you did was own me.

  48. Buddah Moskowitz


    Her family moved in
    across the street
    from mine,
    and my 19 year old
    head was turned.
    I was curious.

    I moved slowly,
    the only speed
    my timid, virgin
    heart knew.

    She was dark haired,
    with a wide,
    friendly smile.

    her name was Gracia.

    Where I was a nervous
    dervish of insecurity,
    she was calm,
    and laughed when needed,
    and took me seriously
    when needed.

    She was beautiful
    and she was my friend
    and I loved her.

    Moments together
    were warm and they glowed.
    We were innocent,
    and we both happily explored
    previously uncharted regions
    of our hearts.

    We taught each other
    how to kiss
    and nothing more.

    There was no need for more:
    it was an exquisite time,
    and it was enough.

    But, like a haunting melody
    on a worn-out 45,
    somewhere deep down
    we both knew
    our summer of 1983
    would come to an end.

    The next year
    she started dating
    and I tried not to watch
    from my bedroom window
    as he gently guided her
    into his car,
    in a most gentlemanly
    and enviable way.

    He was older (which I wasn’t),
    he was Christian (which I wasn’t),
    he had a plan for his life
    (which I didn’t).

    Within two years
    she married Alex,
    and I attended their wedding,
    which her family
    inexplicably and regrettably
    decided to boycott.

    I used to wonder
    about my place
    in her memories
    until I found out
    years later
    that her
    first son’s name
    the same as mine.

    1. De Jackson

      Ohhhh. This is just too sweet. Wonderful.
      Makes me regret (just a little) my “avoidance” of your name in my lipogram this morning. But seriously, the other guy by the same moniker? Scuzz.Ball.

  49. Benjamin Thomas

    Addled Attraction

    I love your sass
    And sarsaparilla hips
    Luscious, dark raven locks
    Sauced, glistening lips
    Those thick thunderous thighs
    With nothing left undisguised
    But only to your surprise
    Do I say, do you love me?

  50. hurtin-heart

    Lost in love with you

    Lost in a world full of heartache
    Lost in this world without you
    Lost in the dreams of the plans we made
    Lost in love with you.

    Lost in memories of you and me
    Lost in fantasies of what could be
    Lost in foolish childhood dreams
    Lost in love with you.

    Lost time I could’ve spent with you
    Lost a love that once was true
    Lost in the pain of needing you
    Lost in love with you.

    Lost in a dream that never ends
    Lost a very special friend
    Lost your love when I lost you
    Lost in love with you.
    Samantha Tinney

  51. RASlater

    Classic Case

    You and I are a classic case
    The perfect love hate
    You tempt and beckon
    With easy fun and thrills
    Even now I hear your call
    But it is never long
    And I am caught in your web
    Obsession drives me onward
    Needing that next moment
    One more time and then I’m done
    Or so I tell myself
    I love to play your game
    As much as I hate not scoring high
    The time I spend with you
    Coud be better spent
    But your siren call
    Is hard to ignore
    And the next I know
    I’ve gone another hour
    Lost in you

  52. De Jackson

    One for the Words

    They don’t always
    love you back,
    these crazy words,
    these unfound nouns
    and adverse adjectives
    and ridiculously silly adverbs
    with their ly-ly-ly songs,
    these wandering verbs conjugating
    their own tense
    and overactive hearts.

    Some days,
    they just outright
    r e f u s e
    to come out to play.

    We hold our breaths
    and poise our pens
    and love them anyway.


    1. Buddah Moskowitz

      Wonderful – my muse keeps all the good ideas pinned up in her lustrous, magnificent hair, and when she unpins it, I let all the beauty wash over me, and start writing. Some days she just tosses used Kleenex and dares me to make a silk purse.

      Loved your poem, by the way, Moskowitz

  53. uneven steven

    storefront of the heart

    well used concrete
    now swept clean
    walls and windows
    of adornments
    no next sale
    or new item
    in evidence
    to the passers by
    perhaps somke
    sense of something
    or perhaps
    a déjà vu
    that in
    their own heart
    just such a space
    no waiting
    no recognition
    just one grand
    for love

  54. JRSimmang

    “It’s not what’s in your head, it’s what’s in your heart,”
    the old man said to me as we waited for the summer heat to
    carry us along its beaten path.
    “Silly, how two words, apart by only two letters,
    can have such different views.”
    We would often get into these such conversations,
    him filling the time idly with antique gesticulation,
    I on my feet, listening with my years,
    nodding off and on in agreement.
    “You see, the head, for all its intellect,
    can no more pick a rose from a flower,
    a dog from a mammal,
    or love from attraction.
    The heart, on the other hand,
    ah the simple heart,
    can only understand that which is most important. Of course, they never talk.”
    Of course, I mutter.
    I find myself beginning to smile as we near the corner
    that has enveloped a petit coffee shop.
    It’s been here for as long as I can remember, and as long as
    he can remember.
    That’s why it’s his favorite place to sit, drink, and grow grey.
    “For if they did talk, my young ingenue, your body would not longer be your own.”
    Two espressos, I say to the man behind the counter.
    I always paid.
    He always offered. But,
    his wallet still had the aging bills of a time before depression,
    and I wanted him to stay happy.
    “Because, they would always be a-bickerin’.
    The heart fights for reasons it cannot see
    and the brain cannot see the reason to fight.
    You’d be driven mad in mad little circles.”
    I force a laugh and he chuckles on through,
    his sagacious belly recreating memories of Christmases, Thanksgivings,
    birthdays, and weddings.
    “Well, about you?”
    I usually said a few things when the coffee finally arrived,
    succumbing to the warmth and invitation of the paper cup.
    I tell him I’m fine.
    I tell him I’m going to bring my girlfriend by.
    “Good!” His enthusiasm always shook the tables and walls.
    “Good. Looks to me like you’ve learned to keep your heart and head in their proper corners.”
    I wasn’t so sure.
    He pats my arm and appraises me.
    “You’re like your mother in so many ways.”
    I couldn’t help but smile a child smile.
    “And a little of your father too, but mainly your mother.”
    I offer to refill his cup.
    Although I had a meeting that afternoon,
    I couldn’t leave the comfy chair and comfier conversation.

    Well into the evening, when we say our goodbyes,
    he pulls me in with his bear claw hands.
    “Tell your girl I love her already. I will see you next week.”
    Good night, gramps. Next week it is.

  55. De Jackson

    Love (this Beautiful Outlaw)

    If I strip this with
    my wish
    its kiss
    its fist
    its first, and
    its hands
    and atrium
    and missing
    its fraught, caught
    its sad rhythm
    and happy sky
    its what cry
    crazy why,
    its taught
    thin skin…

    is this


  56. Marjory MT

    Sometimes I just don’t get it.
    I want to – I do ask – Why?
    Why so much misery, pain, hate,
    so much wrong?
    So much indifference?

    I just don’t’ get it.
    Sometimes – giving up seems best.
    even attractive,
    but I will not belly-up.
    I will choose to stand.
    To acknowledge that good can
    come of every situation.

    I do get it.
    I can choose to ‘let go’,
    choose to grow
    through faith
    Your love.

    Philippians 1-4

  57. zevd2001


    Every day is a chemistry lesson
    when I walk on the Green towards the hallowed halls
    where I’m supposed become
    something or other. I haven’t figured out yet

    though I know one thing for sure. This
    place where I walk, up to those heavy,
    arches is a bingo parlor. Standing
    under a tall shade tree, I wait for you,

    You don’t know it yet, neither do I . . .
    three in a row, the middle one. She’s not
    as loaded down with books as the others, and
    her smile is engaging. Wait, she is sitting down. That
    must mean she expects somebody. Why
    do I always choose the ones
    that are taken up. Okay, there are other fish

    in the pond. The blond, over there, in the lotus position
    alone. Nah, she’s meditating. I know the type. Always
    trying to convince you of something beyond
    what we think is Real. Then she figures you are
    incompatible. Next, back to the tree, and

    a couple is necking on the other side. No point
    interfering with them. That bench, yeah . . .
    look disinterested, as if you don’t have a care
    in the world. Think positive thoughts . . . I recall
    a professor say that before I was about to take
    a test. The next girl that comes by will ask
    me if I am busy. I will say no, noticing something

    that attracts my attention. She will blush,
    I will say there’s no reason
    to be ashamed. I will ask her if she wants
    to have a cup of coffee, or something. Then

    off to Starbucks. I take her to her place . . .
    Simple as that. What’s this,
    a girl. I put my back pack down
    on the ground. She asks me if I am new
    here. I am not. Comparing notes, coffee,

    the next day, a date, two days later, another
    meeting. I tell her after that
    it seems to me we are compatible. She says
    it will take time, but I am not half bad. I say
    what makes you think I am half good, she smiles,
    you’ll do for the meantime. You know what it’s like
    in biology when you see a flower open
    in the morning sun. That ‘s exactly the way
    I feel. Let me take you to the Casbah, I say . . .
    She says, Kiss me, you fool.

    Zev Davis

  58. DanielAri


    and Alice, Alice, Alice, the stove is off, I guarantee,
    and if it’s not, let the house burn down. We’ve got
    to get on the road. It’s a three-hour drive straight
    through to Tacopa before we can sink into the hot
    mineral water medicine and dissolve for the rest
    of the weekend. Our home is upon and within us,
    safe and burning at the same time. In the tent, we
    will put our skins in a pile and lose the bubbleline
    between. We wear on each other, river and stone,
    ferns of dreams growing out from the confluence.
    Sleeping, we’re the center of the fern’s curl, where
    living plant and open, holding space fuse into one.


  59. Anders Bylund

    What Gives?
    They say you shouldn’t bang your head
    against the same wall ’til you’re dead
    but still we’re told
    — this won’t get old —
    that love is worth the pain || but how, I can’t explain..

  60. Sara McNulty

    April 24, 2012 – Day 24
    Write a love/anti-love poem (shadormas)

    First surge, electric
    switches on
    burning hot,
    blinding your eyes to all sights
    `cept face full of love.


    After hurt subsides
    wound forms scab,
    new skin grows
    tougher, thicker–a fortress
    fending off love’s sword.

  61. posmic

    Never Let Them Drop

    These things I love,
    these people, too,
    I want to jump them
    into the sky,

    build them houses
    on the clouds, never
    let them drop like
    rain, never let them

    leave me, not when
    I am always here to
    feed them flowers,
    stroke their faces,

    clean up all their
    messes as they
    all go drifting by
    my open hands.

  62. RobHalpin

    More Than Just A Story

    “Much is to be gained by eBooks: ease, convenience, portability. But something is definitely lost: tradition, a sensual experience, the comfort of thingy-ness — a little bit of humanity.” -Chip Kidd, book cover designer

    That first crack
    of the spine, the smell,
    the texture,
    the weight…books
    are more than just a story.
    I simply love books!

  63. pmwanken


    and points
    blue skies
    and smiles
    in bed
    kisses on
    my head
    and pals
    and coffee
    and piku
    they all say
    “I love you”

    P. Wanken

  64. ely the eel

    My Friend Dan

    It was natural and easy
    to tell him how I felt
    while he lay dying.
    It’ll be harder now,
    but not impossible.
    it’s only been a day
    and already I am losing
    the truth of his gaze,
    the wonder of his face.

  65. Bruce Niedt

    Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo: Write a “lipogram” poem (one that refrains from using a certain letter, or letters of the alphabet). Two variations on this are the “Beautiful Outlaw” (where you take someone’s name but don’t use any letters from that name in the poem, and “Beautiful In-law” (where you use only the letters in someone’s name – longer names obviously work better). I thought it would be interesting to write a love poem without the letters L, O, V or E in it. It was much harder than I thought! I consider the result more a successful writing exercise than good poetry:

    L-O-V-E-less Poem

    A strict dictum binds my writing
    and it’s hard, I can’t say much,
    but I admit, my bright hyacinth,
    with that fragrance wafting such,

    I am dizzy in my mix-up;
    it can embarrass guys in May,
    infatuating us with whiffs
    in air this stunning spring day,

    attracting us with juicy buds,
    disarming us with charms,
    making us thirst with anguish –
    I’m pining for hugging arms.

    My daisy, my pansy, my zinnia,
    attracting my mind with a kiss,
    I am begging: find sympathy
    with my quandary, intriguing miss.

    My dawn starts with bright sunrays,
    my night wraps up dusky dark,
    I’d say thanks if I was with a maid
    watching stars in tall grass in a park.

    1. Bruce Niedt

      Uh-oh, I spied a couple of L’s in that last stanza. Here’s a rewrite:

      L-O-V-E-less Poem

      A strict dictum binds my writing
      and it’s hard, I can’t say much,
      but I admit, my bright hyacinth,
      with that fragrance wafting such,

      I am dizzy in my mix-up;
      it can embarrass guys in May,
      infatuating us with whiffs
      in air this stunning spring day,

      attracting us with juicy buds,
      disarming us with charms,
      making us thirst with anguish –
      I’m pining for hugging arms.

      My daisy, my pansy, my zinnia,
      attracting my mind with a kiss,
      I am begging: find sympathy
      with my quandary, intriguing miss.

      My dawn starts with bright sunrays,
      my night wraps up dusky dark,
      I’d say thanks if I was with a maid
      watching stars in high grass in a park.

          1. Bruce Niedt

            Thanks to De Jackson for finding two more elusive e’s in this poem on my blog. Here is the latest version:

            L-O-V-E-less Poem

            A strict dictum binds my writing
            and it’s hard, I can’t say much,
            but I admit, my bright hyacinth,
            with that parfum wafting such,

            I am dizzy in my mix-up;
            it can mystify guys in May,
            infatuating us with whiffs
            in air this stunning spring day,

            attracting us with juicy buds,
            disarming us with charms,
            making us thirst with anguish –
            I’m pining for hugging arms.

            My daisy, my pansy, my zinnia,
            attracting my mind with a kiss,
            I am asking: impart sympathy
            with my quandary, intriguing miss.

            My dawn starts with bright sunrays,
            my night wraps up dusky dark,
            I’d say thanks if I was with a maid
            watching stars in tall grass in a park.

  66. KristiOhio


    My Love, stop haunting me.
    Please forget
    the vows we made, the kiss we shared,
    and blessed future to be.
    Forget it
    all. Forget I had ever cared.

    You couldn’t stay with me
    and faded.
    I had listened to your heartbeat,
    and it calmed my worries,
    nightmares, bringing them to defeat.

    Now that your heart’s quiet
    and buried,
    surrender your spirit and leave.
    Forget your love, Forget
    we’d married.
    I’m no longer able to grieve.

  67. Michele Brenton

    A love story.

    Throw them out – get rid of them.

    But every day it is impossible,
    the textile reminders
    of a life force so powerful
    he still fills the house
    as well as the wardrobes.

    Sliding through your fingers,
    silk and viscose, every colour
    every texture, every moment,
    ties of memories,
    braille messages from the past.

    Get rid of them? The idea is untenable.

    Then one morning, while the birds sing
    and the sun blazes through the
    picture window where you still
    ‘see’ him waiting for you to come in
    from the garden,
    something readjusts.

    The fomites have finally passed on
    the germ of remembrance,
    imprinted memories safely stored
    in your DNA and you cannot lose them
    ever again.

    A decade on
    and the wardrobe
    has space now,
    his clothes are out
    making memories
    for someone else.

  68. wolfbolz

    The Thornless Rose

    The sun arose and so did she.
    The breezes blew
    and eagles flew
    and circled to the sea.

    There on her pillow by the bed
    a note was pinned upon a rose,
    a note she took and later read.
    “My love,” it said,
    “see how smoothly this stem grows,
    how clean the line to flower flows,
    how true to me this thornless rose.”

    “What can it mean?” she sadly asked,
    “What obscure clue or hopeful task?
    What wit or wisdom there contained?
    And why’s a barren flower chose
    when countless healthy ones he grows,
    yet sends me now this thornless rose?”

    One summer day a letter came.
    “Goodbye” it said and then his name.
    “And so it ends,” she thought and froze,
    remembering the thornless rose.

    The seasons past without a word
    till songs about his death were heard.
    Her love, long gone, had shielded pain
    until she read the note again.

    Without her love to fuel the grief,
    she had no wound, just a belief.
    He knew he was to die that day
    and cleansed her sorrow clean away,
    for lacking wounds,
    love seldom grows,
    as seldom as the thornless rose.

  69. lionmother

    I forgot to title this, so reposting with a title:

    A Study of Love

    Love can’t be dissected
    it doesn’t lay there like
    a specimen waiting for
    someone to uncover
    its secret
    the tantalizing thread
    it casts cannot be seen
    until too late and then
    there you are in the net
    caught by the gossamer
    delight of the thrill
    no roller coaster ride
    can duplicate the
    charge which connects
    you to the other
    forever in a wild and
    crazy dance through
    the years and you
    swirl with the changes
    as the whirlpool sucks
    you deeper into its vortex

  70. lionmother

    Love can’t be dissected
    it doesn’t lay there like
    a specimen waiting for
    someone to uncover
    its secret
    the tantalizing thread
    it casts cannot be seen
    until too late and then
    there you are in the net
    caught by the gossamer
    delight of the thrill
    no roller coaster ride
    can duplicate the
    charge which connects
    you to the other
    forever in a wild and
    crazy dance through
    the years and you
    swirl with the changes
    as the whirlpool sucks
    you deeper into its vortex

  71. Sharon

    Borne in Love

    My heart pounded
    at the sight of him.
    Nothing I had ever seen before
    took my breath away
    like this gift of heaven.
    He was wrapped
    in a yellow receiving blanket,
    something I would discard
    and replace with one I’d bought
    for the day when my prayers
    were answered and he
    was placed in my arms.
    He was not borne
    in my body
    but he took residence
    in my heart.
    My child.

  72. Domino

    On Sleep and Hate and Love

    “But I don’t wanna go to bed.”
    And the so the familiar refrain
    is heard
    by parents everywhere
    who know, by the way,
    that without enough sleep,
    junior will be cranky and
    irascible all the next day.

    So the battle begins.

    It helps to have a routine
    from an early age,
    bath time. . . teeth brushed. . .
    potty. . . drink of water. . .
    story time.
    Every night.

    But even then,
    there will always be
    the familiar refrain of
    a wakeful child.

    “I don’t wanna go to bed.”
    which is to say:
    You guys are having fun
    and I don’t want to miss it.
    If you loved me, you would
    let me stay up.
    I’m bored.

    But a good, loving parent knows
    that even when their child angrily shouts
    “I HATE YOU!”
    that it’s best to just put
    As many times as necessary.
    A parent that can kindly
    enforce the rules
    is really saying:
    “I love you.”

    Diana Terrill Clark

  73. claudsy

    Okay, I cheated. This is a dual theme poem, bringing in aspects of both prompts. I’ll probably do another later today. For now, enjoy.

    Too Short

    Memory serves to recreate that moment
    When temptation and speculation began
    With a look, an accidental touch, a word.
    Wearing your autumn fire in your hair

    You smiled with dark brown eyes,
    Laughing at something said by another.
    I watched, knowing love again
    Within a heart made cynical by life.

    That moment when you turned and sighed,
    Snuggled, saying you wanted to be kissed.
    Ah, how could you know my thrill in that
    Instant of being wanted by languid request.

    A time of sweet refrain marched to its tune,
    Leaving me unprepared of its ending too soon.
    Guilt and hurt reprised tamped cynicism,
    Bringing an understanding of full meaning,

    To one who’d never been allowed this life
    With another to share all my joys and strife.

    © Claudette J. Young 2012

  74. Mary Mansfield

    Paper Hearts and Dragons

    In his watery blue depths
    I was swept away,
    Lost in the discordant melody
    Of a doomed romance,
    Addicted to a man
    Who only knew of dysfunction,
    Not true intimacy.
    Our love was plagued
    By his unslain dragons,
    Demons tormenting each step,
    Sending us into an abstract shimmy,
    A bizarre dance of avoidance,
    Emotions folded and creased,
    Reduced to scraps of refuse.
    The ethereal spangling of angelic wings
    Was not enough to save us.
    The coda of our love song
    Distorted into cacophony,
    Then faded into nothingness,
    Leaving only the aches
    Of the origami heart he shelved,
    Fermenting in exquisite agony.

  75. LoveMyScars

    This is a love the anti-love poem!?!

    The Key To My Heart
    By: M. Reed

    Some say that true love isn’t real
    They must have been blind right from the start
    But then again what do I know
    For I’ve been trapped within my heart.

    I waited for the longest
    Wondering who would come around
    I saw some passersby
    But, nun that made the walls begin to pound.

    So I paced around inside
    And then I sat down on the floor
    Felt like it had been a few long years now
    I guess I’ll wait a couple more.

    It was a bright and new day
    Not expecting a passerby
    I remember looking out to see you
    But didn’t bother saying hi.

    The days turned into months
    But feeling more and more like years.
    That’s when I was just about to glance out
    When your shadow did appear.

    I did not feel afraid,
    nor was I frightened or confused
    and then I heard your voice calling for me to come out
    But I kindly did refuse.

    As time passed by you came back
    sitting right outside the door
    We would sit and talk for hours
    Without ever getting board

    We told each other more things
    Then we ever thought we could
    And any time that I felt lonely
    I’d look outside and there you stood

    One day I finally asked you
    How you knew when to be there
    And in a lovely voice you answered
    I never left because I care

    As the days and weeks went faster
    With you always right out side
    I never had to face disaster
    Because behind you I could hide

    After it had been a long time
    I had become blind to all but you
    I asked you to come to the window
    I said I have something for you

    I asked him if he wanted
    me to open it a bit
    he looked at me with comfort
    and I slid the window up a little bit.

    We sat staring through with wonder
    like we had never seen ourselves before
    He really never left at all now
    As he protected my heart more.

    He talked to me entrusting
    Many matters of the heart
    And we had grown so closed together
    We were hard to tell apart

    By now the window was wide open
    And on the sill is where he’d sit
    And when I found myself in darkness
    He’d show up with a candle lit

    He was my hero, my companion
    And on his shoulder I would cry
    He knew me better than any other
    To him I could not tell a lie

    After such a long time
    Long after he had known me to the core
    That’s when I started thinking maybe
    I should open up the door.

    I thought about for a long time
    I was not sure if I would ask
    All the while keeping silent
    Hiding my thoughts behind a mask

    About one thing I was shore of
    I knew that this was meant to be
    So with everything I had
    I melted it all into a key

    I wasn’t sure you’d notice
    But it was more then I could hide
    I don’t know why I didn’t tell you sooner
    I guess maybe it was my pride

    I never really doubted
    how truly strong I felt for you
    and you showed me every single day
    that for me your love was true

    Then when the time fell on us
    And you looked at me with glint
    You asked me what I was hiding
    But I gave you only a hint

    You told me this is not a game
    And asked me what I was waiting for
    So I handed him the key
    and told him to meet me at the door

    I placed it in his hand
    and with it I gave him all of me
    I knew that with my heart key
    He would surely set me free.

    I knew that he would love me
    Be my everything and more
    He brought out the best in me
    he’s all I truly did adore.

    I watched him walk up to it
    As I waited nervously
    I could see his hands were shaking
    As he look deeply right at me

    And as I heard the door lock shimmey
    I felt my heart begin to shake
    And then my world was over
    When I heard my heart key break

    With panic casting shadows
    It was hard for me to see
    I yelled to him I thought you loved me
    He said it wasn’t meant to be

    But I casted you my love key
    And you broke it in the door
    And now I’m trapped forever
    And that’s when I hit the floor

    I looked at him outside the window
    And it was not hard to see
    He knew he was in love
    But something held him back from me

    It took me quite awhile
    Before I could even look outside
    And when I saw him standing there
    he had his head down without pride

    I begged him not to worry
    He asked what he could do for me
    and because I really loved him
    I told him to go find what makes him happy

    It wasn’t for a long time that I gazed out of the door
    I stopped trying to get over
    Knowing I’ll never want anything more

    And even though I’m still here
    Window empty of his glee
    I wouldn’t have the strength he gave me
    When he threw away the key

    And though he did not love me
    It was not me he would adore
    At least I know of true love
    Which gives me strength a little more

    And that’s when I remember
    All the different things that he taught me
    With all of these leftovers
    Maybe its enough to set me free

    So I got started working
    Trying to break right through the door
    I know that he won’t be out there
    But I don’t need him anymore

    See as hard as it was to loose him
    As hard as that pain will always be
    I can hold with me a token
    That I’m stronger than he’ll ever be

    Stronger in the sense
    That I gave it everything and more
    At least I can live forever knowing
    I’m not the coward behind the door.

    So if your trapped inside of
    Your little heart house too
    Don’t wait in there forever
    Because the strengths inside of you.

  76. K. McGee

    After a little prodding ;) I was convinced to post this as both a love and anti-love poem.

    Re-purposing Mussels

    The mollusk life suited me fine
    Buried in my own mud
    Taking in and rejecting
    What I chose from the silt

    I was desolate but not alone
    Brush by from time to time
    By catfish — bottom feeders
    And ghost shrimp within the brine

    Until I was found by prying beak
    Who placed me to dry upon the shore
    Prodded me hard and with precision
    Using his natural burglar’s pick

    Each attempt was more successful
    Penetrating my defensive shell
    Plunging deep in my soft foot
    Until finally bruising my heel

    Exposed and muscles weak
    From continuous forceful prods
    I reluctantly surrendered my meat and
    Was picked clean without remorse

    As swiftly as he came
    He fled on wonton wings
    Leaving me derelict and laid bare
    Now all the world could see

    A shell of what I once was
    Raped of my tender soul
    By the rakish indiscretion
    A Heron’s ferocious appetite

    Long I lay discarded
    The elements bleached me clean
    I was trapped by my own denial
    That I could never return to muck

    Haunted by a phantom pain
    Of the thing that had been taken
    I lost count of my days
    And retired my sense of function

    Then along you came
    Strolling the Shore
    Your eyes turned down
    You saw a glimmer of hope

    You — collector of broken souls
    Taken by my gypsum glow
    You looked upon me as a treasure
    Which gave me a new purpose

    Carved into a new form
    By your tender loving hands
    More beautiful than before
    I no longer miss the wet

  77. Joseph Harker

    (secret sonnet)

    I don’t know how we learn to sleep
    together: beds are private places. And I realize
    it’s the trick of figuring out whether you can share
    your inner space, your feeling core. A metaphor
    of deep connection. But, forgive my turnings:
    other bodies make me restless, stun me with
    electric heartbeats. (And would some Hypnotic god
    come, block my ears up to your snores?)

    Although, I will admit I’ve found a pastime
    worthy of these darkened hours, when you are
    dreaming: memorize your skin’s feel, fingers
    glowing with a lightless heat. There is
    no further joy on sleepless nights:
    so it would seem.

    Vipākaphala IV

    We are all
    victims of choices.
    When your words
    dripped with gin,
    I was the direct object
    of your sentences.

    An orchid
    desires a deft touch
    to open
    its pink palm.
    Yours sank into a green glass;
    my colors turned dark.

    Twinned revenge:
    you mask all these boys,
    who can’t help
    erase you.
    I wish you’d learned gentleness;
    wish I’d let you try.

    1. ina

      These are both amazing, Joseph. As usual. Love this –
      When your words
      dripped with gin,
      I was the direct object
      of your sentences

      but that’s just just one of all the wonderful sentences.

  78. Jackie Casey

    24 April (Tri-fall; 6,3,8; 6,3,8) Rhyme: a,b,c, a,b,c
    (Write a poem about love)
    “Love Makes a Lovely Fire”

    Once whispered to my dove,
    Singing there.
    I will not be here long to share.
    So spoken to my love,
    Crying, where
    Her blossoms now lie cold and bare.

    Where once our love was green
    Sumptuous, could hold our loving;
    Snow swirled into our keen
    Buds closing:
    Love left silent as our cooing.

    So, whispered to my love:
    Let’s welcome
    Fire that remains within our breast;
    That fire, my turtle dove,
    Make burning love our final quest.

  79. Miss R.

    Beyond Imagination

    How is one who’s never been in love
    To write a love poem? How can I
    Express feelings I’ve never felt?
    My imagination could easily supply
    The flushed cheeks and rapidly
    Beating heart of infatuation, and
    Perhaps even something of the
    Comfortable sweetness which love
    Should ripen into. Still, the true feeling
    Is far beyond my grasp, and I am left
    In awe of all who have loved that way.

  80. Margot Suydam

    Without U

    I wonder where love travels
    creating a negative space

    set down softly in charcoal
    black swishes and swipes

    that mess fingers and spread
    to ripe red noses and cheeks

    lingering lines not yet spoken
    the gray that stains only briefly

    reminds me that still remnants
    remain; and that I need to wipe

    clean, a parched rag always
    on hand, dry as my dark heart.

  81. PKP

    Anti-Love – a Lipogram
    (a poem that explicitly refrains from using certain letters – napowrimo day 24)


    Spinning tilted axis
    Sliding there in shades
    Gray fade-merge
    Tuneless hum
    Spinning tilted axis
    Emptied all




  82. cindishipley

    I have written so many comments, and even this comment I had to copy and reapply several times. My computer says the website has a programming error.

  83. J.lynn Sheridan

    “The song of love”

    It’s the kind of song that shows up in your dreams.
    The kind that hurts so much,
    it wakens you and leaves you
    singing for God who
    gifted a tender touch
    to your lover, precious and serene,
    and you’d be honored to die dreaming,
    released into his love.

  84. J.lynn Sheridan

    “The love of grief”

    It’s the kind of love that shows up in your dreams.
    The kind that hurts so much
    it kills your doubts and leaves you
    wrestling with God who
    reminds you with a terse touch
    the guy is a dreamer and a schemer
    but you’d rather die dreaming
    than release your love.

  85. J.lynn Sheridan

    “The grief of love”

    It’s the kind of grief that shows up in your dreams.
    The kind that hurts so much
    it kills your will and leaves you
    wrestling with God who
    keeps waking you with a tranquil touch
    when you’d rather just die dreaming
    and be relieved of your grief.

  86. Marianv

    Sweet Dreams

    I love to watch the sleepers, the way they toss
    All care aside as if it were simply an extra pillow
    They didn’t need and off it goes, landing on the floor.
    They fling their arms as though they were long enough
    To carry back all the cakes and cookies stored just our
    Of reach –( in their waking hours, they carefully
    Followed diets that gave them energy and lowered
    Cholesterol.) Yet in our dreams three layered cakes,
    Banana cream pies, brownies, jelly rolls, and apple crisps
    Sit on our tables. Cookies rain down as though
    Some heavenly bakery lost its ethereal floor. All
    The goodies I could name – perched on pedestals,
    Arranged in delicate designs and oh! The
    Chocolate that covers everything. Some strong-
    Armed angel must have poured a barrel of the stuff!
    I stand entranced, but saddened, too, because a tiny
    Part of my sleeping brain is awake enough to nag
    At me – “You can’t eat a thing. Ha-ha!, you are
    Dreaming, foolish one and when you open up your
    Eyes, everything that you love to eat will be banished
    From your sight.

  87. cumberlandcarol@live.com


    A man
    in sandals walked
    on sand, stone –
    and water.
    With His words,
    made things concrete;
    opened heaven’s
    A fallen angel lost
    his grip.

    Humanity opens
    eyes to faith
    in dawn’s light.
    Holds assurance
    of their awaited
    Some have entered
    its gate,
    walk on gold.

    All made possible
    by a man in sandals.

  88. taylor graham


    love her – I
    love her not. Each weed
    I pull, she grabs and dashes
    puppy. How
    shall I ever get
    things in order, for instance
    this April
    day, so warm and drow-
    sy, thoughts, weeds, and puppy at

  89. cindishipley

    This is my poem about love. I’m not sure if it is obvious, but it is the srongest love I have had.


    I remember when my son was first deployed.
    I had a magnetic yellow ribbon on my refrigerator.
    I had a one star flag hanging out my window
    tightly bound.
    I didn’t know what to do with myself
    so I turned my heart to stone.
    I went fishing
    I got a young boyfriend
    I ate nothing
    I was as pale as a wall
    I shook like an earthquake,
    and I remember my heart was a stone.

    A dance around a perceived loss.
    The hiss of a brain stopping,
    thought was too great of a burden.
    No more news on TV.
    No more news.
    I had turned my heart into a stone.

    I forgot that conversation before he left
    I offered to break his legs.
    “Shoot a rocket at the white house,
    that should do it”.
    I shook ideas out of my head like an empty bingo machine.
    He sat there as a stone with his beautiful fingers laced together.
    I choked blue on my persuasions.
    I warned him that scarlet bubbles would escape my throat
    before I would see his blood on the ground.
    He said, “Mom, it’s midnight, I need some sleep.”

  90. dextrousdigits

    The Ocean of Love

    Love is splashed on the screen
    with dripping hot scenes.
    Voluptuous bodies painted
    with pastel syrup on canvases.
    RoBust Romantic Magical fairy-tales
    fill the emptiness of disappointed hearts.

    A dozen long stem roses,
    Godiva chocolates,
    DeBeers Diamonds
    Are Hollywood’s symbols of Love,
    This kind of love is decorated eggshells
    purchased with green paper.

    This love is only the surface to a deep ocean.
    Everyday, I see the deeper side.
    A mother, whose 17 year old son had a brain tumor
    and while in surgery had a stroke and became virtually paralyzed.
    Now 5 years later, still every day she and a caregiver
    work with his arms and legs so now he can sit up
    in his wheelchair without falling over,
    he can with assistance stand from bed to get in the wheelchair.

    The wife whose husband has Parkinson’s
    everyday she baths him, changes his diaper many times,
    dresses him, makes his breakfast,
    reads him the newspaper and they talk about world events
    takes him to movies and they discuss the story
    pulls out photos of the kids and grandkids and
    remember precious moments together.

    As ALS minimized mothers movements
    eating her muscles bite by bite,
    Dad would not allow
    weak muscles to deprive mom
    of her fierce courage and dignity.

    He left his beloved job in the cockpit of a 747
    to become a nurse, housecleaner, chef, and handyman.
    He bought the freshest fruit, vegetables and meat.
    He made his gourmet humus, shish-kebob,
    baked apple-cinnamon bread pudding.
    He chopped it, mashed it, pureed them so
    She got all the taste and little chewing.

    He picked flowers from the yard
    to bring petals of sunlight inside every morning.

    His hands massaged her aching muscles
    and moved her arms and legs.
    Gently he would lift her into shower or
    bath even when his back hurt.

    When she awakened from pain
    because her ear had pressure on it
    and she couldn’t lift her head,
    he carved a special pillow
    so there was a hole in which
    her ear could sleep.

    In every progressive stage of her disease
    his tireless gentle farmer-mechanic hands
    and problem solving brain
    worked in unity with only one purpose,
    to keep mom warm, comfortable
    and to allow her to do whatever her muscles
    determination and courage would permit that day.
    He never forgot the pledge,
    “in sickness and in health”

    Love is a deep ocean.

  91. Jane Shlensky

    Aging into Love

    It’s not the same as when
    we were young and up to
    challenging every annoyance;
    now we feel our deep aches,
    avoiding long drops, sagging
    into togetherness, my hands
    kneading your bread, your
    hands lifting my load, each
    knowing the worst, hoping
    the best, passionate about
    keeping squirrels from bird
    feeders or the taste of fresh
    strawberries, intimate with
    new spins on old memories
    and the dusty grace of ripe
    blueberries. We take one
    another for granted, in work,
    in love, in well and ill, only
    sometimes allowing thoughts
    to roam to what life would be
    without the other, that hollow
    fear we try to befriend for later.
    And still we stay.
    And still we love.

    1. cindishipley

      passionate about
      keeping squirrels from bird
      feeders or the taste of fresh
      strawberries, intimate with
      new spins on old memories
      and the dusty grace of ripe

      This conveys such a strong image to me. We all want to have that kind of love, I think.

  92. Cameron Steele

    Casualties of nature

    We lost them —
    the holding hands
    long hours in the yard
    cool evenings
    on the porch
    quoting from favorite
    Western shows and
    La Vie En Rose

    We lost the smells
    of the house
    warm and woodsy
    Bill hewing some
    in the shed
    Linda smoking a pipe
    tapping her foot
    along to
    an Edith Piaf record.

    And it was —
    on the porch
    in the house
    all over the yards
    La Vie En Rose
    life’s pits and stems
    cast against our parents

    The storm came in April
    Hold me close
    Linda said. Hold me fast
    the humming of
    the earth
    the opening up.
    No one told them —
    When heaven sighs,
    it yawns with teeth
    snapped limbs
    stinking debris
    looped around
    the air.

    We found them
    in woods
    next to the yard.
    Every bone in Bill’s
    body broken
    this rough-hewn man
    holding hands
    with the woman
    who spoke French
    smoked tobacco
    from pipes.
    We lost the way
    every word
    every day
    turned into

    How easy they became
    art. How easy they
    made falling in love
    with routine
    and dancing next to
    a wooden
    sagging front door.

    1. De Jackson

      Cameron Steele! I have been missing you this year. I love this, and shall now go back and search your name for previous days. You were one of my absolute favorites last year. So great to see your name. :)

  93. drwasy


    Today I baked an apple cake
    three apples firm, not bruised.
    New crop apples,
    you would have said,
    best for eating out-of-hand
    but all I had in stock

    It is the dice of apples
    that makes the cake;
    too small and applesauce,
    too large and teeth break.
    You supervise even now
    your admonishments louder
    than the radio’s bray.

    Flour sifts, ghost veils
    brown sugar churns
    with butter, nuts cracked
    chopped for adding later.
    For crunch, you said,
    bones of the cake.
    Collected, the cake settles
    into its greased glass pan,
    baked until the apples soften.

    Baking apple cake reminds me
    of mountain afternoons
    walking through sweet hay
    fields to orchards, fallow
    now, and frost-bitten,
    wizened apples hung
    still in cider-spiked air.
    We carted our rare prizes
    in brown burlap, bundled
    in your lap, by your feet.
    The truck bounced down
    the rocky hillside, you laughed.

    Later, with apple ache
    rounding our bellies
    I cut into the cake
    still warm, vanilla ice cream
    puddled on our plates.

    Peace, LindaS-W

  94. Katrin

    When we were a river
    I flowed through you
    And you spun eddies
    around me

    Our rapids were
    never terrifying,
    fueled only by gravity and
    high-octane exhilaration

    There was never a need
    to measure flow/cubic foot;
    insightful planning
    avoided any newsworthy floods

    Our banks were pure
    cliff swallow, turtle
    The willows caressed
    with wisp’s serenity

    And, before we found
    ourselves floating down
    more fertile, practical and
    demanding tributaries
    lined with work, duty, stagnant pools,

    the sky, the lead painter of
    our blue ebbing, sang colour
    in major keys,
    watery shadows dissolving as
    we left them behind,
    as we headed with oblivion
    toward life’s cascades
    our courses, in the whirling vortex,
    soon entangled

    1. Joseph Harker

      Great approach, and the metaphor just changes and builds and develops… so many nice uses of it. I think “sang colour in major keys” is especially nice. And even though it’s a love poem, it’s got undercurrents (pun intended) of complication and dissonance, which is necessary.

  95. barbara_y

    Love Poem

    One may
    crush a fistful of leaves
    or petals
    onto lined paper and the result is a poem
    or destruction, violence, methodology, 
    or even art,
    but it isn’t a poem
    about love,
    which is simpler.

  96. RJ Clarken

    Ooops – that should have been Desdemona – and NOT Ophelia. I started the stanza with one play and finished with another, but forgot to change the character. Yikes! Here’s the corrected version.

    Shakespearean Love Advice

    “Love goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.” –William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing – Act 3, Scene 2

    The bard was always writing on
    those star-crossed tales of love. Its spawn
    have been retellings, with a spin
    with entrances to exeunts. Fin.

    So….Romeo dug Juliet
    but what, exactly, did they get?
    With poisons, stab wounds…not a win.
    Damned entrances and exeunts. Fin.

    Desdemona did so not cheat.
    It was Iago’s big deceit
    which caused Othello’s final sin.
    Damned entrances and exeunts. Fin.

    And even in the sonnets, he
    would oft pen love’s lost. Misery.
    Re: Shakespeare, love is just chagrin.
    Damned entrances and exeunts. Fin.


  97. Michael Grove

    Reach For The Stars

    I want to share in your dreams
    and make them all come true.
    I want to help you each day,
    and be there with you.

    I want to hold you and love you
    for the rest of my life.
    We’ll reach for the stars
    if you’ll be my wife.

    By Michael Grove

  98. RJ Clarken

    Shakespearean Love Advice

    “Love goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.” –William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing – Act 3, Scene 2

    The bard was always writing on
    those star-crossed tales of love. Its spawn
    have been retellings, with a spin
    with entrances to exeunts. Fin.

    So….Romeo dug Juliet
    but what, exactly, did they get?
    Some poisons, stab wounds…not a win.
    Damned entrances and exeunts. Fin.

    Ophelia did so not cheat.
    It was Iago’s big deceit
    which caused Othello’s final sin.
    Damned entrances and exeunts. Fin.

    And even in the sonnets, he
    would oft pen love’s lost. Misery.
    Re: Shakespeare, love is just chagrin.
    Damned entrances and exeunts. Fin.


  99. Imaginalchemy

    “The Cure for Love Sickness”

    1 cup of common sense
    1/3 cup of reason
    2 tbsp. independence
    1 pinch of self control (to season)
    1 tsp. of personal goals or unclouded vision
    1/2 tsp. of “I’d rather have my own life”
    A dash of 100% self-oriented decision
    A drop of your true colors (to scare off a husband or wife)

    Mix together until well blended, then freeze overnight.
    Drink up, and all your adorations will be forgotten.
    Use when necessary, until you are cured of love’s blight.
    (Side effects may include loneliness, regret, and feeling rotten)

  100. Michael Grove

    Forever Together

    I’m with you forever.
    You’re my one and only.
    I’ll be there for you.
    You’ll never be lonely.

    I’ll hold your hand gently,
    but, I will be strong.
    We’re forever together.
    Now it won’t be long,

    ‘till we’re living in peace
    knowing it‘s right
    and I’m holding you close
    every single night.

    By Michael Grove

  101. Beth Rodgers

    Unnecessary fear
    Inflates the phobia
    Of commitment.

    While in a search for guidance
    All he finds is solemnity
    Uncertainty and
    The instinctive nurturing of
    An undeveloped sense of doubt.

    This has led to poor decisions
    But it will strengthen his resolve
    To overcome the odds and
    Find peace within himself
    Leading to greater relationships
    With those compassionate enough
    To have withstood his irrationality.

  102. HannaAnna

    A Beautiful Lie

    You promised to love me when we made our vows, You promised me forever.
    Every time you wiped my tears away, or brushed my hair away from my face…
    When we first held each of our four sons after birth, You promised me forever.
    Every day as we watched them grow, every dinner our family shared…
    Every night as I laid down beside you, You promised me forever.
    But I saw you with her today. I watched your lips press against hers. I saw you promise her
    It was all just a beautiful lie, So this is good-bye… forever.

  103. De Jackson

    When We Knew

    The moment you
    no longer thought
    of me, no longer
    sought from me
    one ounce worth
    green, or blue
    we knew
    we were gone.

    These lost
    elements of me,
    some lone crumb
    of you, now unseen.
    Gone. Went. Been.
    thought for
    you went rouge
    for one
    cost us sun, moon

    This is my first “Beautiful Outlaw” Lipogram. To find out more about the form, and which letters were completely avoided in writing this poem (and why), click here:

      1. De Jackson

        For love of my own ardent neuroses about typos, here it is, corrected, and with some italics I forgot to “html” earlier…

        When We Knew

        The moment you
        no longer thought
        of me, no longer
        sought from me
        one ounce worth
        green, or blue
        we knew
        we were gone.

        These lost
        elements of me,
        some lone crumb
        of you, now unseen.
        Gone. Went. Been.
        thought for
        you went rogue
        for one
        cost us sun, moon

        1. Hannah

          Oh, on reading this again (the first time via your blog), I see something more…I really like how this part:

          “sought from me
          one ounce worth
          green, or blue”

          lines up with and almost exemplifies this:

          “These lost
          elements of me,”

          As if the very elements of you weep of beautiful blues and greens!

          Such a great work, De!!Smiles!

          1. De Jackson

            Awww, thanks Hannah. I was also thinking of green as envy/jealousy, and blue as sadness, and how once the love is gone, there’s no need for either.

  104. competitivewriter

    Simple Love Poem

    I could do a ‘compare thee to a summers day type of thing’
    For you are nature’s eloquence
    the softness of sunsets is present in the warm glow of your skin
    the fragile beauty of flower petals dances upon your lips each time we kiss
    the magnificence of mountains resides in your strength and courage and unshakable loyalty
    the endlessness of the sea dwells in your infinite eyes that I’ll lose myself in until the end of time

    But the fancy words and whispered verse
    while complete deserved
    pull attention away from the core reason I love you.

    You make me laugh everyday and every time that happens
    I fall in love all over again.

  105. Earl Parsons

    Love Is A Risk

    Love is a risk

    Is it worth the pain
    The rejection
    The tears
    And the grief

    What about the heartbreak
    The sleepless nights
    Tear stained pillows
    And the embarrassment of failure

    Few get it right the first time
    Some take years to find
    Love that will last
    Some never find love
    And some don’t even try

    So sad

    Love is a risk

    And there will be pain
    Tears and grief

    There will be heartbreak
    Sleepless nights
    Tear stained pillows
    And the embarrassment of failure

    But if it is true love
    It will all be worth it

    Love is a risk
    A risk worth taking

  106. Andrew Kreider

    For love of the land

    It was the only way to save the farm,
    what with the downturn in buttermilk sales
    and the trend away from walnut tables.

    They set up a camera in the barn
    three nights a week when the kids were in bed
    with a hurricane lamp for heat and light.

    There wasn’t much plot. But it was steamy,
    with hay bales and harnesses aplenty,
    black décolletage and gelassenheit.

    No one could ever be sure it was them,
    for she had let her hair all the way down,
    and he kept his hat on the entire time.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Especially love your last two lines, Andrew! She let her hair down and he kept his hat on . . . is just such a perfect picture ending for your poem! Love it!

  107. Paoos69


    Love is like the third-eye of Shiva
    Being unknowingly present
    Until shut
    Causing endless chaos
    Once open

    Unexpressed, it is beautiful
    Just to be experienced
    Within, and without
    Expressed, it has repercussions
    Desired, undesired
    Lovely feeling no doubt
    A small, lurking
    Pinch in the heart

    Shown in various loud
    And subtle ways
    A longing look
    A warm, bear hug
    Cuddling in one blanket snug
    Giving gifts
    Flowers and jewels
    Walking on the beach
    Hand in hand
    It’s just like the sand
    Slipping through the toes

    A cozy feeling
    Sometimes one-way
    Ideally two
    The crème of life
    A cause to survive
    Sometimes hetero
    Sometimes gay
    As is the contemporary way
    Long and undying
    This sought-after feeling
    Cause of suffering
    With a broken heart shying
    And yet the gist of all being
    This love, the loved, and the loving

  108. RJ Clarken

    True Love, in Pencil

    If puppy love is just a crush
    then why am I a blob of mush
    each time I hear your voice? Your name?
    Dear ___________, you set my heart aflame.

    I left the name-line blank, you see,
    ‘though you mean all the world to me!
    But next week? Maybe not the same.
    Dear ___________, you set my heart aflame.

    You are my love. (At least, I think.)
    My pencils spell my words. (Not ink.)
    I ♥ U…yes, I have no shame.
    Dear ___________, you set my heart aflame.

    If, at the dance, it comes to pass
    you dance with me, then our whole class
    may grant to us ‘It Couple’ fame.
    Dear ___________, you set my heart aflame.


    As you can probably see (in the first line), I started this poem with another thought in mind. However, as strange as it may sound, I kind of got some sort of – hmmm…what? A feeling? – that I should write it with a funny/upbeat voice because that’s what my ‘puppy’ would have liked.

    That, in turn, made me think about a desk set I had back when I was a teen. I was always crushing on some boy, so I would write our names together in a heart on it (in pencil) – so I could change it to another name, as caprice and my teenaged sensibilities would direct. (My mother still teases me about it to this day.)

  109. Ber

    When lightening strikes twice

    I know I have seen you somewhere before
    Remembering you cross the footpath
    As I tripped over and nearly fell through the glass door
    Your smile and manner it caught my eye

    I told myself someday I will get that boy
    As time went by so did life
    I was with another
    Such is life

    Then on that night on the bridge
    You stroked my ankles
    It gave me the chills
    In a good way not in bad
    My belly went a flutter
    I had a smile on my face
    Almost looked mad

    Our paths had crossed again
    We were suppose to be together
    We danced the night away
    And vowed to live with one another that day

    You completed my world
    You made me who I am
    I am glad to say that you are my man
    The simple things that you do for me
    Like bringing me breakfast in bed
    My toast and my tea

    We may be like ships in the night
    But I know that night we did something right
    We have never split up or parted our ways
    Almost 20 yrs now
    You still amaze me

    Your so selfless and given
    All you do for me and your family
    No money can buy
    The happiness and love you bring to me
    I love you more than time itself
    You’re my hour glass sand filled heart in my chest of a shelf

    As time goes by and our children grow up
    They are equal to you and that’s pretty tough
    You have been my inspiration from the day we met
    On that you can believe
    I will never have any regrets
    I love you more than now
    Even more than then
    I wish they could clone you
    If I was to mark you, you’re my 10 out of 10

    1. Hannah

      SO sweet, Ber!! I love to hear a love-success story!

      This was beautifully creative, too:

      “I love you more than time itself
      You’re my hour glass sand filled heart in my chest of a shelf”

      I liked the idea of your heart being a shelf! Smiles!

      1. Ber

        Thank you Hannah we have survived the storm and still going strong we certainly are ships in the night and i like to think thats where i store my emotions other than my brain

  110. JanetRuth

    I do not know
    How to write of love…
    …this double-edged thought
    Of wonderment and faith
    Oh love, the fulfillment
    Of mortal torment
    Yet ever the longing
    and thirst beneath
    our holding on
    And our release
    A gripping storm
    Yet, rock-solid peace
    In the ‘going beyond’
    When nobody knows
    But One
    As we suffer long
    Love’s highs and its lows
    Leaving the heart ragged
    With disbelief
    Of humble gratitude
    And earth-shattering grief

    1. Hannah

      Oh, Janet, this is so beautifully wrought! These lines spoke volumes to my heart:

      “our holding on
      And our release
      A gripping storm
      Yet, rock-solid peace”

      Love the contrast within these!

  111. PKP

    tea and honey
    at four am
    sore throat
    you cooled
    the tea
    just enough
    pouring it
    one clinking glass
    Mothers magic
    I heard
    brewed in
    kitchen light


    On the couch
    A Lipton’s tea bag
    floats in a tepid cup
    I should buy honey

  112. Nancy Posey

    Luv Ya, Mean It.

    A prescription for the times: cut back
    on true love and dole out luv—love lite.
    Not a chance it will adhere to your hips or thighs—
    or heart. Once you get past the aftertaste,
    it’s hard to distinguish from the real thing.
    It gets the old ticker pumping, hands
    clammy, face a-flush. Readily transferable,
    you can dish it out, reel it in, spread
    a hunka hunka burning whole lotta luv
    everywhere you go, without mussing
    your hair or letting a single worried
    thought run through that pretty little
    empty head of yours. You can wash it clean,
    gone sooner than a henna tattoo without
    a trace, no more than a message left
    on your machine, one you’ll never play.
    You know the one I mean: I thought
    you said you’d call. What happened?

  113. PKP

    When it’s not – It’s not

    I tried
    you were
    a good sweet
    boy smelling
    of graduation aftershave
    and college to come
    I tried
    you were my buddy
    for high school years
    the best of the bunch
    I tried
    You were the only son
    I loved your mother
    you watched ME
    in movies with
    Andress, Loren,
    lucious luminous
    I tried
    to love
    your wet
    brotherly kisses
    your stubby fingers
    reaching around
    my neck
    pulling me to
    a together future
    I tried
    to wear the
    pearl ring
    the ankle bracelet
    with the diamond chip
    I tried to
    see in you
    what glowed
    in me for you
    I tried
    I wrote
    a two column list
    Pro and Con
    on a long legal pad
    one side
    filled with reasons
    falling off the bottom
    why I SHOULD love
    (first roses-on-Valentines Day
    sweet, certain, solid)

    the other
    side coldly
    empty of all
    but the wrong
    wretched true two
    I DIDN’T

    I tried
    We cried

    I tried
    and burnt the
    paper after
    giving it to you
    sobbing seventeen
    together clasped
    in our final moonlight
    I tried
    in vain…

  114. uneven steven

    the love governor – a love/anti-love declaration and rant

    (before we begin –
    you, on the other side of the aisle,
    be sure to apologize profusely for you have offended those
    who believe you don’t have a right to express
    your own opinions)
    all righty
    let today’s session begin-
    transvaginal probes
    government small enough
    to fit into your vagina
    no really,
    if you were raped
    (and by the way just what were you wearing)
    you really wouldn’t mind your government
    probing you again would you, slutty lady
    and why wouldn’t you want to have
    that rapists baby-
    sally from accounting
    we need to know
    why you are on the pill
    every sperm is sacred mr smith
    sorry, we know you’re a man
    but we’re an Equal Opportunity Employer
    so tell us about this viagra
    do you have any hard evidence
    of your medical condition
    and did you hear
    santorum’s sweater vest swears
    it’s only right and natural
    procreation not recreation 2012
    who knew vulcan pon farr
    would have made it into this
    presidential election
    and don’t get me started on minneapolis
    airport restrooms, evangelical boy raping
    taxpayer sponsored marcus bachman
    stylish tough loving hug hug hug
    beat the gay out of you
    oh good lord
    we do hereby declare
    this an era of republican
    lovin for
    they really do want to
    F you over
    and over again
    so be sure
    to cinch your belt
    and don’t turn your back
    on the love governor
    from your very own
    of incredulity –
    the stylish gay

    1. PKP

      Now this is the way a rant is ranted…perfectly rhythmically ranty…. In the fine tradition of political poetics ( and a polite introductory apology) brilliantly woven tapestry of passion

  115. Nancy Posey

    Love Song for My Sons

    At ease with our own love, time-stamped
    by laugh lines, salt-and-pepper hair,
    not ill at ease with companionable silence,
    I wish that I could ease them through the pains,
    the pangs, the open wounds of new love.
    These sons of ours, so ripe for love, hearts
    visible on their sleeves, easy Cupid’s marks,
    advance and then retreat like soldiers
    far removed from command, acting
    more on instinct that on orders.
    What do they know of battles, they
    who mistake the skirmishes for war?
    Assured that love awaits them, maybe
    even love like ours, the lasting kind,
    I wouldn’t have them miss the injuries,
    knowing as I do they scar but do not kill.
    Even now, after decades of certainty,
    knowing where I’ll find you each evening—
    sitting to my left, sleeping to my right—
    I still sometimes run my fingers
    over the silver scars left by old loves,
    reading them like Braille, part of my skin
    now, part of our story, not so different
    from the ones our sons are writing now.

  116. laurie kolp

    A Mother’s Love

    Let me wrap my arms around you
    keep you safe within their reach
    away from life’s hard knocks
    the violence, bitterness
    hatred and injustice
    so your innocence
    won’t fade away
    like a ship on
    the horizon.

  117. Arike


    Concrete – the gravel rubs me raw
    Sand scorches the skin where scarce
    Leftovers of your declarations sent
    Me reeling off into deep space no more
    Base – you promised, but wasn’t to be
    Ever again the man I met and built
    On, solid, a bit grey perhaps but here
    What a marsh you’ve proven to be
    And now you’ve left me sinking and
    Let me hate you with a good solid whack
    Over the head, there, you’re lying down
    Finally staying where I can see you
    So I can walk away and find a place
    To build my self-love back up again
    I hate both of us in this relationship

  118. PKP

    Love on two wheels

    I watched from the
    as you – thin
    small shoulders
    hunched, mucle bunched
    hair blown back
    grin trailing
    the air of
    that kindred kindergarten
    summer night
    the very air swirled
    as sparks shot
    shafted Midas beams
    drenching a melty molten
    heart shimmer shivered
    in shining sacrosanct
    loving – for – you
    as you flew
    rounding all corners

  119. Hannah


    Do you see it there?
    Follow that length,
    the thin string
    with your eyes,
    round that branch
    captured in that
    fist of twigs.
    Force yourself
    for a bit longer
    to look to the
    depths of that
    darkest, tallest,
    looming pine.
    Can you see that
    nest of line that’s
    gathered in a nook?
    It goes farther
    reaching, deeper
    infinitely, abysmally.
    Yes, now let
    your eyes adjust
    to the darkness,
    in that thick area
    the mass of pine-needles,
    like an intricate
    veining system,
    a coronary collision.
    Within this,
    can you see
    a glimpse of red,
    a bit of splintered,
    pale, wooden dowel,
    the scarlet scrim
    flagging with small
    quick movements?
    It’s like a
    captured animal
    It is a forlorn kite.
    Yes, I can see
    it’s moving still,
    I can feel passion
    hungrily surging,
    hopefully waiting
    for the next gale;
    grace giving flight
    to a heavily burdened
    long burgeoning love.
    Can you see it?

    © H.G. @ P.A. 4/24/12

    1. JanetRuth

      Hannah, I was looking forward to seeing what inspiration would seize you:) You continue to exceed expectation! THIS leaves the reader speechless and breathless ! SO many capturing phrases…’fist of twigs.’…’a coronary collision’…’the scarlet scrim’ just to name a few!

  120. Benjamin Thomas

    Pillow Talk

    Just another minute…
    I definitely don’t want to leave you.
    With you, I’m so comfortable.
    Deluded by buoyant embrace.
    So, so drawn to your softness, cuddlesome character.
    When I’m with you, I’m weightless.
    And my cozen bones whisk away…

  121. Marjory MT


    I was young I tried a wine
    not knowing it was such.
    Just know it was a wondrous thing
    I loved it very much.

    The young grow old and then move on.
    Wine’s set ‘side for ‘other day.
    Unseen, untasted within a room.
    Bottled up and stored away.

    Until that wine is found once more
    quite unexpectedly,
    and for a time all deeply drink
    that wine so eagerly.

    Intoxicating brew it is,
    full flooding mind and heart,
    engulfing, filling, warming all
    deep down in every part.

    Whatever time or place it be,
    what ‘ere the situation,
    that wine just seemed to fill and fit
    with honest good intention.

    Sip only very little bit
    of wine poured ‘head of time,
    Savor only sip or two, more ‘er loved
    ‘tis not so true and kind.

    Oh strong intoxicating thing,
    take only sip or two.
    If drunk too full before it’s time
    it is the devil’s brew.

    For measured time, or all eternity,
    wine within its room must sit
    and ne’er again intoxicate
    ‘til age, time and place all fit.

    Full body, sweet and wonderful,
    yes, ‘tis a good-fine wine.
    May hap’ I’ll drink my full of it
    (or not) in future time.

    1. Ber

      love of wine i do not drink but people are so passionate about their wine i work in food retail and i am asked everyday what is the best wine. It is a love to have

  122. Iain Douglas Kemp

    Dear Moosehead,
    Hah! Nothing I love better
    than making a Texan eat his words!
    The Yanks sure are hot on the road right
    now. Love that too! Well my beloved wife
    and your mother are back and strangely
    full of the joys of spring… weird, but kinda nice!
    You know I don’t hate them, Just as I don’t hate
    you, you ass! I just get my brain fried by their
    constant nagging. Gotta love Jimmy the Greek
    for taking them off my hands for a week.
    I do hate the Mets and the Sox though, let’s get that clear.
    Pick me up at 7 would ya? We’ll catch the game at the bar.

    Yours loving it while I can
    Ringo the Howler

  123. PowerUnit

    I watched you this morning on our commute to work
    your hair and face shining in the damp bus,
    a stormy day, one of those stalled systems
    that drops rain for days and floods the peat bogs
    we built our city on.
    It’s been what, almost two years since the littlest one left?
    And now he’s back, occupying a room we didn’t use anyway.
    Our life has change much in this brief flight into freedom.
    Looking back, our life constantly changed anyway;
    though we couldn’t really recognize it much.
    We’ve both dropped pounds
    and taken up new hobbies.
    I write and you speak.
    Who’d have thought you’d now be running for mayor?
    Who’d have thought I’d be writing novels, or God forbid, poetry?

    How did we get on this road?
    I thought our road was ended, a cul-de-sac of mediocrity.
    How come your face shines so?
    Where did that extra step come from?
    How come you make me smile more now than ever?

    Show, don’t tell they say to me.
    Let the reader figure it out from actions.
    Create tension, character, and scene.
    Lead them on they say; don’t give it away
    But I need to say it. I love you.

  124. Iain Douglas Kemp

    On Reflection

    Mirror, mirror
    on the wall
    who’s the fairest
    of them all?

    The girl you met
    when you were young
    she stole your heart
    with a gun

    She broke it into
    little pieces
    and left you with
    nasty diseases

    She told your friends
    in bed you’re crap
    and made you feel
    a total sap

    She ran off
    with a guy called Bob
    and you turned into
    a big fat slob

    Mirror, mirror
    in the hall
    what’s the point
    of love at all?

    To learn that
    for sake of your health
    the one to love
    is yourself


  125. Jamal Abboud


    I tore my notebook,
    I have kept for fears,
    On the shelf of safe years,
    For a word or a look,
    To be registered,
    Beneath a title born free,
    Chastely says,” I love thee”,
    But the pages followed
    Remained empty,
    Yellowy brown,
    eroded with a frown
    of hostile enmity,
    with my pen and heart,
    my passion, hand and eyes,
    and cripples colorful lives,
    And breeds the cruelest unsight,
    So cold no dreams shine in me,
    And words in misery freeze,
    In spirit in despair at ease,
    Reflecting impact of thee.

  126. Jamal Abboud

    On the scale of quantity

    I love you quite a little bit
    On the scale of quantity,
    only you can decide quality,
    for I’m truly ignorant of it.

    You appear in ways of bless,
    bestowed beauty of grace,
    bearing charm on a humble face,
    Strewing mirth of a calm bliss.

    Your smile echoes your eyes
    Colorful dance with proud sun,
    rousing spring’s birth in its run,
    while lilies mingle with love sighs.

    Your lips are two lines of verse,
    unspoiled as roses in a wild field,
    unmentioned nor heard or spelled
    rehearsing desire then rehearse.

    I see you flames of gentleness,
    That burns, sedates endless desire,
    Yet remains readily to blaze as fire,
    Either a little more, neither less.

  127. Marjory MT

    If only I could tell you.
    by verbalizing thoughts,
    so you could come
    to comprehend the feelings
    in my heart.

    I would have a
    thousand things to tell you,
    in a million different ways,
    about the beautiful
    and loving things
    that fill my daily gaze.

  128. MiskMask

    For Love of Emma

    Her voice is downy soft and crystal clear.
    It sings and sways like a breeze playing
    catch-me-if-you-can through wind chimes.

    My eyes welled
    My heart swelled with love
    Hi, Nana

    Emma says from her end
    of the telephone line. It links
    her words to my heart
    that aches to hold her again.

  129. Mystical-Poet

    Beautiful Budding Flower

    Her beauty a cascading parade of compliments
    Her voice a bubbly and effervescent stream of kind words
    soft, graciously tender, and devoid of hard feelings
    Her skin a fragile gift to my touch
    Whatever benevolence created this world
    Bestowed it’s blessing upon her
    Her radiance a display of photoelectric brilliance
    Her smile a lighthouse beacon to my heart
    Her skin cream intoxicates my senses
    Her physical beauty only surpassed by inner beauty
    She is the promise of unimagined dreams
    The pulse of my soul answers to her vibrations
    And I kiss her when I please

    ~ Randy Bell ~

    1. Hannah

      I love this portion, Randy:

      “Her skin a fragile gift to my touch
      Whatever benevolence created this world
      Bestowed it’s blessing upon her”

      Acknowledging the gift giver…smiles!

  130. Khara H.

    My reverie

    When I first saw you, you were a milk Rorschach
    swirled with cocoa and fawn, a honey spot
    wrapped in russet raffia waiting for my arms. You
    traced me down a path of bronze, of flickering lights
    licking stone facades with heat—violin strings
    your siren call to a murky water point, the peninsula of longing—

    where you tell me you will wait,
    forever, wait,

    and so for you—when the night falls embers
    against tree skeletons whose branching ebony bones caress
    my window’s pane and soothe me
    into each night’s slumbering longing—

    for you, oh ache, oh soul, oh vision—
    I will wait, forever, wait.