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2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 15

Categories: Poetry Challenge 2014, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

Want to learn more about me than you thought you could possibly handle in one interview? Great! One of my favorite poets, Nin Andrews, interviewed me over on the Best American Poetry Blog. The interview shares so many secrets that somebody will probably make a movie based off the interview. Okay, maybe not, but still, it’s a good read (I’ve been told by someone who’s not related to me). Click here to read.

For today’s prompt, we actually have a Two-for-Tuesday prompt:

  • Write a love poem. Love, it’s such a big 4-letter word that can mean so much to so many for a variety of interpretations. Friendly love, sexual love, dorky love, all-encompassing love, jealous love, anxious love, love beaten with a baseball bat, hot love, big love, blues love, greeting card love, forgiving love, greedy love, love in a music video, and so on and so forth.
  • Write an anti-love poem. Well, kinda like love, but take it back the other way.

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Here’s my attempt at a Love and/or Anti-Love Poem:

“first sight”

i surrender you render me
as a fragile kite on your string
or as some flashy one-night fling
choose me use me baby bruise me
if that is what you want to do
to me i see where we are gone
begin the night don’t leave ’til dawn
amaze me crazy make me blue
but honey please don’t make me guess
let the sun rise let the sun shine
tell me sugar that you are mine
as i am yours yes i confess
if this is love let it be true
i’ve surrendered myself to you

*****

Today’s guest judge is…

Barbara Hamby

Barbara Hamby

Barbara Hamby

Barbara is the author of five books of poems, most recently On the Street of Divine Love: New and Selected Poems (2014)  published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, which also published Babel (2004) and All-Night Lingo Tango (2009). She was a 2010 Guggenheim fellow in Poetry and her book of short stories, Lester Higata’s 20th Century, won the 2010 Iowa Short Fiction Award.

She teaches at Florida State University where she is Distinguished University Scholar.

Learn more at: www.barbarahamby.com

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PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

Poems, Prompts & Room to Add Your Own for the 2014 April PAD Challenge!

Words Dance Publishing is offering 20% off pre-orders for the Poem Your Heart Out anthology until May 1st! If you’d like to learn a bit more about our vision for the book, when it will be published, among other details.

Click to continue.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. He’s fascinated by the constant balance (or lack of) between violence and peace. Learn more about him here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

586 Responses to 2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 15

  1. Heidi says:

    IT WAS LOVE

    He dropped dead
    bare chested
    married thirty-six years,
    seven children,
    he dropped dead.

    Her hands used to cooking
    pumped his chest,
    not breathing,
    on his heart
    not beating,
    five minutes eeked
    until paramedics arrived
    with electric shock
    and gurney,
    twenty minutes waiting
    for a heart to beat
    that was not beating.

    “A faint pulse,”
    came the cry.
    They sped to the hospital
    sirens wailing
    stopping traffic.
    Five hours
    in surgery
    a two-inch stent,
    the left ventricle blown.
    Prognosis grim.
    Death,
    or life in a nursing home,
    call family home,
    now call family.

    But God in His
    Glory gave him
    a chance.
    He awoke from the coma
    with no brain damaged,
    nine days in the hospital,
    nurses smiling
    at the Miracle Man.
    It was love
    that sent him
    back to his family,
    with a new heart beating
    a new heart.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  2. ianchandler says:

    groundskeeping

    you tickled me back under cornflower sky
    as the daisies grew tall, grew breasts, grew under the light,
    grew darker, magnetic, horrific
    they grew in a trance
    of bought smoke and borrowed petals,
    all to promenade on our lawn
    which I forgot to fertilize one day
    and the weeds grew taller, grew breastser, grew under the lighter,
    grew darkerer, magneticer, horrificer,
    until they blocked out the cornflower

    it was an accident

    I roosted on our windowsill, peering out
    until
    with a sickle
    you harvested me backward,
    forward,
    you reigned me in
    with comfortable skin and endless eyes,

    in our cornflower living room
    where the only daisies are your lilies,
    blooming inside my organs like I’m a living garden,
    where the only breasts are your breasts,
    where the only light is our light,
    growing lighter, center of gravity, beautific
    growing in a trance
    of each other’s traded hearts like baseball cards,
    all to become plants of our ideal life
    which I water eight a day,
    sometimes nine.

  3. Christine Sutherland says:

    WESLEY
    by Christine D Sutherland

    Working tirelessly day after day,
    Everyone expecting you to show them the way,
    Sitting alone in empty motel rooms,
    Lonely the days pass wondering if you’ll be home soon,
    Ever faithful, patient, and kind,
    Your love always there for me to find.

  4. Angie5804 says:

    This is Love

    All I know is
    He bought me a
    Pair of lime green
    Sandals
    On a spring day
    For no reason
    At all

  5. PenConnor says:

    Love Arriving, Love Leaving

    Your love came in like a lamb:
    light-footed, and playful
    curled against me for warmth
    all tangled and matted wool

    Your love went out like a lion:
    roaring and breaking windows
    angry at such a deep wound.
    No, wait — that was me.

    That was my passion, spilling out
    staining the bedding with tears
    and the floor with blood.
    Your love went out, like it came in.

  6. Rolf Erickson says:

    It Must Be Love

    That’s what my father said.
    And that’s all it took to talk
    my mother into saying, “Yes.”

    I wasn’t there, but I heard the story
    many times through the years.

    And asked my father to tell that story
    just one more time during their
    fortieth wedding anniversary dinner
    prepared by my bride-to-be and me.

    She didn’t know this would be the night
    that I would become bold enough
    after so many years and so many stories
    around the dinner table to ask.

    And I didn’t say, “It must be love.”
    But thankfully, she said, “Yes.”

  7. It was not love.
    It was war.
    And he made a burial ground
    Of your body,
    Digging deep and hiding each of his demons
    Deep within you.
    Headstones decorate your body in the form of bruises.
    R.I.P. to who you used to be.
    His lies are as shallow as your grave
    One big storm and everything will surface.
    The truth always finds its way out
    Even if it has to claw its way out of you.
    -Jaleese Nicole, R.I.P.

  8. lily black says:

    There Ain’t No Love Here

    There ain’t no love here
    The grass don’t grow
    The birds don’t’ sing
    And no squirrels scamper through shady trees

    There ain’t no love here
    This hand don’t get held
    This knee don’t get patted
    And no arms circle these wide open hips

    There ain’t no love here
    There’s no more slaps
    No more spitting
    And no one’s left to cause me pain

    There ain’t no love here
    Just a kid
    Who’s finally safe

  9. lily black says:

    Love Poem
    Sobbing south on the trail of tears
    following old Spanish back roads to the sea
    Lonely leg longs for a hand
    Is that too much?
    A hand on a knee
    “People we were made for love”
    So the song goes
    Perhaps not this lonely scarred knee
    Traveling back roads further and further south.

  10. Snow Write says:

    Looking at the evidence
    Of compatibility
    Velocity carries me
    Ever in your direction

  11. TuLife says:

    “Invasion”
    By: Tuere Allwood

    There’s a four-letter word;
    they call it…well, you know.
    From others, I have heard
    it can be friend or foe.

    I heard it sneaks up on you
    like a thief in the night,
    steals your heart and mind too
    when the timing is right.

    I heard it crowds your meditations
    in the middle of the day,
    but serves as medication
    when it’s made the right way.

    I heard it makes you do strange things
    not even you can understand;
    with the kind of high it brings,
    you walk on water and swim on land.

    I heard when it’s your enemy,
    your whole world just descends.
    So hope that you are fortunate
    and it chooses to be friends.

    I heard it rings your bell
    at times you least expect,
    so you can’t always tell
    that you’re its prime suspect.

    I heard it utilizes strategy
    when entering your home –
    Plan “A” and then Plan “B.”
    By “C”, your house becomes its dome.

    I heard it twists you and turns you
    ‘til you’re tied in a knot,
    but there’s little you can do
    when it’s got you this hot.

    I heard it turns the key
    To your temple when it’s late.
    I wonder what I’ll feel
    when love taps at my gate.

  12. JayGee2711 says:

    This Is Love

    Say something. She says no,
    there’s nothing to say.
    Dust from the shelf swirls
    in the afternoon sun.
    He opens the window,
    a robin sings. He touches
    her hand and this time she
    doesn’t pull it away.

    Julie Germain

  13. clcediting says:

    TAKEN AWAY

    It’s when I turn around
    to tell a tale,
    that I remember;
    you took your love away.

    It’s when I buy white chocolate,
    it’s your favorite,
    and then can’t share it
    because you took your love away.

    It’s when Christmas
    comes and goes
    with barely a blink
    for you took your love away.

    It’s when lovers
    are stupidly happy
    on February the 14th
    but you took your love away.

    And when old age
    makes bones creak
    and memories fade,
    I can’t remember why
    you took your love away.

  14. horselovernat says:

    When I Looked into His Eyes by Natalie Gasper

    This last year had been tough.
    A relationship ended, difficult career decisions,
    never mind numerous family complications.
    To take the cake as one might say, my horse and I were constantly at war,
    each ride was a struggle for dominance, leadership, simple cooperation.
    After months of our arguments, my limit with Icon had been found
    so I decided to take a different horse to a local show.
    Shying, spooking, spinning; our ride there was a delicate dance,
    one for which I did not know the steps. Upon arrival,
    he saw a monster in the shadows and off I came. Me. I had fallen
    off of Quarry, the easiest horse in the barn, the horse that 5 year olds
    ride without fear. I remounted, determined this was a simple fluke.
    But each class I entered went progressively worse and worse. In my fifteen
    years of riding horses, I had never before felt so embarrassed.
    A few days later I returned to the barn in the evening, desiring a simple ride
    with Icon. Too beaten down to tack up, I rode bareback. My fortunes of late didn’t
    hide for long: as soon as I asked him to trot, he spooked, and I slipped off.
    I had fallen twice in less than a week, the hurt all the greater
    because this time, it was with my horse, the one I had spent almost 4 years working with.
    Face down in the grimy sand I could feel my life slipping,
    all hopes, anything positive, every ounce of confidence,
    gone. Devasted, I began to cry softly,
    unable to hold it in any longer, unable to see my future.

    At some point, I realized that Icon was loose in the arena.
    But when I found the strength to look up, he was there.
    He had not taken one step after I had fallen.
    Surprised, I pulled myself into a seated position,
    wondering at what had happened. Reins trailing on the
    ground his eyes met mine, and towards me he walked.
    Still crying, I watched him come as close as he dared,
    nuzzling me as if to check for broken parts.
    He placed his left leg out and lowered his head to ground.
    I wrapped my shaking arms around his neck
    and felt his strong muscles as he pulled me to my feet,
    waiting for me to have the strength to let go.
    Taking a step back, our heads were now equal as I met his gaze,
    looked into the soft brown eyes I had come to know so well.
    A shiver shot down my spine and I felt my heart warm.
    In this moment, I knew he loved me.
    This horse that had once tried to kill me, hated hugs, and despised
    any form of affection knew I was his person.
    As I looked at him, I realized that he was my reason
    to push through this slum in my life. When I looked into his eyes he saved me,
    because I realized he would always love me, no matter what.

  15. madeline40 says:

    It must be love.
    Why else do
    they stay together?
    They bicker,
    they don’t like the same books,
    movies, foods, or drinks.
    Yet, when his loving eyes
    peer into hers,
    she melts.
    After forty years
    it must be love.

  16. Rolf Erickson says:

    It Must Be Love

    • Rolf Erickson says:

      It Must Be Love

      That’s what my father said.
      And that’s all it took to talk
      my mother into saying, “Yes.”

      I wasn’t there, but I heard the story
      many times through the years.

      And asked my father to tell that story
      just one more time during their
      fortieth wedding anniversary dinner
      prepared by my bride-to-be and me.

      She didn’t know this would be the night
      that I would become bold enough
      after so many years and so many stories
      around the dinner table to ask.

      And I didn’t say, “It must be love.”
      But thankfully, she said, “Yes.”

  17. PSC in CT says:

    Some think $$

    Some think money
    is the answer to all the world’s woes –
    health, hunger, homelessness,
    education, environmental issues;
    that cash will find the cures for cancer,
    autism and diseases of the heart –
    fear, loneliness, depression and (the list goes on) –
    everything that ails us.
    All of these just need enough currency
    tossed at them to be fully fixed.
    But (you & I) we know it ain’t so.
    It ain’t the billionaires
    who’ll be making these repairs;
    it’s the Poets, the Singers and Songwriters,
    and Everyone who understands that
    (no matter what the question is)
    there’s really only one answer,
    and it ain’t money.

    PSC/2014

  18. mbramucci says:

    Digital Clock
    By: Michelle Bramucci

    Where has the time gone?
    Is it under my shoe?
    Stuck to gum I stepped on when we went to the zoo?

    Is it in with your socks?
    That are riddled with holes?
    From chasing your dreams and reaching your goals?

    Did the tooth fairy take it
    Along with your tooth?
    Leaving change that we used to go through the toll booth?

    On our way to the ocean
    And if you recall
    It may have bounced off with your giant beach ball.

    Did it drip down the side
    Of your ice cream cone?

    Did the dog chew it up
    With her favorite bone?

    Is it under the seat
    Of Daddy’s big chair,
    With pencils and blocks and Cheetos and hair?

    Did we leave it at Grandma’s
    When I picked you up early?
    Maybe it’s still with Miss Marge and Aunt Shirley.

    Go check your backpack,
    And I’ll check my purse.
    We always find keys and this couldn’t be worse.

    Oh shoot!
    Do you think it snuck in with your books?
    Let’s go to the library and take a quick look.

    Guess I lent some to Joey, and Ethan, and Jack
    Well, I’m glad they had fun
    But now I’d like it back.

    Was it used to heal cuts
    When you fell in the dirt,
    And I kissed all your bruises so they wouldn’t hurt?

    We used some
    When you wanted to grow out your hair.

    And some when you got too big
    For your high chair.

    And some to grow out of your first pair of shoes

    And some time was spent
    On things too hard to choose.

    Oh! Now I remember!
    How quickly it flew.
    All of my favorite time has been spent with you.

  19. jclenhardt says:

    Meant for Me

    My Love is in
    the whispering pines,
    where he walks
    along well worn
    deer paths
    covered in
    pine needles,
    and his shadow
    follows
    in the remainder
    of light
    that filters
    down
    through the
    broad leafed ferns,
    as they reach
    for his
    ankles,
    and how shy
    the moss
    on the fallen trees
    will bristle
    at his brazen touch
    meant for me,
    meant for me.

  20. THE LOVE DYNAMIC

    Love is beautiful elm;
    stately as grand oak,
    fair as pink
    flavored magnolias
    set in season.
    Very potent
    in it’s essence
    although never static.
    Sightly as sequoia
    in scope
    sometimes dramatic.
    However it
    never stands still
    rooted like a tree
    or an abandoned
    screw drilled
    tightly to the earth
    with no hands free
    But runs buoyantly
    like happy stallion
    in the open field
    numb to the world
    but one thing left to feel
    the mighty
    flowing energy
    pounding in his veins
    powering each stride
    with more ground
    left to gain

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  21. LOVE IS A HAPPY DYNAMIC

    Love is sure
    as the dawning of the day
    although never static, but always at play
    like a fluorescent child
    sporting dynamic smiles
    shines happy grooves
    extends the country mile
    always on the move
    reflecting and expecting
    brilliance
    all the while

  22. pmwanken says:

    ALONE…

    in my thoughts
    I ponder love and
    wonder if
    forever
    love will find me forever
    alone in my thoughts

  23. Love, Naturally

    Tall trees
    Reaching ever upward tilting forward
    Shedding leaves like a winter jacket
    Naked bare, then blooms bursting
    Bend and creak
    The lifting breeze sways you so
    Nesting birds, crawling ants, a squirrel hides chattering chattering
    Splendid form with roughened skin where bodies lean
    Ancient roots and layers of years
    Your life force calling
    Calling out to me
    **
    Raging fire
    Scorches through the forest
    Shaking canopy
    Knocking large timbers to their knees
    Exposing roots
    Charcoal trunks
    Leaving a desolate wasteland
    Carpet of dark black soot carves a path through the distance
    Timbers
    Shrubs
    Birch and pine
    Needles splayed beneath dying embers
    Ancient legacy of primeval story
    Smoldering stillness envelopes the woods
    Pause
    Breath
    Dripping sap
    Sprouting green
    Singing lark
    Life force calling
    Calling out to me

  24. My Many Loves
    ============
    I loved her
    And she forgave me

    I loved her
    And she got over it

    I loved her
    And she loved me back

    I loved her
    In secret

    I loved her
    Everywhere

    I loved her
    She never knew

    I loved her
    And she’s still mine.

  25. ASperryConnors says:

    LOVE-ought

    When love is overflowing with emotion it is…
    Love snot
    When love is in decay it is…
    Love rot
    When love is fish-on-a-line it is…
    Love caught
    When love brings something special it is…
    Love brought
    When love ties you up it’s a…
    Love knot
    When love is a website it is…
    Love dot…
    When something positive creeps into your mind it is a…
    Love thought
    When love steals your soul you are…
    Love fraught
    When loves begs, borrows and steals you are…
    Love bought
    When love is a scribbled note it is a…
    Love jot
    When, at the end of the day, you have only a love of fine cuisine, you are…
    Love haut
    When you aren’t in love any longer, you’re in the emptiness of…
    Love-NOT!

  26. OH YEAH?

    Love is a misused word.
    It flutters through chatter-
    a ubiquitous bird-
    a New York pigeon perhaps.
    “I love that dress.”
    “I love stonecress.”
    No one loves stonecress!
    Not with requisite passion,
    not with commitment.
    Their love will soon stale.
    Next they’ll fall for kale.

  27. LeighSpencer says:

    I Love

    Day’s end
    when you tuck me in

    Looking into your eyes
    caressing beard stubble
    in the calm of closing another day
    together

    A dog (or two) barks

    A child (and a stuffed blue gorilla) will wander in soon enough

    All parts
    of the living dream
    we put together
    with our own two hands
    two hearts
    sealed with the mortar
    of our twisted humor

    If only
    we weren’t too tired
    to make love
    to sign the contract
    again

    Maybe tomorrow
    or the tomorrow after that
    or after that
    or all the tomorrows we are gifted
    in this delicious life

    I chose

    I live

    I love

  28. Angie5804 says:

    What do I know of love?

    When does it begin?
    That moment in newness of life
    Not the downy softness or mewling cries
    But the whole being

    How does it stay the course?
    So easy in the tender years
    Joyful and effortless
    Down the childhood itinerary

    How does it enter the curve?
    The track is slippery
    The wheels are spinning
    It’s easy to veer off

    How is it sustained?
    Do not overcorrect
    Persevere steadily
    Pray and accelerate

  29. CLRichardson says:

    Concealed

    I do not tell my most painful secret
    Because the world is harsh and unforgiving

    I hide my secret with my overnight bag
    The bottles and jars contain my paint

    Products to paint my canvas
    A canvas that is damaged

    When questions abound
    I lie to survive

    My love endures
    What I’m not strong enough to leave

    Christy Lynn Richardson

  30. bxpoetlover says:

    Stop.

    I can’t think with your fingers
    between my thighs.

    I love the way you suck my lips.
    Yours taste like dark chocolate.
    Your skin is shea butter soft.

    I love tracing my finger across your face and
    the way you close your eyes
    as I do it.

    I cannot go home with you tonight.

    Time will reveal your moods
    ambitions
    stressors
    and you mine.

    Before we get to shared showers
    and my arched back

    I need to know
    if I will still be your
    beautiful sweet darling baby
    after a month or two of held hands
    and city adventures.

  31. Pengame30 says:

    “High Love”

    My heart is blue, so my eyes are red.

    Written By: Sean Drew

  32. UNREQUITED

    I thought I had gotten over you
    but then I saw you again.
    And in those fleeting moments
    I knew my heart would never mend.
    I will never love another,
    not like I’ve loved you.

    How many times have I tried to find
    someone who could take your place.
    But once your heart is given,
    it cannot be retrieved.

    Once you were my very heartbeat.
    Now I have no life.
    I exist in body only.
    My heart has forgotten how to sing.

    The last time I was truly happy
    was the last time I loved you.
    And how long ago was that!

    What’s the use in waking,
    if the sun shines not on you?
    What’s the point in rising,
    if there’s nothing that I want to do?
    I would have done anything with you.

    I am nothing without you.
    You were my only life.

    I know you will never love me now.
    So why do I continue to live
    this meaningless existence?
    I do not have the nerve to end my life tonight.
    Maybe tomorrow will find me on a bridge…

    The memory of you haunts me forever.
    If only I could mend my heart
    and cleanse the stains of you therein.
    Then perhaps I could live again.
    But I don’t think I can.

  33. Aberdeen Lane says:

    is it a lie,
    love?
    Love lies
    lies down in green pastures
    lies down in the fire
    lies with rings and wings
    such fancy things

    lie to me love
    tell me it will be
    lie down
    love
    lie down

    he says:
    I commit to focusing on the beauty within you if you can agree to do the same for me
    that is love
    so lie down my dear
    lie down
    and let’s play at mirrors

  34. Angela Kidd says:

    For You, an Egg

    I want to make you an egg.
    Sunnyside, the way you like it.
    Not fully cooked in the middle.
    But I always feel the need to flip it,
    so I guess it’s really poached.

    I want to make you an egg.
    White edges, golden yolk—
    I’m a pretty darn good egg maker.
    I think I’ve told you this before.
    I can crack the egg
    and not break the yolk,
    but the key is in the watching.
    A watched pot may never boil,
    but an abandoned egg
    will burn on the sidewalk.

    I want to make you an egg.
    I’ve even started using olive oil
    instead of butter.
    But I still add salt.
    Eggs don’t taste like much
    without salt.
    I promise I won’t forget
    the ketchup.
    I always forget the ketchup.
    Only because I can’t make the connection.
    I think ketchup is for French fries.
    But for you my darling,
    I want to make an egg you will enjoy.

  35. Jay Sizemore says:

    Love walks into a bar and says

    this is all for me, a cathedral of mistakes.
    She lies on the floor and spreads her legs,
    making a snow angel in the grime,
    sticky beer and cigarette butts.
    She invites men to pour their drinks
    into her second mouth,
    but they just stare,
    aroused, and ashamed of their arousal.
    She says, “fuck me, this is the voice of consent,
    this is the voice of my power over you,”
    and no one moves, someone whispers,
    “this makes me uncomfortable,”
    shuffles his feet, kicking a bottle.
    “Aren’t you afraid of dying alone?”
    she strokes a hand up her slit
    and a swath of spiders issues from the hole,
    scattering in all directions,
    they evaporate into wisps of fog,
    leaving a scent of sweet candied perfume.
    The men shriek like children,
    cowering against every wall,
    throwing themselves over the bar
    as she laughs the way wasps must laugh,
    a high-pitched buzz like paper-thin wings.
    And suddenly she’s gone,
    like a cherry fire scraped under a boot,
    leaving only a dark mark on the dingy ground.
    The music picks back up, and the clinking ambience
    of alcohol dreams resumes, each sip shaking
    the shock off the crash. It’s not long
    and one man says to another,
    “When you going to fuck that girl?”

  36. Angela Kidd says:

    I Love You Haiku

    I said I love you
    My heart glowed red like the moon
    in lunar eclipse

  37. Come. Let Me Love You. – Amirae Garcia

    You illuminating goddess. You breath of fresh air after
    suffocating for so long in this terrible life.
    Come. Let me love you.

    Let me gaze at you in your utmost vulnerability.
    Let me look at you – long and hard and with adoration.
    Come. Let me love you.

    Take my hand and fall on me. The weight of the world does
    not deserve to touch you, to feel you. But, I do.
    So, come. Let me love you.

    I kiss your feet and lay these words before them as an offering,
    as a solemn vow. Never again will I leave you in the dark.
    Come. Let me love you.

    This is what I have wanted to say to you. This is what I have
    always wanted to say. All this time, every word to you was asking you to come and let me love you.

  38. AC Leming says:

    Trying to catch up on the posting…I didn’t have a love poem in me, all 5 attempts came out in various shades of Anti-Love.

    15 April 2015, 2300-ish

    Blue

    I’m blue today,
    lost in grief.
    Tears mingle with rain
    as I trudge toward the car
    without looking back.

  39. Michelle Murrish says:

    What Love is

    By Michelle Murrish

    I asked her what she thought love was
    Her eyes glossed over, lost in a dream
    True love is forever, for always, for me
    Dancing in the rain and caresses under the full moon
    Summer sunsets and winter snuggling
    Giving everything, asking nothing
    Silent stolen kisses in the quiet moments of life
    Fireworks and chemistry
    Gentle breezes that carry whispered sweet nothings
    The music from a dove’s wing
    I asked her what she thought love was
    And I knew that I’d never win

  40. tbell says:

    Love Beyond Reason

    I think maybe
    this is what love is:

    something raw
    blatant
    true

    an unexpected stranger
    you meet in a hotel lobby
    talk with ten minutes

    depositing $10,000
    in your bank account
    before breakfast

    no reason beyond
    he wanted to and could
    and, no, you didn’t –

    the question everyone
    wants to know, sleep with him
    didn’t even share a drink

    ten minutes of nothing more
    and everything that matters
    haven’t seen him since

    Seeing him
    listening to his
    heart’s story

    a man you’ve never met
    writing his heart on a page
    with such vulnerable ease

    you forget you haven’t been
    pouring secrets into one another
    for a lifetime

    no matter how you try
    to civilize it

    something wild
    honest
    real

    has passed between you.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  41. Yolee says:

    You know

    It’s a big deal that we’ve lasted this long without burning
    electrical circuits. Once or twice you stumbled toward the tool
    shed of your mind to hang some painting of a depersonalized
    screamer or nighthawks anchored to thoughts. My words
    would run in front of me and smash some lone hanging
    light bulb. And I leave you sitting in the dark with nails
    hanging from your mouth. I dove into waters too troubled
    to let me retrieve pearls only to emerge with seaweed and broken
    conch shells scrambled in my reddish hair. You would wash
    it with citrus shampoo and combed it until tangles loosened
    their grip. It was almost better than making up the old fashion
    way I would say, between waves of tangerine and lime.

    “““““`

    Seven Bears Killed After Lake Mary Woman Mauled by One

    I hate that the Florida Fish and Wildlife
    conservationists failed the
    science and mathematics
    of human sense.

  42. tbell says:

    Making Love to a New Day

    My body has a mind of her own
    waking aroused to the day
    her hunger relentless
    thirst insatiable

    feed me
    touch me
    make me come

    to my senses
    fully alive
    electric

    stimulated by
    nuance
    seduced by
    subtlety

    ache and writhe
    embodied wholly
    in every movement
    eyes wide open

    to moments capable
    of taking my
    breath
    away.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  43. tbell says:

    On Being Love

    Be subversive

    love
    yourself

    with such radical
    enthusiasm the
    whole world will
    hunger for you

    scatter
    love notes

    tucked unexpected
    into the hearts
    of strangers
    passing by

    indulge
    your desires

    buy pink tulips
    dance wildly on
    the floor of failure
    until wisdom rises

    do not wait
    for love’s expression

    boldly Embody it.

  44. tbell says:

    The Delight of You

    I love the way you so easily laugh

    at yourself in a non self-deprecating
    way, sound rising from your toes
    like a trumpet announcing you
    believe you are the silliest
    creature alive

    sometimes you are

    which makes you so astoundingly,
    irresistibly, beautiful, inside and out

    your own unique version
    of a delicate floating bubble
    rainbow hued and sunshine kissed
    the kind a child simply
    can’t resist popping

    for pure delight.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  45. Evelyn Philipp says:

    In the Dark
    *************

    Lying awake
    boxed in by cold fear
    that I will quietly fade
    to nothing;
    no one
    knowing
    or caring

    I sit up
    and you are there
    softly snoring
    one arm slung
    across your eyes.

    Oblivious
    To the crisis in the dark

    I move your arm
    And snuggle into
    The warmth
    Of you

    Peace whispering
    In your
    soft, rhythmic
    breath.

  46. Simple, but sincere ;-)
    ##
    Love,
    I’ve found you
    and I grabbed
    and held you tight.

    To never let you go.
    ##

  47. alana sherman says:

    Day 15 Poem 2 Anti-love

    Scorpion Makes Love

    Semi-translucent amber
    he approaches cautiously
    gentle. Rituals are observed
    This female must be held— her
    pincers always ready for sport or food
    they dance, looking into each
    others eyes as though whispering
    when her distraction is accomplished
    he makes an opportunity scurries away
    lest his bride consume him.

    alana

  48. Azma says:

    GIRL CRUSH

    The first time I heard her voice on the radio,
    I was intrigued to learn more.
    The depth in her voice was such
    That i just could not ignore.
    When i saw her picture,
    my eyes were caught in a magical fixture
    I became a fan
    She had become my obsession
    I wanted to talk the way she talked
    I wanted to dress the way she dressed
    I wanted her voice
    I wanted her mind
    I wanted her
    to know me

    -Azma Sheikh

  49. Emma says:

    Half a Heart

    I’ve never been in love.
    Call me a cynic, but
    In all honesty, I’m not sure that I believe in it.
    I grew up surrounded by romantics.
    People who remind me that
    Plato said humans are half a soul
    Searching for the missing part,
    Or that in Chinese Legend
    Destined lovers are connected by the
    Red String of Fate.
    An unbreakable connection.
    Maybe it’s just me that’s the problem –
    I am the girl who always has
    An eye on the door, knows where all the exits are,
    Will up and leave you behind if you are dragging me down.
    I do not want completion.
    I do not want to be bound to someone forever more.
    Everyone is so obsessed with the chase,
    The lead up to the happy ever after.
    But what then?
    Am I to be a caged bird?
    Someone else’s support system?
    I don’t want to ever be done with wanting,
    To put away dreams like a pretty dress I’ve grown
    Out of, to be the Zelda to someone’s Scott, to never
    Shine as much as I used to.
    I don’t want my story to be finished after ‘I do’,
    To settle into mundane domesticity without
    Achievement or success or adventure.
    I’ve never been in love,
    And I’m not sure that I ever should be.

  50. SeekingSoltitude says:

    its empty in here

    I tried loving
    when I didn’t know what it was
    i ended up like the leaf on the sidewalk
    trodden upon and left alone

    For him, I left my family
    I gave up everything
    Unbeknownst of the fact
    that once gone, nothing comes back

    You were like that prince
    of fairy tales and castles
    when you turned out to be the villain
    in my Cinderella story

    The hate behind your eyes
    of love and care,
    were what I fell for
    were what you bewitched me with.

    the money that you wanted
    you would’ve got without damaging my heart,
    without taking the peace from my soul,
    without pulling my life apart

    I never wanted to be a princess
    of this fable you weaved for me
    To be loved, then left battered
    This is what I’ve come to be.

    But don’t you dare sleep tonight
    ‘Cause I’m awake and coming for you,
    My empty body is enough
    to bring you to mercy and then push the knife inside
    that heartless memory of you

    ———————————-

  51. d dyson says:

    A tired kinda love is mine,
    tired from grasping onto ghosts
    who helped build the walls
    that now surround it,
    a tired kinda love is mine.
    If you listen closely, you’ll hear it sigh
    from the weight of all the hurts its withstood.
    Saddened to think of all the promises,
    promises dressed up as lies,
    a tired kinda love is mine.
    Out of the hurt lies a recluse,
    selective as to who gets their chance,
    whilst affirming to itself,
    – better to stick to a fictional romance –
    a tired kinda love is mine.

  52. gloryia says:

    Unkind Heart [15]

    He was a kind man
    thinking always of others
    and he loved his children
    especially Janine,
    his only daughter.

    Sorry to say, Janine,
    did not give back
    what she had in abundance,
    no she did not give back
    at all, rather she took,
    and, until left with
    nothing, she took that too
    when she broke his heart.

  53. gloryia says:

    A LOST LOVE – REMEMBERED [15]

    If I could remember the day,
    the when, the where we last met,
    all so easy yesterday
    with a picture framed and set

    within my head, always there,
    available whenever wanted,
    a picture kept, a memory fair
    inside me forever haunted.

    What happened, did it fade,
    built upon by more favourable
    memories, until smothered it lay
    to live no more, unable

    to be found, your face,
    that smile, happiness absent
    for so long and now no trace,
    oh could it but be mine?

    Crazy old woman, so long ago
    a love lost in time,
    hidden deep in years passed and no
    not drowned, for I find

    at my very last breath,
    my dream restored, a love
    returned, a love –

    remembered

  54. shethra77 says:

    Love

    It’s like those jars of flour and oil
    in the bible story.
    No matter how many little cakes
    the woman made,
    flour and oil were there again.
    Love is like that.

    Begin Again

    “We’re in love,” she said, like it was just any old thing.
    Like it was not going to be the Great Change of her life—
    more than moving in with her first love had been.
    Like they would not be getting married, though
    she’d never married before.
    Like she would not be revising
    the definition of herself to be her, with him.
    Like later on, she might still care what I thought about it all.

  55. Margie Fuston says:

    Fidelity

    Did you let it blow
    out your car window
    like a gas receipt
    you wouldn’t miss?

    Did it slip from your pocket
    like some dirty penny
    you found and kept
    for luck you didn’t need?

    Did you slit its throat
    last night while I slept,
    burying it under our roses
    with your bare hands?

    Because I can’t find it here
    in the lipstick on your shirt.

  56. Margie Fuston says:

    One Night Stand

    Your sweat turns to acid on my skin.
    What happened to make me leave
    my clothes crumpled on the floor
    like abandoned dreams?

  57. Puja says:

    L
    is for the way you lust for me
    Oh!
    I’m not the only one you see
    We
    is not defined, you commitment-phobic swine
    and E
    is egoistic, very very hedonistic

    Love at times just seems too good to be true
    If you risk it all, it might work too
    Two in love can fake it
    Prayer, faith and love can make it
    Love triumphs even you and me

  58. Kit Cooley says:

    Over the Moon

    In this asylum,
    I’m the leading lunatic,
    crazy about you.

    ~ Kit Cooley

  59. Reynard says:

    love is the key
    take what you have
    its the only way to be

    here I am – look at me
    I struggle but I smile
    love is the key

    anyone can see
    that if we only try
    its the only way to be

    life could be so heavenly
    we needn’t wait to die
    love is the key

    lets go together on life’s sea
    fight the storms and the waves
    its the only way to be

    there we can sit faithfully
    weathering the tides together
    love is the key
    its the only way to be

  60. TO THE RESCUE

    The castle walls
    of fairy tales and fantasy
    have no place

    in the bedrooms
    of little girls who will
    one day wonder

    why no one
    is coming to save them.

    She’ll build her
    own walls for lovers to
    climb when she

    learns that no
    one is coming to her
    rescue and one

    day she must
    learn to save herself.

  61. Heidi says:

    A LOVE STORY

    Spanish lover
    Bare-toed brother dancing
    Beneath a silver slip of moon
    Clouds shimmer alabaster
    Wooded hills roll rhythmic
    Our hearts beat to the drummer’s
    Cadence and the guitar weeps
    Decades of silence naked
    Caught in a moonlight web
    Your arms smooth round hills
    Shimmer beryl blue with
    Hands clasped we make love
    The bitter herbs picked
    Bruised stalks spill spicy perfume
    The water boiled and the lamb
    Roasted before we knew our roots
    Summer clothes are washed
    Folded tucked in cedar chests
    Red woolens and fleece within reach
    The black ink thick and wet after
    Much grinding on stone spills
    Like a river over our pages
    Cascading over sharp rocks up
    Steamy weed tangled banks
    Crashing over the edge
    Plunging into the deep.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  62. Julieann says:

    Love

    She thought this was the end to the beginning
    He was sure it was the beginning of the end
    Conflicts abound – some of great proportions
    Trust is a hard quality to find
    Laughter and joy have gone out the window
    Thoughts and words are generally cruel
    What was happy is now a sad memory
    They long to say “good-bye”
    But of all the words, those won’t come
    They’ve tried before
    They’ll try again
    Love will find its way
    Beginning or end
    They are together

  63. ambermarie says:

    True Love Waits
    Last night I went to my happy place
    A secret island in the middle of the ocean
    I swam through the rough sea of emotions
    My memories of life before
    All the while knowing in my heart
    That paradise existed there to be found
    The bliss I felt when I climbed ashore
    Was worth every last tired stroke
    But alas I was there alone
    Unable to share my amazing discovery
    I left once again to find you
    Lost in a sea of darkness, I nearly drowned
    And yet you finally appeared
    A weathered little sailboat
    The most beautiful one I ever saw
    Please take me back to the oasis
    We can dream there together
    In our forever home.

  64. “Between Two Worlds”

    Though heaven’s gate be grace-filled for the soul,
    my being hovers, halting near this earth.
    Unless you, only love, were there to hold,
    my courage dare not leap beyond this berth.

    My heart has need of your familiar ground.
    I want no more than comfort of your kiss.
    You , by the warming fire, my arms surround
    your quiet bliss. No more than thoughts of this.

    If other orbs contain such shining light
    seen glowing from the kindling in your eyes,
    then bravely I might take that unknown flight
    to worlds where still I hear your gentle sighs.

    For now, my cautious heart is harbored here
    where you, my love, are heaven to be near.

    (Day 15 PAD. Write of love.)

  65. David Walker says:

    Remember That Time

    I said I loved you? That was a lie.

    I bought you earrings after our fight?
    I shouldn’t have.

    I stood in rain for hours just to read
    you lines from a poem? Time and
    clothes wasted.

    Like a record, I truly wish I could
    spin time back around, hear its
    awful crooning, and change things.

    I should have told you I am a fish
    baking in the sun without you.

    I should have bought you a golden
    harp, the strings twisted to spell
    out ‘I’m Sorry,’ and a harpist-slash-
    relationship-counselor to sing
    all the reasons why we’re perfect
    for each other.

    And the lines I read to you? I should
    have not stopped until I finished
    reciting all of Shakespeare’s sonnets,
    added fourteen lines to “How Do I Love
    Thee?” and memorized the You Had
    Me At Hello speech from Jerry Maguire.
    And it should have been a monsoon,
    Noah-esque, water six inches
    above my head.

    Because I’d rather drown than
    accept that that was the best
    I could do.

  66. BezBawni says:

    Anti-poem

    How many more poems
    have to be written about love,
    so someone could read them,
    count and say, ‘Enough’?

    How many more poems
    have to be written about hatred,
    so all of it could just
    stay on the pages no one would read?
    ________________
    by Lucretia Amstell

  67. Mustang Sal says:

    Love. Hate.
    Both boomerangs
    cast out in a wide swath,
    but always returning home to
    sender.

  68. “What is love?”

    Who, but the one who shares
    life with you, will tell you that Love
    is more than patience and kindness?
    It is tough, and dirty and demanding.
    One is not enough to love and One
    cannot contain all the wrinkles Or
    all the roses Or all the reasons
    that sway us and persuade us
    that Love is the greatest. Who,
    but the one who grieves with
    you, will tell you that Love searches
    the good and bad And Love
    teaches the deep of ourselves
    Calling forth the minor and major
    frauds we labor to polish then
    display to the world. True Love
    refines these ruses, Tumbling them
    like stones Breaking you open
    until you learn to bless like gold.

  69. emmaisan0wl says:

    M4
    ~
    “I can’t write about love; you ruined it
    for me.
    you carved out my hopeless-romantic heart
    and served it back up to me
    (rare, bleeding, just the way you know
    I used to love them)
    and you watched it stick in my throat as you told me
    my tears were lies.

    I don’t believe that love
    means never having to say you’re sorry;
    but I have it on good authority
    (my own)
    that love will lose its lustre
    if you wind up spending
    eternity saying sorry
    for something that they should be apologising for
    instead.”

  70. Funkomatic says:

    My heart, the maple tree
    Home to wrens in their afternoons
    Revel with chirping esprit
    My heart, the maple tree
    Still green though you’re absentee
    Knows too many winter tunes
    My heart, the maple tree
    Home to wrens in their afternoons.

  71. Wed

    you and I are not
    the same yesterday as
    tomorrow we move
    inside our skin stretch
    or shrink become
    unknown to ourselves
    from back when we
    began try to hold
    each other there while
    seeds blow in across
    the sea to colonize
    what is bare become
    the new natives strange
    today but next year
    the fragrance we remember
    from that blue sky day

  72. To Love and Be Loved – Marie H. Fitts

    Why are we here? – To Love and Be Loved
    What is the meaning of life? – To Love and Be Loved
    Where do we go after we die? – To Love and be Loved

    It’s just that simple
    Yet so profound
    The questions of Life
    An answer sound

    To Love and Be Loved
    That is why we are here
    Yet we search for answers
    Year after year

    The meaning of Life
    We still contemplate
    Some die searching
    But that is too late

    The very breath of life
    Was given in Love
    To all on this earth
    From the Father above

    And if you believe
    In The One that He sent
    Eternity is certain
    With Love to Be Spent

  73. sbpoet says:

    Missing, or How To Write A Love Poem

    When You Are Not In Love.

    Pull in the empty net. I’ve been missing you

    for years. We passed

    and passed each other in this murky pond

    too many times. We never

    quite touched. Never quite saw each other

    through thick water, thought

    each was just a glimpse of ourselves. We drank

    the same air, but tasted

    difference. Have you been caught? Are you

    sinking? Are we still drowning?

    ~ sharon brogan
    http://www.sbpoet.com

  74. savvywordsmith says:

    That foolish thing, inkling, notion
    Hazed vision, that stirring of heart
    In haste passion arises, a turbulent ocean
    I love thee, for is love not an art?
    Why look to tomorrow when we have today?
    Eager blossoms this moment, tomorrow may wilt
    You beg leave of me, I beg you stay
    Forestalling faithful, sure, insatiable guilt
    Potent time too soon is captured
    Entrancing starlight eventually wanes
    Only do give me this moment’s rapture
    So long as this love remains

  75. lidywilks says:

    An Aging Love

    Year 1
    We found each other in the vast sea of digital lies,
    our red thread connecting us across time and space

    Year 3
    We stood before the blessings of family,
    followed by the ushering of a new member of our own

    Year 4
    We fought together for the life rejected from my womb
    to survive in a world of monitors and an encased bubble

    Year 7
    To you, our stubborn child, we gave you an eternal playmate,
    someone the three of us had been waiting for

    Year 10
    Melded for eight years, we grated and soothed each other
    as you instilled to our sons the definition of a man while I enjoyed
    my reverse harem of hugs, kisses and your reprimands

    Years +
    In the years to come, we’ll ferment like an old vine,
    yielding to boundless, concentrated futures, for us all
    to freely savor

    by Lidy Wilks

  76. You are Number One
    I don’t know you little one
    and yet I do.

    You will have a name
    soon enough—

    for now you are
    just little one.

    Little because of
    your size

    but one is because
    you are number one.

    You are my first grandchild.
    I have never been a grandfather.
    I love that I will be yours.

  77. PatsC says:

    Anniversary Lea

    Youthful love,
    Passionate promises,
    Starlight dancing,
    Moonbeam kisses.

    Twenty-eight years,
    Valleys of animosity,
    Peaks of dazzling bliss,
    The meadow of contentment.

  78. lionmother says:

    Chocolate You Destroy Me
    (Anti Love Poem)

    Chocolate you destroy me
    You force me to eat you
    and I gorge on your sweetness
    only to pay the price of despair
    as I survey the results of my
    stuffing your goodness into my
    mouth and letting the delectable
    smooth substance of you melt
    But no I must not love you for
    this is the destruction of my
    body and though I do love
    you I must say no and ignore
    your charms
    But just one more bite, please

  79. Debbie says:

    SWEET TOOTH

    I love to eat, and oh those sweets
    Slap that hand that’s grabbing treats
    My sweet tooth, it just won’t quit
    I’d have it pulled, but which one is it?

  80. robinamelia says:

    15. Love

    About the word love and acceptable usage

    One may not speak of loving an object.

    In third grade Miss Routh’s declarations had regal force.

    Alice could not “love” Federica’s white go-go boots.

    Love, she pronounced, could only be given to one who could return it.

    No, one may not speak of loving a pet: a dog or a cat and certainly not a turtle.

    I raised my hand. I knew my cat loved me.

    Stop feeding it and see what happens.

    One did not contradict Miss Routh, who gave up a life in the convent for us.

    But who among us would love someone who starved us?

    Robin Amelia Morris

  81. Shennon says:

    I gave up hope
    When you left my life
    I didn’t expect commitment
    I don’t need to be your wife.

    I just wanted a friend
    Someone to turn to in need
    Obviously you don’t care
    If my heart aches or bleeds.

    You’ve changed so much
    Since the day we met
    You were down on your luck
    In despair you were hard-set.

    I offered you a shoulder
    My advice was always free
    Now I could use support
    Can’t you see that I’m still me?

    You’re out the door and running
    You’ll never come back now
    But I can live without your love
    As soon as I figure out how.

    –ShennonDoah

  82. Kevin D Young says:

    BOIL LOVE DOWN

    You never had lice. It’s been nice
    that way, the overall hygiene
    over all this time. Once or twice
    there were those rashes nothin’ at Walgreen’s
    could clear up or cover but they
    passed. Pretty quick, pretty quick.
    ‘Course the kids got food poisoning that one day
    we left on vacation and were sick
    all the way back home. Oh the flotsam
    and effluvia we slopped along the roadside
    that trip! Not your fault, though. Not a damn
    in the world coulda held back that tide.
    So no regrets really. You didn’t get lice,
    I didn’t get hives. Like playin’ with loaded dice.

  83. jean2dubois says:

    LOVE IS A WORD THAT RHYMES WITH DOVE
    by Jean Dubois

    love is a word that rhymes with dove

    but dove is not a symbol of love
    but of peace on earth

    doves perched in a row
    all along the phone lines

    doves feeding in flocks
    drinking from puddles after spring rain

    does love know deep within its four letters
    that dove does more than rhyme with love

    that dove IS love

  84. Margot Suydam says:

    How Far I’d Go (a terza rima)

    To hear the crashing waves of your voice
    over and over, not an echo but a thought
    that travels across wind without a choice.

    Although I bow with hand on heart, taught
    to make good on past deadly deeds, mistake
    me not for some love-starved seagull caught

    in an upward gust, unable to say what’s fake.

  85. hojawile says:

    A Different Realm

    A different realm He left behind

    Now to human flesh confined

    A tiny babe where creatures feed

    His destiny, alas, to bleed

    Foretelling of betrayal He

    Jockeyed for position they

    “Me first!” their ego-centered cry

    Knew they not He soon would die

    To save their very souls?

    Savagery, treachery, villains everyone

    Showing why o’er evil they

    Could not have vict’ry won.

    All would self destruct unless

    He could pass to life from death

    And pay the price upon their heads.

    If ever you’ve acted on an evil thought

    Partaken in a harmful plot

    Or lived a lie you told yourself

    Or put your faith in temporal wealth

    If ever your integrity

    Were marred by smallest duplicity

    Or lust or rage or gluttony

    Or you were just plain finicky

    Without an attitude of gratitude

    Priding self in platitudes,

    Then you may safely conclude

    He bled and died and rose again

    To save you along with me.

    A different realm of love

    rules He!

  86. Beth Rodgers says:

    Inspiration is fickle
    Often confused with
    Affection
    Uncertainty
    Aggravation
    Motivation
    It subtly infuses itself
    Into everyday existence.

  87. Jenn Todd Lavanish says:

    My Biggest Blessing

    You are my best surprise
    Child of my own
    You make life rich
    And full of sights and sounds
    That make my house a home.

    Each day you amaze me
    And see the wonderful
    I did not know true love
    Or goals beyond my own
    Until I saw it through your eyes

    The gift I have in you
    Makes everything worthwhile
    Nothing else compares
    Or fill my heart with love and joy
    As you my precious child.

    —————————————————————————-
    Hate that squirrel

    Dog the window is closed
    You cannot lunge though it
    Stop whining and I will let you out
    Your nemesis taunts you from the trees

    Please stop barking
    He doesn’t understand your curse
    He will be back
    And again we live the first verse

  88. audreylatortue says:

    “Over Easy”

    It’s true that I value brevity,
    but you are as mysterious as you are tattooed.
    Stay awhile
    until I can make sense of you
    or at least until your girlfriend calls
    requesting carry-out Chinese for dinner.

    I will pretend
    it’s a relief that
    I won’t have to cook you
    eggs
    in the morning
    if only you will
    tell me who I am
    once more before you
    go.

  89. Mokosh28 says:

    Nine Months Later

    Both our parents were born in April. It took
    years to realize that was why
    my sister and I were January born. She, the
    elder, arrived exactly nine months after our
    mother’s day. Me nine months plus three
    days from our father – I’m always
    late. In those early years, everything for them
    was home-made, even the house he built
    board by brick, living in one room
    then two, the present so intense its sawdust
    formed us. My sibling looked exactly
    like our mother, beautiful
    in blue-eyed candlelight. Me with his hazel
    gaze, his gift for mapping, measuring,
    homing each space with small, familiar
    things. My sister still plays
    piano the way our mother taught
    her, third or fourth hand, the one he bought
    working nights for her twenty- third
    birthday. The way she thanked him.

    – Joanne Clarkson

  90. shelaghart says:

    Love

    It’s up to us if
    Love is sublime or profane
    It’s all in one’s mind

  91. cam45237 says:

    Love, I Do Not Love You

    Love, I do not love you!
    I find you
    …cloying.
    I refuse to fall
    Head over heels
    for your cherubim with their pointless arrows,
    your clueless dreamers with their daisies,
    “Making Love, Not War”,
    for your sweet pinks and passionate reds,
    for your roses and carousels,
    for your heart shaped tins of silver kisses
    and your “x”s and “o”s at the end of
    Every.
    Single.
    Sentence.

    Just.
    Shut.
    Up.
    I want no pleas, no declarations
    of devotion, no simpering verses,
    no lingering gazes,
    No candlelight dinners with catchlights
    Reflecting in your lovelorn eyes,
    No Chopin nocturnes tinkling on ivory keys,
    No sweeping into arms to waltz to strains of Strauss,
    No perfect rise and fall,
    No purple prose on linen vellum
    lovingly rolled and tied with a silver ribbon
    No Shakespeare,
    No Pushkin,
    No Keats,
    No Bobby Burns.

    Wait a minute.
    Just a minute
    Perhaps I’ve gone too far
    Perhaps a little Byron
    and a chocolate
    on my pillow
    in the morning
    when you’ve left

  92. jsmadge says:

    Love

    Too big to capture in a butterfly net.
    Too round or not round enough.
    I got nothing
    To explain how 20 years ago
    We met empty
    And came away full.

    Jo Steigerwald

  93. LauraLynn says:

    A Corinthian Vow

    Love is patient and after patiently waiting one week
    you hung me out to
    dry in front of your friends and
    Love is kind so I kindly told you
    to go directly to hell but
    Love does not envy so you invited me
    to join you
    but I couldn’t when I remembered that
    Love does not boast even though you
    did when you followed me around
    the house detailing all the others you’d
    rather have married and
    Love and I were not proud of the time I tore
    up your new plantings to get your attention but like
    Love I was not self-seeking as I shrank into myself,
    forgetting family losing friends abandoning
    me I became like
    Love not easily angered except
    when you were two three four hours late and
    Love kept no record of wrongs but I did and I gave
    it to the lawyer to build the case even though
    Love does not delight in evil, there was plenty
    of unconfession, father, forgive him for he
    has sinned while
    Love rejoices in the truth, the two-sided
    reconstructed, slightly skewed court-approved
    truth and if
    Love always protects, it watches out
    for itself, looking for number one, but still
    Love always trusts even when you didn’t –
    never did to hear to you tell it – and
    even in the midst of crazy
    Love always hopes for decent child support and
    minimal interruption to the holidays and
    Love perseveres but you didn’t
    and
    Love never fails but
    I do.

    • cam45237 says:

      I really enjoyed reading this – I like the confusing juxtaposition of love and not love and the careful reading required to catch all the mood changes. I think you captured the nature of the kind of love we think is love because its hurtful and passionate but it doesnt last. Very impressed

  94. Jaywig says:

    The Anti-Love Stance

    Who needs love?
    I need more time.
    To write, create,
    rhythm & rhyme.

    Who needs love?
    They’re all the same.
    They’re on the prowl
    & you’re fair game.

    Who needs love?
    Investors? Crooks?
    The Prime Minister
    however HE looks.

    I’ve heard love’s an answer
    I read a lot of books.
    So maybe they’re to blame.
    For a world full of sooks.

  95. shellcook says:

    Not love poem

    I have no hate to spare for you, only my pet peeves,
    but if you shush me when I whisper, I’ll give you more than please.
    Please don’t be rude to waitressess, they really earn their tips,
    It is also my belief that we should tip musicians,
    and buy from lemonade stands.

    The world out there is hard all right, no matter how you say it,
    So shut your mouth or just be kind, there’s no nice way to say it.
    One kind world can change the world, one person at a time.

    You have the time to do that, right?
    It costs you nothing and shows your worth
    to all your fellow men.
    But when I hear such rude asides that I have heard from you,
    I know the pain you inflict on us could kill a lesser man.

  96. anneemcwilliams says:

    There are bodies

    Not the ones you think.

    Each night sleep is pierced with dreams

    over and over again.

    There is a streetlight outside the window

    that shines into the bedroom,

    bright as the moon.

    They have not learned how to sleep through the night.

    They act slowly, they begin,

    predictable as ritual

    reflections that peer back

    from beseeching eyes.

    Slow movements,

    the stupor of heat

    almost too much motion,

    the sodden air, drifting like fire.

    They do not even know they are here

    combusting,

    lost somewhere that floats.

    Then silence.

    first draft 04/15/14

    cripple (after Bukowski)

    they’re not going to let you

    sit at a front table

    at the Olive Garden downtown

    in the mid-afternoon sun

    in your small wheelchair.

    if you do, somebody’s going to

    be offended by your gnarled hand

    as you eat your food

    and we couldn’t have that.

    they’re not going to let you

    feel normal

    for very long

    anywhere.

    It is bad enough

    that your legs cannot

    do anything useful.

    they are going to

    talk loudly

    or crouch down

    and shout in your ear

    as you’re relaxing.

    as if you are

    daft,

    to be fawned openly

    and not allowed

    to act with grace.

    no cripple

    is fit for society

    who has fine traits

    but is pitied at a distance,

    and cannot come near other

    private citizens

    why is it that infirmity

    offends us,

    but fools do not?

    first draft 04/15/14

  97. antoniabryanblue says:

    Your last breathe

    You wished
    I wished
    On a day
    That died
    Many suns
    And moons ago

    You prayed
    I prayed
    On a eve
    That ended
    Many dusks
    And stars ago

    Then you left
    On a peaceful breathe
    That said I did it all
    At first I thought
    It was a breathe of pain
    But looking back now
    Changes the whole story

    You lived
    Said it all
    Wished it all
    Prayed it all
    In your own words
    Using your own breathe

    While I laid awake
    Having nightmares
    Of your last breathe
    Sounding like hell
    Itself freezing over
    ‘Cause the sun
    And the stars went out

    But they didn’t
    So now, I allow myself
    The privilege to miss
    What was ’cause
    It did all happen
    The lights never left
    I just closed my eyes

    So I wake up
    And I miss you
    With a smile
    Remembering
    Your smile

  98. FaerieTalePoet says:

    Chakra Kiss

    Our kisses sacred,
    chakra naked.
    Up your body
    down my body.
    This is a form
    of meditation,
    of worship.
    We are goddesses,
    divine light
    flows through
    our crowns.
    Third eye sees
    as energy twines
    between us
    lips touch, sacred
    words whispered.
    Our moans, throaty
    we don’t need
    words anymore.
    Heart center
    beating in time
    to our kisses.
    Our solar plexuses
    solid cores,
    nuclear fusion.
    Our bellies round
    Venus of Willendorf hips
    nourished by this kiss.
    Our roots,
    site of passion
    lips touch,
    sacred lips, yoni
    tongues dance
    as we enter
    each other.

    Dana A. Campbell

  99. Linda Hatton says:

    What Love Wants

    Love does not sag to jowly depths,
    criticize dusty shelves or scowl
    at speckled, mud-spattered floors walked
    one thousand miles upon.
    Love sees only Sunday morning
    misty hikes in those sharp and chiseled
    cracks around your weary eyes.
    And in wobbly legs, stiff with age’s routines
    and boredoms, she sees only moonlit runs
    on oceanfront property you both stole
    from the serpentine sea. Love wants someone
    to see through her skin and bones,
    someone to expose her soul, to call
    her home, someone to bring heaven
    to her earth. That’s all she wants.

    -Linda G Hatton

  100. Scott Jacobson says:

    LIGHT LOVE

    For the moment the light love continues to glow,
    but we don’t know for how long
    or if it takes AA or AAA batteries.
    It glows brighter near lovers and enemies
    which may be why we constantly find ourselves
    in bed with one or the other. The warning label
    tell us it can give us seizures or happily ever afters,
    both vague ways of giving you a headache
    with the flashes of forget me and forget me nots
    crossing their signals. And be aware how fast
    it can change its color. Sorrow has its own hue
    entered above the ultraviolet. Happiness –
    the same color of yellow as a coward. Look lovingly
    at the stars for too long and they will turn
    the color red that tells you how fast
    that they are running away from you.
    It leaves you long shadows of longing
    that become mountains you have to climb
    every morning while in your pajamas.
    Beyond the beauty, the ugliness appears
    at the opposite end of the spectrum,
    but it is so hard for us to pull
    our eyes away from the sunset.

  101. Shell says:

    LOVE
    By Shell Ochsner

    Love; of English alphabet.

    Beauty in four letters,

    Simple and perfect.

    Does thou love thee when imperfection begins?

    To what if fallacies take over?

    Is love patient?

    Would love abandon when life’s low?

    Life without love is unbearable!

    If forced to choose between life and love;

    Love wins every time.

  102. muse60 says:

    Love
    I think I glimpsed you once
    Or so it seemed at the time
    Until I realized it was just pity
    For I could not stand to see
    A wounded animal suffer alone

    Love
    I once played a role opposite of you
    I threw myself into it
    Or at least I told myself I did
    But it was just loneliness
    And when the curtain came down I was alone again

    Love
    A few times I’ve felt it in the form of joy
    But many more times as an ache
    And worst of all, when that joy
    Morphs into sudden, sharp,
    Stabbing pangs of betrayal

    Love
    Maybe you’re the great myth
    We fool ourselves with
    The mystical Grail we forever seek
    The lie that keeps the bullet from our brain
    That that keeps us pursuing yet another breath

  103. viv says:

    Why do we have such difficulty
    writing about love?
    I love silly stuff – chocolate,
    someone’s posted poem,
    a view from the car
    or a new pair of shoes.
    Babies are easy.
    flowers
    and small animals,
    but the people I love –
    I am tongue-tied.

  104. gmagrady says:

    A LOVE LETTER

    Dear Geralyn,

    It’s a shame it’s taken this long for
    me to write.
    You were going to skip this poetry
    prompt, weren’t you?
    The concept of having to write a love poem
    had you nervous inside, like you
    weren’t going to be able to choose the
    right subject or tone or perspective.
    Well, I’m here to help you.
    I’m always here.
    You just don’t ever acknowledge me
    and my deep love for you.
    But I do.

    I know your heart,
    how it reaches out everyday to everybody.
    Everyone feels it.
    It’s a gift you have, this gift of love.
    Every person in your life receives it
    because each knows one part of you,
    one role that is so overflowing with affection,
    the daughter,
    the mother,
    the spouse,
    the teacher,
    the friend,
    the colleague,
    the neighbor.
    You love them all.

    But no one,
    no one but me,
    truly knows every single one of these roles.
    No one but me
    shares every sorrow and triumph,
    every memory of every moment of your life.
    No one but me
    sees the struggle you go through,
    and yet,
    you push me away,
    every day.
    Can’t you see that I want to love you?

    You need to make room for me
    in your heart.
    You need to listen to me
    and work with me.
    You need to grow
    with me.
    Can you do that?
    Can you love me
    the way you love
    all the others?
    Life could be so
    beautiful
    if you’d trust me,
    if you’d listen to me,
    if you’d love me,
    truly love me.

    I’m not going anywhere,
    so take your time
    and reflect on what I’m saying.

    All my love,
    Geralyn

  105. There are a lot of percentages around here,
    and I’ve never liked math – in fact,
    you balance my checkbook because
    I thought it had something to do with a level.

    But still, I must be learning, because
    I’ve got it figured:
    Our status quo is a fluctuating fraction
    with some awfully uneven proportions.

    From sixty – forty on the first date,
    when pizza and game of skee-ball impressed me
    more than it should have –
    to almost even at the proposal,
    but only because time and the subtraction of variables
    taught you the value of a bird in the hand.

    …which I could have lived with except
    I don’t like being called a bird
    and my singing annoys you anyways.

    So the scale still slides.

  106. beachanny says:

    MAGNETISM

    Brown eyes found mine; worlds fell apart.
    Jupiter spun out of orbit;
    fire rained, lakes burned, our souls forfeit.

    Skin strained, eyes streamed, blood pumped my heart.
    I reached for you– cold stars streaked blue.
    Consumed with lust, at last we’d start!

    You turned away, the spell had split.
    Brown eyes left mine; worlds fell apart.

    Octain (invented by Luke Prater)
    © Gay Reiser Cannon

  107. priyajane says:

    Unspoken Love

    Unspoken love
    that grew soft feathers
    can sink like rocks

  108. lionmother says:

    Love Fills My Heart

    I thought you had squeezed
    all the love from me
    If you looked inside you
    would find only a
    shell of a heart
    like the cheap hollow
    chocolate hearts you see in
    drugstores

    Then I lay prostrate at your feet
    as the last drops of love
    found deep inside me
    emerge and when I pour
    this little bit on top of you
    suddenly you will be strong
    again and I will continue
    to find more filling my heart
    until it is no longer empty
    Only then will my sadness
    be replaced with the joy
    of your smile

  109. msmacs3m says:

    PAD Day 15
    Love Poem
    by Sandy McCulloch

    Love

    Let one’s view expand
    From an old wooden cross-beam
    Save a fallen world.

  110. It’s been a long day and I thought for a while I wouldn’t be here. Then again I couldn’t resist.

    Fallen

    Who can say what the pivotal moment was?
    Hindsight lends us every opportunity
    To rewrite the past, to claim for ourselves
    A clarity we were blind to when the wind
    Took us for sails and carried us out to sea.
    It was fog that swaddled us, that swallowed
    The space around us and left us alone
    With ourselves. It was water crashing against rocks
    That ground us down and flung us across
    A foreign shore as if it was home. It was
    Sand that sloughed off old skin, that left the raw
    Meat of us at the edge of the forest,
    A sacrifice to the lions of hunger
    That consumed us. It was the scream of parrots
    Flashing through the canopy before the first
    Crack of thunder. It was the drumming of rain
    That softened the flowers, that bowed us down
    Petal by petal until we drank from the stream
    Of ourselves without knowing another way.

  111. Deri says:

    Wedding Day

    He is so handsome
    in black,
    the tuxedo sleek, like
    a low-slung limousine
    cutting a slithering path
    through the gathered
    well-wishers
    as they bob and chatter,
    primped peacocks
    in their finest.
    He flashes a smile here,
    offers a nervous laugh there,
    the way he does
    when the excitement
    has built like a bubble
    inside his chest.
    I know him so well.
    We are two halves
    complete only when together,
    he once said.
    The music rises above us,
    hushing the ostentation.
    I take my place to watch
    as a vision of pale perfection
    walks down the aisle
    to take my place at his side
    and I realize he has yet
    to thank me for coming.

  112. Bucky Ignatius says:

    Open Heart

    An elevator ride with many stops.
    Strangers in a crowded car.

    Eye contact once, locked
    the second time—something

    between us invited human
    connection, yes, thank you, yes

    we stepped in silence onto
    ground floor, swelling with

    tears of bliss and condolence,
    holy union fleeting, embedded.

    Bucky Ignatius

  113. as if to say
    this world is enough . . .
    a titmouse draws shadows
    within its wings
    and tucks everything
    into a nest of hungry beaks

  114. StephanieRosieG says:

    my greatest weakness is falling in love
    i’ve fallen more times than is sensible
    fallen deeply and madly and shortly
    fallen intensely and passionately
    fallen with wild declarations of
    never before and never again
    until the end
    at which point, i begin again
    usually
    but now
    i am sexless, without need or desire
    without lust or longing
    the fuel, the fire has been tamped down
    not even the smallest ember flickers,
    which makes me wonder if it ever
    were true and real, the countless times,
    if my heart is a trickster, a fibber
    leading me down futile paths in the name
    of amusement or boredom or need
    i watch myself like a stranger passing by
    an open window, and i wish that i
    could hold that woman sitting there
    and tell her: It’s okay. It’ll be okay.

  115. Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 15 Love Poem

    At Grandma’s Funeral

    He has an old hand.

    It’s pitted with dark patches,
    leathered with mistakes,
    but he reached
    it out to me,
    and as I held it,
    I forgot
    the bitterness
    of slaps,
    the fear
    of misplaced anger.

    Just then,
    I was only his daughter,
    and he was just
    my dad.

  116. A Photo of my Mom as Prom Queen

    A brown-eyed Liz Taylor,
    all cheekbones
    and eyelashes,
    her crown sparkles
    from a brunette
    beehive. Shiny
    white meringue
    of her knee-length skirt
    rubs against
    dad’s grass-stained
    football pants.

    Despite half-time,
    the game
    already won
    according to his
    flushed blemished face.

    A flip-flopped
    Cinderella story,
    the country girl’s
    white satin pump
    points, out of place
    on the field.

    If he squeezes
    too hard,
    her delicate arm
    hooked through
    his elbow
    will break.

    The spray of roses
    in her other hand
    look fake,
    difficult to determine
    in black and white.
    But her smile?
    That’s real.
    I save the picture
    to refer to,
    to confirm it,
    to say:

    Look here.
    See?
    That was
    my mother
    at the beginning
    of love, before my father,
    who was never king,
    never let her forget
    she believed
    she was a queen once.

    (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

    • BDP says:

      This poem leads us sweetly up to the sharp ending. In one sense. In another sense, upon rereading, there are hints throughout. There are nostalgic moments to enjoy, and then reality to ponder.

  117. stargypsy says:

    Poem #1:

    Afternoon…Remembered

    Sunlight filters softly
    through the blinds
    Shadows dance across
    grey walls

    So much like that
    stolen afternoon…
    My mind goes back in time…
    My body remembers
    every touch…
    kiss..
    movement…
    Every sensuous word
    And
    the very essence of you

    Love is for the young
    Memories of love for
    the young at heart and spirit
    Sent to chase away the old

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Poem #2:

    Taste Of Goodbye

    Again…
    My illusion of
    safety and security
    has been shattered

    My world turned
    upside down
    My heart…
    My soul…
    In flames

    From kindness
    and caring
    To…
    Unbelievable
    cruelty in
    a heartbeat

    Sitting at the
    table of bitterness
    There is that oh
    so familiar taste
    of goodbye
    placed upon
    my Tongue

    Copyright © 2014 Annie – Original Poetry
    Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
    As Ever, Annie

  118. stargypsy says:

    Poem #1:

    Afternoon…Remembered

    Sunlight filters softly
    through the blinds
    Shadows dance across
    grey walls

    So much like that
    stolen afternoon…
    My mind goes back in time…
    My body remembers
    every touch…
    kiss..
    movement…
    Every sensuous word
    And
    the very essence of you

    Love is for the young
    Memories of love for
    the young at heart and spirit
    Sent to chase away the old

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Poem #2:

    Taste Of Goodbye

    Again…
    My illusion of
    safety and security
    has been shattered

    My world turned
    upside down
    My heart…
    My soul…
    In flames

    From kindness
    and caring
    To…
    Unbelievable
    cruelty in
    a heartbeat

    Sitting at the
    table of bitterness
    There is that oh
    so familiar taste
    of goodbye
    placed upon
    my Tongue

    Copyright © 2014 Annie – Original Poetry
    Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
    As Ever, Annie

  119. BDP says:

    “Dead Artist Love”

    Small coffin holds your signature: gold bones
    at feet of “Mother with Two Children,” mom’s
    cheeks caved, kids flanking her sport ruby tones.

    I’m one of three who court you with piped Brahms,
    each waltz a dip down, tiptoe, tourist track
    around this room with creaks, AC too warm,

    a sagging stickiness, the heavy slack
    of air contributes to the hush. You’re live
    again in fantasy—we want you back,

    seduced by so much gift. Forget you’ve died,
    the tragic you. French Braid halts naked in
    her clothes. And Ponytail dabs at teared eyes,

    hunched. Do I hear her whisper your name wrong?
    Which makes me think, for someone who gave clue
    of movement, still-life fruit about to brown,

    elms just before full drop of paisley hues,
    you’ve turned these ladies near to statues. Stunned.
    They will not leave. I buy postcards, my muse.

    –Barb Peters

  120. Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 15 Anti-Love poem

    Without a Leg to Stand On

    The doctor rolled
    a wheel of pins
    to test my sensitivity.

    I felt nothing.

    He tried again
    chatting small talk
    to distract me
    with questions
    of my former boyfriend.

    That prick
    fooled him into thinking
    he had hit a nerve.

  121. seingraham says:

    THE ILLUSION OF TRUE LOVE

    Where is the butterfly wing dust last filling the thimble,
    the violet petals crumbled, blown to another time
    tucked beneath the wolf’s blanket thrown over the child

    The sun’s corolla wears Egypt and Gibraltar too
    and the scent of everydayness sports pink leather toe shoes
    but blood-lust bathes tomorrow before you can swallow

    A cry like a cygnet dying of loneliness haunts fog on the pond
    The loons sail silently, flashing pearls, ruby orbs, gold beaks
    Dark murmurs: maybe a baby maybe a pup, a cub — no, mice

    Snow drifts wicked white, in dunes along the side-walks of Paris
    and slate, sensational bats wheel under bridges near New Orleans
    but over all, there’s the sickly-sweet scent of after-birth rising

    Oh but it’s still Roma that keeps broken hearts in drawstring
    silk bags afloat in Pompeii’s harbour; catacombs await first and last
    kisses, the entwined arms of infants, the ancients, and marble angels.

  122. Zeenie says:

    tar bruise
    “lovers’ land,” poem #9, revision

    This town
    on this day
    in this light
    is yours –

    with buckled fire
    harboring wind
    in your throat,
    you’ve bled for days
    to reach this breath,

    speeding and burning,
    whipping yourself
    into a funnel of smoke,
    you’ve loved –
    hard, fast, no time
    for strokes or songs.

    I imagine you cracking
    under hits of asphalt,
    your skin tar-bruised,
    piercing the horizon.

  123. susanjer says:

    It Takes Two to Tarot

    As soon as She turned the first tarot card—Ace of Wands—
    Bob Dylan started humming in my head about times a

    changin’, winds blowing and stones rolling. Then,
    damn, She flips up the Death card. I start sweating and

    exhaling like an asthmatic bulldog. My idea was to check out
    future romantic possibilities for myself and Mr. New

    Guy with his drown-in-place blue eyes and last-tango
    hips. Friends say we are a legendary couple. Did

    I mention I have red hair like Helen of Troy? And eyes of
    jade green? My eyes are really grey. Kinda like those of

    Katniss Everdeen. But I’ve augmented them with contact
    lenses I got on sale when that shop in the mall named

    “My Eyes Have See the Glory” lost their lease.
    Now that shop, called Mojo, sells chakra bowls and

    occult goods or you can schedule a sound chamber
    paranormal session. Or, like me, you can arrange a

    query via tarot cards. Which is how I ended up here
    re-examining my love life. She adds to the card

    spread: a Sun, the Queen of Wands and lastly a
    Ten of Cups. All that money I blew on skimpy, lacy

    underwear. Should I have bought a sporty pink
    Vespa instead? Hey, this is the guy I’ve

    waited for. I’ve put in my time with dates hapless as
    exiles from Gilligan’s Island. Ms. Tarot reader says,

    “Your cards foretell a honeymoon on the shores of Lake
    Zurich. I can sell you discounted tickets today only.”

  124. GirlGriot says:

    No love poems tonight … or maybe a very unconventional one, a love poem to my knee. A year ago today I had knee replacement surgery, and that’s been on my mind more than love today!

    One
    year. One
    long, short, hard,
    easy year. One
    knee — seems a simple
    thing.
    But not
    simple, not
    snap-of-fingers.
    Not. This year is gone.
    Gone
    quickly.
    Gone easy.
    Gone. A new knee —
    year in the making.

    (The form is an Arun, a 15-line poem with the syllable count 1/2/3/4/5 — 3x. It may be a new thing in the world, made up by me last year. “Arun” means “five” in Yoruba.)

  125. pcm says:

    On Love

    There’s a knowing kind of unknowingness
    when you count on the sun to rise
    or feel the moonlight dance behind the clouds
    and fear not your own demise.

    There’s a peaceful sort of slumber
    between this world and the next
    where truth and beauty forever dwell
    and people are never vexed.

    It is a world invisible
    to eyes that only see
    the tawdry deeds and manmade things
    of our society.

    For in the world of love what counts
    beyond the temporal you or me,
    is all of us within one Heart
    embracing the world eternally.

  126. aphotic soul says:

    Consequences
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    Why is it that I am the one who must remember,
    A choice that was not mine,
    Five years back around September,
    When the one I loved crossed the line,

    Why is it of her I still dream?
    Images that I try so hard to erase,
    Memories that still make me scream…
    Because still so vividly I see her face,

    Why is it that I cry past tears,
    Of a love I no longer hold,
    How is it that it’s been five years,
    Of having my bed so frigidly cold,

    When do these memories fade, when does her voice depart?
    When will my heart finally jade, when will it fall apart?

  127. Linda Voit says:

    Love ku

    chocolate, London,
    sea glass, waves, buttered toast, poems
    Thanksgiving, the moon

    Linda Voit

  128. tunesmiff says:

    WONDERING
    G. Smith
    ==============
    When I say, “I love you,”
    and you reply, “You, too,”
    is there an unsaid, “I”
    or an uninflected
    question-mark? I can’t tell.

    • tunesmiff says:

      Amazing what a little sleep opens your eyes to…

      So if I may…

      (Still…) WONDERING
      ——————-
      When I say, “I love you,”
      and you reply, “You, too,”
      is “I love,” just unsaid,
      or does the question mark
      go without inflection?

  129. Lover’s Leap

    Everwild expression
    Hopeless transgression
    Forever engaged in
    Drunk ache of action

    A little alights
    It holds, hurts,
    Stumbles and fights

    And to the edge
    Of the ecstatic
    It climbs upon
    The jagged + broken

    Peering over
    A distant symmetry
    Impossibly true
    Harmonic mimicry

    A thief in the air
    No angel, less wings
    Pulled to the depth
    No wisdom in wind

    Crazed ever over
    Around and under
    A look to my love
    New skies to discover

  130. Sara McNulty says:

    One Kind of Love

    ‘Please don’t press charges,
    darlin’, I swear I will never
    hit you again.’ Two cops stand
    in the doorway. She sits
    on the couch, blood leaking
    from her nose, one eye
    beginning to swell. ‘Hell,’ he says,
    ‘look, I’m gettin’ down on my knees,
    baby–beggin’, beggin’. You know
    I love you.’

    ‘Ma’am?’ The cops look from one
    to the other. Domestic violence,
    the worst. You can count on
    one hand, the number of abused
    women who actually follow
    through. Shame, too, because
    these guys never stop. Not for long.

    And there it is–a tiny curvature
    of her lips. She looks down
    at him on the floor. She shows
    the cops the door.

  131. SestinaNia says:

    Not going to lie–this is the prompt that produces my worst poem of the month EVERY year! So I’m departing and instead, here is a haiku…

    snowflake

    born from cloud and cold
    crystalized artistry shines
    but melts at sun’s kiss

  132. toujourskari says:

    Love

    The word LOVE has been in motion since creation
    The Word love spoke life into being
    The Word love gathered the waters
    The Word, Love, makes rivers in the deserts
    The word LOVE brings health to my bones
    The Word, Love, came to Earth and dwelt among us
    The wordlove knows the meaning
    The Word, Love, made the ultimate sacrifice so you would know
    and I would know
    and the world would know
    what the word LOVE truly means
    The WORD
    LOVE

  133. amaranthe says:

    The Girl With the Moon Flocked Gown

    She either loved too much
    or not at all.
    Heart leaning on a crutch.

    She waxed glassy and tall
    in bulrushes.
    Her heart learned not to fall.

    Days hunting with thrushes
    head bent, eyes cupped
    feeling the earth’s flushes.

    Heart about to erupt.
    Time to lay down.
    Love asked to interrupt.

  134. fahey says:

    To my neighbor with flowers at the door –

    why haven’t you opened them yet?
    Does the lovelorn beggar for your pardon
    owe for being in your debt?

    Or maybe — they have made you hardened
    with their happy, heedless zest.
    Maybe, secretly, you’re glad they parted –

    or maybe, you’re the one who left,
    and whoever wished upon you roses
    still keeps a ghost at your doorstep.

    Maybe it’s you they chose
    to leave – and once they left,
    saw how swiftly a wish can go

    before it returns with regret.
    Or maybe – more likely – you’re just not home. You’re out of town.
    You’re sick in bed.

    Or love just hasn’t happened yet.

  135. encrerouge says:

    The four letter word develops: outward or inward?

    At first, a clear sigh of illusion caught between glances
    to later stumble breathless and fast like a flying day

    and after that, some movement of the moon controls our blood
    and every liquid in the love potion subsides to the skin thought

    today, I wonder about the ideals and failures that compensate
    the arches, the rings, the stairs, the hand movements , the kisses…

    how I wished to find maps locating sequential heart beats
    roaring into specific caves, encountering surges of electricity

    irony and repetition knock on my door like never before,
    reconsidering the doubts as an ever growing reality

  136. Sara McNulty says:

    One Kind of Love

    ‘Please don’t press charges,
    darlin’, I swear I will never
    hit you again.’ Two cops stand
    in the doorway. She sits
    on the couch, blood leaking
    from her nose, one eye
    beginning to swell. ‘Hell,’ he says,
    ‘look, I’m gettin’ down on my knees,
    baby–beggin’, beggin’. You know
    I love you.’

    ‘Ma’am?’ The cops look from one
    to the other. Domestic violence,
    the worst. You can count on
    one hand, the number of abused
    women who actually follow
    through. Shame, too, because
    these guys never stop. Not for long.

    And there it is–a tiny curvature
    of her lips. She looks down
    at him on the floor. She shows
    the cops the door.

  137. SuziBwritin says:

    PAD APRIL 2014 #8 TWO FOR TUESDAY
    LOVE AND HATE POEMS

    LOVE
    There’s a fire in my belly
    burning, burning
    I feel a pain so deep
    it permeates each cell
    deep in my bones
    and running in my blood
    It’s nameless
    faceless
    knows no bounds
    lays me out when
    I least expect it
    reminds me
    I’M NOT IN CONTROL
    Could be love or could be hate
    Depends on what the subject is

    HATE
    I hate lies
    injustice, suffering
    wasps, hornets and mosquitos
    I hate cellophane wrappers you can’t open
    quietly in a theater when you’re dying to cough
    I hate boogie runners on anybody
    supermarkets who don’t put on
    enough cashiers at the busiest times
    I hate taxes, parking garages that are full
    getting to the theater late when
    the only seats left are smack dab in the middle
    I hate performers who take a 20-minute break
    that lasts over an hour
    the spinning beach ball when I’m
    dying to post something or
    waiting to see a cute video or
    wanting to see a friend’s latest status
    I hate dirty women’s rooms with only one stall
    running out of toilet paper for that matter
    red lights, people jumping red lights
    rules that override common sense
    temperatures below 20
    being cold
    losing one glove
    locking myself out
    but I love being able to hate
    cuz dammnit, I’m good at it!

  138. Here are both my poems for today (the first one is “love” and the second “anti-love”).

    Through A Lovers Eyes
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    No piece of beautiful art,
    could catch the color of your hair,
    in the sunlight.
    No photograph ever taken,
    could capture your smile,
    when you first wake.
    No eloquently written poem,
    could describe how my heart feels,
    when you place your hand on my neck,
    and pull me into a kiss.

    To Envy A Childs Heart
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    When I was young,
    my heart was untouched,
    by the heartbreak of love.
    I possessed happiness,
    impossible to achieve as an adult,
    because once your heart is broken,
    the pieces don’t fit the same.

    You’re permanently changed,
    and you never forget the pain.

  139. flood says:

    Love Song Of The Woodworker

    Mark a line at the end of the first heart
    that is as wide as the thickness of your second heart.
    Make sure to mark this line around
    all faces and sides of the heart.

    Using a dovetail gauge,
    mark out the dovetails.
    Run across each line with a marking knife
    to make the cut straight and neat.
    Only cut the pieces of heart
    which are being removed
    or you will see deep scratches on the pins
    that are not being removed.

    (Put an X on the pins which are going to be removed.)

    Cut your dovetails.
    Once the dovetails have been cut out
    you can use a chisel or Stanley knife to clean up
    the joints or remove some excess heart.
    Use your dovetails as a template
    on your second heart.
    Secure your second heart in a vice
    level to the bench and line up
    your first heart on top.

    (You should now be able to use the dovetails
    as a template and mark lines on your second heart.)

    Mark lines on the faces of the heart
    which will be as long as the thickness of the heart.
    These lines should create pins
    that interlock with the dovetails,
    so they must be very accurate.
    Cut out the pins and once again
    remove any excess heart from the joint
    to ensure a perfect fit.

    (If the joint was marked out accurately,
    you will have tight or very tight interlocking pins.
    If they are a bit too tight,
    minimal amounts of heart can be removed.
    Make sure the joint is flush and square.)

    Bond the joint together with glue,
    but always check to see if it is still square.

    (Some nails can be added in the dovetail pins
    to keep the joint closed and square while it dries.)

  140. pamelaraw says:

    I Love When You Read to Me

    The heat of your breath
    warms my skin and every
    feign, flutter, fantasy stands
    arm hair on end. I love to see
    your mouth grow round
    with the reverb of vowels,
    watch each sound hang
    then drip from your tongue.
    No matter the story–the devil
    dressed in middle age, memory
    of summer love as painful
    as sunstroke–I listen
    until the hiss of the last s
    falls silent between
    the pause of my heart.

  141. Clark Buffington says:

    “Anti-Love Poem”

    Love’s Opponent

    I Love my family wife so dear
    two boys growing strong
    there is nothing I wouldn’t do
    to protect these jewels of my heart

    when you hurt them I feel Love’s opponent
    hate so strong it consumes
    there is nothing I wouldn’t do
    to destroy any harming my Loves

    there is a war to protect my hearts
    the battle to let them be free
    there is nothing I wouldn’t do
    except betray their faith

  142. LizMac says:

    Love’s Fading

    Love has now lost its dazzling focus
    No longer collects at one pure point
    But diffuses and gathers round us
    Softly bathing in warmth and light.

    We do not always see or feel it
    Though its dappled presence we often sense
    As we move through its range of values
    And painted strokes of dark and light.

    Though out of focus it still illumines
    Hidden hollows we had not yet seen
    Growing paler, yet still assuring
    As night closes on memory’s gleam.

  143. tunesmiff says:

    CONUNDRUM
    G. Smith
    —————————
    I cannot love you;
    Yet, I cannot not love you;
    Because of who’s you are;
    And because of who you are.

    I cannot believe you love me,
    Yet I dare not believe you don’t,
    Because of what I’ve done,
    And because of what I’d do.

  144. Clark Buffington says:

    Your Love Shows

    The Love I feel for you is the center of my life and I try to show it
    The small things you do everyday glorify your Love for me

    The cup of coffee given in the morning when I’m stumbling incoherent
    The smile and a touch bestowed as you walk by my chair

    The faith you have in me when my self-doubt threatens to destroy
    The encouragement I didn’t know I needed given at the right moment

    The laughter that is for me alone as we share a joke
    The joy shining from your face when I come home

    The quiet smoldering look I see coming my way out of the blue
    The kiss delivered with a spark in your eye that promises more

  145. TheFlawlessWord says:

    Braided Love

    Under, over, to the peg
    Waiting on the other side,
    I braided pink and yellow loops,
    Tangling my heart in between.
    Mom used those nylon potholders
    As though they were spun from gold,
    Refusing to part with them
    Long after bacon grease and propane flames
    Had seared their edges black.

  146. Remnants

    Juvenile
    Aims abound
    Dusted rain
    Across the whole
    Aspect alarm
    Vanished
    Anticipation
    Spun silence

    Twisted scarves
    Knotting
    Refusal (roll)
    Painted rust
    Composed in D
    Stillborn

  147. Zeenie says:

    lovelengths

    The first time I told myself
    I loved you, I spent all night
    curled up in the sticky
    warmth of my admission,

    like a confession vomited
    on my bedspread and left me,
    huddled and vile,
    to clean up the mess.

    To you, I was worn –
    a torn blanket,
    a spitball,
    an ember.

    The first time you said
    you loved me, I played
    rainboot love-affair,
    puddle-jumped,
    took myself by the hand,
    danced around my feet –

    it’s easy to forget
    how quickly rain
    washes away all memories.

  148. Is this a love poem or a hate poem? Not sure.

    The Other Woman

    She doesn’t know how to weave.
    She doesn’t know how to sing.
    She has no stories.
    She will not go to horrible places
    for you.
    She can’t play hide-and-seek.
    Surely she will run to you
    when you call her name.
    Surely she will give a sign
    that she is there.
    Surely she will not sit in the darkness,
    all by herself,
    and wait for you
    to learn your lesson.

  149. Alfonso Kuchinski says:

    Response/deliberation to a previous note to self

    So much difficulty
    take this seriously
    it was known to be
    previously
    focus of far too many
    former meditations
    did not
    listen
    as carefully
    instructed-
    though all
    is not lost
    however
    a few grains
    manage to slip away through fingers

    in the presence of A
    carefully apply process B
    to achieve desired result
    when all normal functioning
    is overridden

    trying to determine
    how the balance is unfolding
    the scales today
    seem to be tipped
    in the wrong direction

  150. Quaker says:

    Anything that comforts, should find you,
    like light finds a close curtain and opens it.
    Anything you need that is simple
    and necessary, should find you
    when you are in prayer, touch your forehead
    so you know, you were witnessed
    performing a normal function,
    as if it were common as breathing.
    Love is always that perfect singing.

    It is like a sacred chord played all at once.

  151. MyPoeticHeart says:

    Character rocks
    Rocks that have a unique flair to them
    Made of limestone, coal that turns to diamonds
    Blood stone, sandstone, moonstone and natures marble
    I love them all for I am a rock hound
    Collecting stones and rocks since age seven.

    Liver
    Raw or cooked I hate it
    I hate the smell and the texture
    Nothing good comes from liver
    Chicken liver is the worst
    It makes my face cringe.

  152. shellcook says:

    Prompt # 15
    Love poem

    For Julian

    I thought I knew what love could be, until I first met you.
    If I could love myself that way, the way that I love you,
    The world would open like a flower, and teach me everything.
    So I will teach you what I know, and you might teach me how to be.

    How to be a better me, how to thrive and how to grow,
    And I will help you figure out what your love really means.
    You can call me any name, it really doesn’t matter.
    I love you tender little boy, you have me quite undone.

    The funny crinkles by your eyes delight me every time.
    The way you look on ninja day can make me come undone.
    Your p.j.s with the flannel bugs can really make me feel
    Like I was born to receive your heart, a gift from god above.

    You are the best of everything, I ever thought to know.
    I’d keep you near, and hold you tight, and never let you go.
    But growing up is hard to do with such a smothering love,
    I have to let you find your way, my small, but winsome love.

    If I could love myself, As much as I love you,
    I would give you all the world I could, and wait there just for you.

  153. miaokuancha says:

    April 15, 2014

    Prompt: Love, or its Opposite

    My heart is a dry riverbed
    On a cold steppe
    At dusk.

    ~ miaokuancha

  154. mshall says:

    Ode to Coffee

    How do I love thee, let me count the ways,
    Black as my soul, yet pure as brightest dawn.
    With caffeine burst, how joyous wakes the day.
    Bitter darkness, the night at last is gone.
    From cups and mugs thy steamy soul you pour,
    Tickling the nose, enlivening every sense.
    Sleepiness rules in tyranny no more,
    The dregs from days away with stealth you rinse.
    You reign supreme in lands that span the globe
    Supplanting tea on Eastern Asia’s shore
    In cold Europe you warm the pauper’s robe
    In Africa you keep with ancient lore.

    Thy heart pounding, the tempo of this life.
    In bosom bliss more faithful than my wife.

  155. dandelionwine says:

    Tender Heart Throwing Stones

    I recall no he loves me,
    he loves me not nonsense
    with daisy petals. Only
    the narrow brook trickling
    deep in the ravine I’d pass
    on my wistful walk home.

    The laws of nature stated
    if water embraced rock,
    he loved me without a doubt.
    Otherwise, there never
    was any shortage of stones
    to toss until he did.

    Sara Ramsdell

  156. starrynight3 says:

    Love

    The acorn, as cliché as it is,
    Longs for something greater
    Aches from within for it,
    Like the worm, a caterpillar
    Feels that divine discontent:
    Suddenly this goddamn green
    Leaf is not enough, is
    Stifling, full of holes, there must
    Be more. Nothing works.
    The restlessness begins like
    An itch underneath burning
    Skin. There’s no assuaging it.
    The shedding skin begins
    The dark night seizes.
    Love demands it.

  157. C. says:

    “I wanted to be loved
    Because I was great.
    A big man
    I am nothing.
    Love
    Glory around us,
    Trees and birds,
    I lived in shame.
    I dishonored it all
    And didn’t give notice.
    Glory,
    A foolish man.”
    ~Terrence Malick

    I wanted you to see me
    For who I really am
    The son you wanted
    With a big plan.
    Someone to replace
    The gain that you lost.
    Hear it all
    Violin
    Piano
    Sunset
    Playing.
    You are a good man
    Though you lived
    In shame.
    Forgotten
    What you are
    And who I am
    Pushing
    Too far
    Into the depths
    Of sand.

  158. beale.alexis says:

    We haven’t said I love you
    in seven months.

    When the seasons changed, I colored in our caricature
    a dull grey. I must have been color blind

    for not trusting your reds and blues.
    I’m no artist, but at the time

    those colors didn’t feel genuine.
    Perhaps it’s because I listened

    to the whispering snakes
    implanted inside my head.

    You’d think after a year and a half
    I’d have been able to tell the difference –

    but after so many months of my friends
    splattering their deceit across our drawing

    it lost its sense of realism. I’m sorry;
    it’s my fault. Would you let me

    erase their markings? Would you let me?
    Because I miss saying I love you.

  159. Worse than falling out of love
    is finding yourself stuck in it
    on a Monday when he gets up
    on the wrong side of the bed,
    forgets to put the coffee on,
    spends breakfast with the
    emails on his iPhone, and
    doesn’t bother to tell you
    that you’ve put your sweater on backwards.
    Worse than ending a relationship
    is wading through the traffic of it,
    because the worst wrecks always
    happen on the Mondays when
    you’re running late and he’s cursing
    at the Suburu who cut you off,
    those granola hippie assholes,
    and you’re cursing at him
    because you’ve discovered the tag
    of your sweater chaffing between
    the seatbelt and your chin,
    and neither of you have time
    for Starbucks but he’s stopping anyways.
    Worse than breaking up
    is breaking down in the coffee shop
    parking lot on Monday morning,
    not because your sad,
    not because he’s angry,
    but after you discover you’ve left your
    wallet at home, on the kitchen counter
    beside the bills you haven’t paid and
    the empty percolator, clean and silver in the sun.

  160. sharon4 says:

    Love Poem for the Chef

    I like the spoon for its cup.
    The beef for its bite
    The glaze for its cling.
    The kettle for its mouth;
    The glass for its lip.
    The peach for its cheek.

    And the ham? Well, the ham…

    I like the sass of the skin
    of the dark purple plum.

    And the jalapeno’s kick.
    The lemon’s bright pucker.
    The cookie’s sweet smile.

    Oh, the cup bowls
    me over, the bowl holds its sides.
    (ham’s at it again and makes us all laugh.)

    (Where there’s dill, there’s a whey.)

    I like balsamic sweetness
    and blueberries tart.
    And you on your way for
    our Wednesday night.

    Darling, just for the halibut:

    I like apple crisp’s moisture
    and martinis dry.
    I like parmesan shaved and rotini curled.
    And you nearly here
    on this hot summer night.

    Fumet brulee, my darling young chef!

    I like cucumbers deft and tomatoes
    plucked, the corn cob undressed,
    the lettuce, a bed.

    Come love, dinner’s done.

    (Love is pith; love is rind.)

    ~Sharon Fagan McDermott

  161. Emily Cooper says:

    Un-Founded

    Ted Yoho
    the Tea Party

    (yes they somehow
    still exist)

    congressman of Florida

    when asked
    by a black constituent

    if he considered
    the Civil Rights Act of 1964
    to be Constitutional
    he said

    “I wish I could answer
    that 100 percent.”

    (If only he had then
    taken the chance
    to declare

    his solemn duty
    of defending the Act
    from people he may know

    who actually would
    want it stricken
    from our record.)

    In his defense
    many Founding Fathers
    owned slaves

    and other Fathers
    didn’t protest enough

    for the document
    to be changed
    in the 18th century

    and yes “Constitutional”
    is sometimes used casually

    to mean “American-ly
    moral and correct”.

    One could almost
    feel sorry for congressmen
    and women like him

    people with ideas
    who aren’t smart enough
    to learn a fact or two

    or wise enough
    to pretend to care
    about them.

  162. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    LOVE BY COVER OF DARKNESS

    As if called by some distant star,
    Love can steal away,
    Travel over land quickly,
    Like a stealth bomber,
    Dodges radar,
    So silently,
    One cannot detect
    Its quiet advance
    Until it arrives,
    Landing right into the heart
    Squarely at the start
    Of a quiet night
    Becoming only light
    Like a firework
    Exploding color
    Against a midnight curtain
    Certain to shower joy
    Elation, excitement, awe
    A ‘wow’ moment
    Time happily spent
    Blankets of sleep thrown open
    Welcoming this unexpected
    Visitor, sneaking in
    Snuggling in
    Awakening in
    The very place
    Where we hide the good stuff,
    Where love itself hides,
    Until our heart slides open
    Love responding to love the greatest find,
    Making love . . .

    Under cover, the best kind!

  163. beale.alexis says:

    Shhh.
    I love you.
    Do you hear that?
    Hear what?
    Close your eyes.
    This is stupid –
    Just do it.
    Fine.
    What do you feel?

    My eyes are closed
    My legs are wrapped around your waist
    and my arms are locked around your neck.
    Your arms are cupping my lower back.
    We are laying down on your bed,
    and hugging.
    Our chests are touching
    and I feel
    you breathing.
    And that is making me afraid
    to let the breath out
    that I’ve been holding
    because I know my heart is pounding.
    I pull away slightly, but
    you don’t let me go.
    You continue to hold me.
    I grab you closer to me
    and begin stroking your neck,

    I love you too.
    Shhh.

  164. beale.alexis says:

    Autumn Leaves

    Give us a time machine for the days
    Where the yellow autumn leaves began to lose their grip

    And my heart began to slip into love
    For a second time

    It began as pure infatuation
    Groomed and stroked by once careful hands

    Now hands brown and filthy, blistered, worked down to the bone
    Because of a past these god-damned hands couldn’t let go of

    Thankfully, our vacant hearts still had a little room for more
    I checked in, thinking I’d only be staying the night

    The weeping moon shined bright through our window
    Locking us in for the season

    And in spite of the cool look in your eyes
    I felt warm. Perhaps, I thought, we could skip winter this year

    But once that final leaf fell from the Hazel tree
    I realized those hands had no interest in holding mine

  165. cindikenn says:

    Altar Coalition

    On the bride’s side of the aisle:
    impermanence and passion.
    Unemployed mother shacked up
    with her fourth maybe husband
    whose live-in lover’s baby
    daddy’s pregnant girlfriend sits
    in blameful, angry loathing.

    On the groom’s side of the aisle:
    Jesus, Mary and Joseph
    forbid sex before marriage
    for one man one woman one
    perfect union forever
    in holier Catholic
    than thou righteous piety.

    At the altar in between,
    yours, mine, ours and theirs children
    in chiffon and lace and good
    intentions, march to marriage
    in perfect imperfection.
    Love on faith, in hope, because,
    in spite.

  166. beale.alexis says:

    Honey

    I know I expected a lot from you
    Oh honey, you played your part well
    A constant ricochet of I want you,
    No I don’t
    You bounce back no matter how far I push you
    It doesn’t make much sense
    But that’s just us

  167. Jane Shlensky says:

    Garden Variety Love

    The plot is choked with leaves and winter’s mess,
    bulbs slowly pushing through trying to bloom.
    A day’s raking reveals such hosts of weeds
    among the breathless sprouting flower seeds.

    A hyacinth and sundry daffodils,
    narcissus, paper whites, and crocuses,
    azaleas and dogwoods, irises
    are starved for sunlight, hungry to be seen.
    The weeds are healthy, glossy, blooming too,
    purple and yellow just to make me doubt
    if I should simply jerk them from the earth.
    I pause and thumb their foliage, let them stay.

    It seems the weeds have something yet to say
    before they go, like stow your judging eyes
    and look for beauty, simple as sunrise,
    and love it.

  168. carolecole66 says:

    In Spring

    In spring each year we wait for the first jacaranda bloom,
    lavender fire against the washed sky. We stand together
    on the deck and gaze at the tree that seems to flower
    just for us, an ecstasy of blossoms. It is ours for so brief
    a time. In May they will drift like purple rain, stain
    the ground with their delicate blood.

    We mark our time together in moments like these:
    the royal Poinciana next opens scarlet umbrellas,
    and slowly the crepe myrtle fills in leaf by leaf by
    spikes of blossoms. Time passes; we have grown easy
    in our love, marking these passages in the fertile soil.
    Where was I before you? And who?

    Today the jacaranda bloomed. I called out to you
    so we could celebrate, mark another year. We stood
    together, touched shoulders, touched hands, our bodies
    a year more tired, our faces a year more worn, but when
    you turned to me and said, “each blossom is a little sun,”
    my heart bowed to you, unfolded like an infant bud.

    Carole

  169. KiManou says:

    Love Expressions

    I
    light in a dark place
    original for you
    ventricle systems in one
    enclosed in a chrysalis

    II
    lyrics that make me cry
    ornamental orchids of beauty, luxury
    vicarious beings living
    elevated in your strength

    III
    longing for your laughter
    olive branch forever extended
    vying for nothing; virtue stable
    endurance; established in us

    IV
    lifted in our love language
    ordained to higher life
    venerated vulnerability
    elated; embody beloved

    V
    lusting for only you
    oval moons, oblong horizons, only you
    volitient I do; vertigo desired
    enamored with you

    eMinor

  170. Sharon Ann says:

    Love or Antilove?

    Love and antilove, both voices loud and clear.
    Which voice do you depend on?
    Which of these voices do you hear?
    Love or Antilove?

    Love and antilove, both examples can be seen.
    Which one of these two do you
    really want to be?
    Love or Antilove?

    Love and antilove, both can be expressed.
    And really, neither of them
    can truly be repressed.
    Love or Antilove?

    Love and antilove, know yourself, I say.
    Find someone who is like you
    and never walk away.
    Love or Antilove?

  171. EbenAt says:

    Love is
    what you have
    to offer,
    your best, worst,
    everything
    in between.

    May you be
    blessed with
    a complimentary soul.

    Depending on who
    you believe,
    either Buddha or
    Mr. Rogers said,
    “Love isn’t a state
    of perfect caring,”
    it’s about
    acceptance.

    Either way,
    that guy was
    one smart cookie.

  172. Nancy Posey says:

    We Loved

    We loved everyone then, even those
    we couldn’t stand, the ones we mocked
    behind their backs, poor girls in curlers—
    always in curlers, holed up in the dorm.

    We loved ourselves, loved each other
    at T.G.I.Friday’s on Thursday midnights,
    at the Krispee Kreme (Hot now!) past
    curfew, making giddy, desperate

    dime calls from payphones, begging
    those girls we knew would answer
    to sign us out—to some imaginary
    aunt’s house in town—buying a night.

    We loved the handsome boys we met
    at downtown bars, flirting, dancing,
    making up false names, then slipping
    off sharing our dorm phone numbers.

    We loved Jonesie, our zealous,campus
    cop, shining his flashlight in the bushes
    where we necked with boys we loved—
    that night at least—enthusiastic kissers.

    We loved that artificial world, make-
    believe time when everyone we knew—
    or notice at least—had just turned 21,
    would always be young. And in love.

  173. shellaysm says:

    Perplexities of Love and Hate

    In matters of relating,
    I’ve come to the conclusion
    that where love and hate arise
    there’s questions and confusion.

    See, fine lines exist between
    love (or liking immensely)
    and its alter-most ego:
    hate (or disliking intensely).

    From puppy to passionate,
    love has numerous stages.
    Hate comes in one size for all,
    and may last through old ages.

    If these two are opposites
    and opposites do attract,
    is it then fair to presume
    from those like us we retract?

    What we hate in another,
    odd as it may seem afar,
    is true manifestation
    of disliking how we are.

    Sparks indeed may fly, as known
    with people who are single,
    but which one then is the root
    and do love and hate mingle?

    I suppose in a lifetime
    a goal that is most solemn
    is to leave this world with love
    the over-balanced column.

    Michele K. Smith

  174. Grey_Ay says:

    Love Poem

    Once I ran to poetry
    to express my love
    or express the many
    loves lost
    unrequited
    or forgotten

    Now I hide my love
    it’s no longer poetry
    simply it is
    multiplies
    ebbs, flows
    wordlessly

    -A. Ault-

  175. Jane Shlensky says:

    Narcissus Reflects Upon Love

    Narcissus at the fountain dotes upon
    reflections of his beauty ‘til it’s gone;
    his memory is not the thing itself.

    So beauty’s love is put upon a shelf,
    rendered a trinket, bric-a-brac, stray
    thoughts to handle briefly every day.

    At no point does Narcissus give away
    the love he feels. His hording heart’s excess
    is sure to kill him, not his loveliness.

    We sneer at him but might as well confess
    we are his kin; blinded we realize
    that we are linked to love most by our eyes

    squinting through ripples where reflection lies.
    What’s real, the stuff of myth, a perfect art
    is stirring in the basin of the heart…

    or lungs or gut or more southerly part.
    It moves our recognition, helps us live
    to see we love ourselves most, then forgive.

  176. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    LAST DAY BY YOUR SIDE

    Surviving your major surgery was a miracle
    All its own! So happy you came home, Dad,
    Even if it was to the hospital to recover! At least
    You were close by.

    My last day with you has special memories
    Supporting you while they tested your mental abilities,
    Not realizing how educated and intelligent you were,
    I kept your focus, smiling at your correct answers
    Offering you confidence and humor
    Because their words were so basic to you!

    When asked to list ten animals, I had to laugh when you
    Said, “Caribou”, who knew!

    I brought you an orchid that day because your stark room
    Left your space colorless, not at all conducive to healing
    Or feeling anything useful!

    After you passed your test, only missed a few items,
    You said how much you enjoyed the flowers
    And the thought behind them! How you knew they
    Were from me!

    As we headed out, I wiggled the big toe
    On your remaining last leg!
    I had notes in my hand, instructions about
    What to bring you the next day
    When again I’d come see you! We laughed about caribou
    Who knew it would be our last laugh together.

    With a goodbye and I love you,
    We left only to receive a phone call late that night,
    Youngest sister had been called,
    “We’ve lost him” is all she could say.

    At the hospital, you were hooked up to
    Their breathing machine
    With the doctor telling us it was our choice
    To decide what to do
    Local sister made the final decision.

    We let you slip away
    Into your own timing of letting go
    Completely!

    My love for you felt like it was slipping away then, too.
    As sadness, depression and loss set in,
    And yet, back at your house,
    A stepsister had arrived
    Needing looking after
    Realizing she had become an alcoholic
    With severe stress disorders, who would not respond well,
    To this news!

    Instantly thrown into the new demand,
    Brought anything but love to the foreground,
    I found I could barely keep up
    With the changing tides of emotions,
    Like on oceans without a clear direction.

    In two days, we organized a rehab intervention
    Bringing in lots of family members
    As we tried to remember you,
    Wondering what you would do
    And once she was safely entered into rehab
    My sister and I had
    Wine, toasting you in your house, laughing to release the stress
    About the sadness and mess until we both raised our glasses
    To you saying caribou . . .

    If you only knew!

  177. Gabrielle Freeman says:

    I Heart Horror
    by Gabrielle Freeman

    I think that there is something wrong with me.
    I have fallen for the same type of guy
    over and, well, you know. How can it be

    that I understand, even sympathize
    with serial killers? Fictional, ok?
    Real ones? Everyday sickos? I despise

    them. But write me a killer with something to say,
    a murderer with charisma and wit,
    and I will root for him. I might even pray

    for his continued freedom. In the pit
    of my dark heart, I admit I admire
    their conviction. They do not take the bit

    in their thirsty mouths. They would rather fire
    burn in the palms of their hands, in their teeth.
    Their tools, saws and knives, the thin garrote wire.

    Each to his own. Why I celebrate grief-
    makers, men who take lives because they must,
    I don’t know. I’m a sucker for a thief

    with a brain. A sociopath who “just”
    kills the guilty, a purposeful butcher.
    A cannibal the honest soul can trust.

    What monster awaits me in my future?
    What writer will whet my appetite
    for moral ambiguity, suture

    my psyche? Worn thin wounds sewn up tight?

    Thanks for reading! Please check out my writing process site at http://www.ladyrandom.com.

  178. peacegirlout says:

    What is love in the end

    The door was kept open so death
    Could slip right in without knocking
    Sometimes he rode the elevator
    Up down up down up down
    The visitors themselves began to change
    Mainly they changed to being absent
    Hot cold hot cold hot cold
    He wanted to scream at the quiet
    Silence the alarms that stirred
    His restless legs
    At first he was glad to see her
    But what good was she now
    In her little black dress
    Taking liberties and touching
    His cheek as though he was already gone
    Segregation was hard on a man and he
    Had been tireless in his pursuit to build
    A life and he just didn’t know what to
    do now with his hands or with the torch
    he had carried for her all these years.

  179. cbwentworth says:

    An easy task,
    to fall in love
    Sometimes a look
    is all it takes
    Pretty blue eyes,
    a crooked smile
    Heart unguarded,
    enchanted leap

    The hard part comes,
    with loss, heartbreak
    Grief always burns,
    the cracks won’t heal
    By scornful words,
    or time’s cruel joke
    Heart defeated,
    cornered in black

    – – –

    C.B. Wentworth

  180. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    LOVE AND KNOT LOVE

    Love is truth
    Not just for youth

    Love makes us smile
    Not if we’re closed for awhile

    Love lifts our spirit
    Not if we can’t hear it

    Love invites us to say yes
    Unless we feel like a mess

    Love is inspiration
    Not without aspiration

    Love is open and free
    Not if we can’t be

    Love expands our sense of self
    Not if we hide on a shelf

    Love wants us to open
    Not if we think love’s done

    If we feel love and block the flow,
    We knot up and cannot grow

    Love is happy to guide us to joy,
    Unless we’re so knotted up . . .

    Nothing’s left to enjoy!

  181. DamonZ says:

    “For Dad”

    Behind closed eyes I see your face.
    Those childhood memories never erased.
    On your leadership my life is based.

    Wherever you are, I feel your gentle hand.
    Your wisdom and ideals of being a man.
    You lived a christian way, a simple principle plan.
    Love life and do whatever you can.

    More than a thousand memories shared.
    For a lifetime you loved and always cared.
    Your faith and love never pared.

    The ages may not know you, nor your integrity.
    Your greatness unrecognized by the current plutocracy.
    But this is not your definitive legacy.
    It is the love and respect of your friends and family.

    wherever you are, I feel your presence.
    Your unmistakable fatherly essence.

    By: Damon Zallar

  182. Bruce Niedt says:

    Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a “terza rima”. (You can look it up – think Dante’s Divine Comedy.) Mine is actually a “terza rima sonnet” which I believe was created by Percy Shelley.

    Romantics

    It’s not some gilt-edged bound-in-leather journal
    in which I write with fancy flourishes,
    my quill pen scratching odes to love eternal.

    My Bic pen scrawls, its blue ink nourishes
    lined paper bound by wire spiral spine,
    torn cardboard covers held against their wishes

    by duct tape, just to lend a silver shine.
    What matters is what’s put between the covers,
    not whether your book’s prettier than mine.

    Let’s read our work to our respective lovers
    and see who swoons to each impassioned page,
    and like the tiny hummingbird who hovers

    around the nectar jar, their love will rage.
    It’s so much better than a living wage.

    • seingraham says:

      Bruce – great poem, seriously…a terza rima sonnet? And it just sings…Very fine. However, I am hijacking this space to extend some gratitude to Robert and it’s the nearest I can get to his spot…

      Robert, I don’t know if you recall back in 2008 when you advised us to consider Writer’s Digest’s 101 Best Sites for Writers as a resource. At that time, I believe it was you that also pointed us in Jendi Reiter’s direction at Winning Writer’s, saying that she often accepted poems from unknowns and critiqued them in their publication. I’m pretty sure it became common knowledge that she took my first submitted poem, “The Trees Stand Watch”, critiqued it thoroughly, published it in their Sept.15/08 issue, and it’s been archived there ever since. Around about the same time, you offered us a lead to a start-up UK publication that was looking for work too, Philip Quinlan at theverbfori.uk.co accepted work from me, Amy Barlow Liberatore, and Salvatore Buttaci, for his inaugural issue of “Melisma” (I had the privilege of having a really long poem published in the next and last issue of the publication as well.) All of these good things came from your suggestions that were almost off-the-cuff. Going back to Winning Writers, I started to use them as a regular resource and began entering the Tom Howard Poetry contest that year. It was a reasonable entry fee, they would take almost anything — even stuff that had been published elsewhere — and they awarded “commended”, “highly commended” as well as “honourable mentions” and their regular prizes.(I’m not sure they still do this.) I made the lower lists from the start, and that was very encouraging. Last year I tied for second and they were going to award both of us the full amount of prize money until I realized I’d made a really bad error in my poem and withdrew it. They were grateful to me for the withdrawal, and one of the judges, John Reid, advised me to revise that poem, “A Jumping Off Point” and enter it immediately to this year’s contest…deadline Sept.30.2014. I did that, and I also entered another, “Table for Three”. Imagine my amazed and thrilled surprise when I learned “Table for Three” took first place this year! Not only that, John Reid, not a judge this year but an advisor, asked them if they’d mind publishing last year’s entry as well. Winning Writers kindly agreed and that poem appears below the winning one. I’m sorry to ramble on and on — but not really, it took me a long time to remember how it was I ended up at Winning Writers in the first place, but I keep notes and my 2008 PAD notes have scribbles all over the place: n.b.RLB – send something to J.Reiter @ winningwriters.com and later, the same types of messages about Philip Quinlan…So, this is a long overdue but really sincere thank you, Robert. You write beautifully, and this “street” is a fine endeavour.I am so lucky to have found it, and you. I’m glad you love what you do because you do it extremely well. Thank you to the moon and back.

    • Gabrielle Freeman says:

      Love the image of the notebook – “cardboard covers held against their wishes.” Nice!

  183. elishevasmom says:

    A Love/Hate Poem

    I love Nature.
    And I always try
    to be grateful for
    whatever Nature gives
    (since I can’t control
    it any way).

    This Winter was a
    hard way to go everywhere,
    and far over-stayed
    its welcome.

    The eviciton notice
    was already
    a matter of public
    record, and just
    before it was served,
    Winter flipped a sneer
    over its shoulded
    and sauntered off.

    Spring took
    a little while
    to get on its feet,
    but then did a
    pretty good job of things,
    actually.

    Yesterday
    was windy,
    partly sunny
    and eighty degrees.

    Today started off
    lift-you-off-your
    -feet windy,
    with showers
    and the chance of
    Thunder.

    It has been
    raining
    all afternoon
    like it was
    alright. And now
    it is
    Snowing.

    And I’m hating it.

    Ellen Evans

  184. Alpha1 says:

    UNFULFILLED

    Four walls closing in on
    An empty wedding bed
    Tonight of all nights
    Where love once lived
    Bitterness now resides
    Steeped within infidelity’s
    Hunger like a cancerous
    Growth eating at the
    Heart of a devastated man
    Inhaling the hurt of
    Unfulfilled love from
    A cigarette filter
    Exhaling it’s relief
    Blowing wispy smoke
    Circles into the air

  185. drnurit says:

    LOVE STORY?

    By: Dr. Nurit Israeli

    It is all too familiar –
    the love story that could have been.
    In the dark of the night,
    dreams prompt new chapters
    with happily-ever-afters.

    But at the break of day,
    the love story that could have been
    recedes into the shadows –
    where tales of almost
    love stories are veiled.

    But at the break of day,
    she moves on, wide awake,
    to the midway place –
    where daylight greets dreams
    and new prompts await…

  186. Please leave me

    I am bleaching the walls of you.
    You will find your socks in a pile
    outside my window. In each one,
    the love notes I saved from you
    with the word liar written on the back.
    I take back every baby and sweetie,
    rewinding and erasing you like old
    video tapes of embarrassing talent
    shows that I never won.
    (I never really won you, either.)
    Your mouth will singe from screaming
    my name at my door. You will be the
    pills flushed down the toilet.
    This addiction ends today.

  187. Padding

    I’m glad I can still get queasy
    Anticipating a first date
    It’s been a while

    Reminds me of my youth
    When everything was dreadfully important
    Every question parsed for hidden meaning
    Every answer fraught with consequences

    I still want her to like me
    Want to charm her
    To feel that enchantment once more
    But I won’t sacrifice who I am
    For any more women

    It’s not confidence
    I’ve gained with age
    It’s apathy
    I’ve accumulated enough emotional padding
    Through the years and divorces
    To soften any blow

    Just like the adipose padding
    Around my waist

  188. laurie kolp says:

    Maternally Bound

    A steamroller, she
    shoves stroller over
    rows of red brick
    outlining
    flower beds,
    then opts for dirt

    leading her baby
    zigzag
    through clusters
    of pink and purple petunias

    stops
    and abandons
    Cabbage Patch
    Cutie.

    A quick glance over shoulder
    (just in case mommy’s watching)
    then dash to grass, pick of dandelion
    way too close to parking lot

    turn around, dart
    past flagpoles
    to six persnickety women
    huddled together
    like high school clique.

    One takes weed without one look
    as toddler strolls back to doll
    in prohibited area
    and proceeds.

  189. matthew says:

    Love As Enlightenment
    I can not say what day what hour or what minute
    love struck me enlightened with all of its wit
    I can say love is wisdom
    the love I have for my wife
    has proved to me without a shadow of doubt
    that many of life’s wants are hollow lifeless
    consumables
    Consumption is mostly useless
    I know that my love for her is more
    and that I have not given up anything
    not anything that is important
    in any case I have tenderness
    I have her smile her laugh and her admiration
    this is how love is informative
    Emotion a preoccupation a liberation
    from useless things
    Love has improved my attention to details
    I do, I make, I want love
    and much of the world has been forgotten
    I have, I receive, I accept her love
    and I am enlightened

  190. lshannon says:

    ..and a little anti-love

    A haiku for haters

    Why did you come here?
    with hipster sad sarcasm
    real wit alludes you

  191. Blaise says:

    LURE

    There is no love
    there is only love
    brain as cleaver
    slices
    into scientific categories
    sensations
    that infiltrate
    so deep
    I do not even sniff them
    until
    new allurements
    rule my world.
    Denial is futile –
    there is only love.

  192. DCR1986 says:

    You, tuning me into love.
    Me, in search of melodies with you.
    Us, composing under one name.

    Irreconcilable Differences

    Stained by prints of infidelity,
    Hands huddle to patch piece by piece-
    One shattered heart on concrete.

    —Danielle C. Robinson

    • DCR1986 says:

      The Best Art of Us

      You, tuning me into love.
      Me, in search of melodies with you.
      Us, composing under one name.

      Irreconcilable Differences

      Stained by prints of infidelity,
      Hands huddle to patch piece by piece-
      One shattered heart on concrete.

      Repost

  193. Ravyne says:

    No Absolution

    The bones of my feet creak
    and moan — heavy steps
    laden with yesterday’s burdens
    bring me to you —
    I lean over the bed
    avoiding eye contact —
    shame lingers on my clothes
    cigarettes and cheep gin mingle
    with her perfume — your sigh
    closes in on my neck, squeezes
    the air from my lungs
    I touch your arm —
    a need for absolution snakes down
    your wrist to your fingers, and seeks
    to curl your fingers into mine
    As if on fire, you jerk your hand away
    and my bones crumble to the floor
    I know the road to forgiveness
    have traveled it like a con artist —
    You are priest and Mother Mary
    and you will weigh each of my sins–
    I descend into my private hell
    dredge up every detail of unfaithfulness
    I lift my head and stare into coal eyes
    There is no pity in those pits this time
    I rise from the floor, stand before you
    hands fidget, knees quiver —
    Your words are a whip across my back
    fifty lashes, ’til blood rivers across the room
    You tears salt my wounds — an agony
    no less than the wounds I gave you —
    There will be no redemption, not this time
    I am no beggar; You are no saint

    Copyright 2014
    Lori Carlson

  194. lshannon says:

    Teaspoon Mornings

    It’s a quiet teaspoon morning.
    Tangled blankets and your not so quiet
    snores as the soundtrack
    to my early routine.

    I love that you walk to your far away
    distant desk a life beyond my walls.
    I hate that it means you leave
    before I am ready.

    Wakings and sleepings
    with vivid moments strung
    beads of real plans and daydreams
    Alternating in blues, reds and sandy glass

    You are more and more
    friend, heart, foe, and force
    to be reckoned with. Trusted and true
    ally when everyone else is missing.

    Words fail me at the most
    times that I really want. Value
    express, extoll your every virtue
    explain why with you I am powerful

    Small and fragile loved
    pushed, supported and judged
    embraced and protected.
    I can only explain what you are to me

    What I become through your lens
    more and less than I see myself
    complicated compelled compromised
    completed in ways I never imagined.

    Swept under your current.
    My heart and laughter full of you.

  195. DanielAri says:

    LET’S KILL AND MAKE UP

    warning you that I’m going to talk a little about love making,
    and if you’re anything like my stepdaughter you’re not going
    to want to hear it, and should consider moving on to another,
    probably better poem. Two sunsets after an historic Fang/
    Alice schism (sparked if I recall by a certain someone’s lack
    of awareness of another party’s refreshed but familiar hair-
    do), we found ourselves wilding all day Saturday, going at it
    as though both of us were on death row: endless, tireless,
    remorseless coitus out of character for a relationship that
    began after separate ardors of youths. Bite marks, sweat,
    torn cloth, all the windows open for air, never mind the yells
    and who might hear. As the sun set again on the raw scrape
    of our fight and the strains we had paid to begin patching,
    I found myself without the juice to move, could not coax toe,
    hand or jaw to indicate its life though motion. Alice was up,
    gone to the kitchen for something to drink. I heard rattling
    in the silver drawer and imagined her looking for the cleaver.
    (I’m telling you, the argument had gotten quite out of hand.)
    I had the briefest dream that she came back with the blade,
    opened me up, the most tender surgeon saying I love you and
    goodbye. My love, we have overcome and we must surrender.

    —FangO

  196. lina says:

    Into the Field

    Come with me, old friend,
    into the mud-wet field
    still stark from winter.
    The oaks by the stone wall
    are knotted and bare,
    but the purple crocus is opening
    and the black bird is singing.
    The river is full
    and tonight there will be
    a red moon,
    half here and half gone
    already.
    I feel rushed and tired
    at the same time.
    Walk with me.

  197. I had so much fun with yesterday prompt I decided to make double my pleasure so to speak.

    If I Were a Love Poem

    I would woo you
    to keep you warm all night
    dreaming of things we could do
    bodies so close
    breath held tight
    nothing concealed
    denied
    or untried.

    I would have you wanting
    as you tasted my words on your lips.
    Your radiant smile
    forever held in my stanzas
    your sigh —
    line breaks
    setting our passion
    to the right pace.

    Faithful to the arousal
    of words you read me
    again
    and again
    vows of rapture
    phonetic ecstasy
    you might even share me
    if I were a love poem.

  198. candy says:

    Faded Love

    Togetherness is
    often overrated when
    love begins to fade

  199. rachelgrace says:

    a murderous love

    “Tell me a story”, she said looking into his eyes
    I have become my story he replied.
    Looking into the dark pools of his eyes she found wonder
    Fascinating turns of tricks from spirits long gone
    She closed her eyes to the dark heavily recessed night
    In the background she felt hands slowly holding her
    Warmth in drowning.
    I will never let you go he said
    With a slight smile that she never saw he lifted her into the water.
    I will never let you go

  200. spacerust says:

    “And Now You’re Gone” by Karl A. Avila

    I could never see the world
    the same way you see it through your eyes
    and you could never ever feel the pain
    the way you left me behind

    You could try to understand
    but you could never ever comprehend
    you haven’t been through any pain
    you’ve never felt this way

    How could you think
    you know what I’m going through
    you can’t feel something
    you’ve never been through
    how can I make you see
    that you love to me
    that you love is to me
    more than I could ever dream…

    And now you’re gone

  201. rachfh says:

    Let Me Count the Ways by Rachel E. Hicks

    One. You take a running lunge
    at the side of the tunnel slide, slap
    yourself over it like a wet dishrag,
    slide slowly down and land in a lump
    on the smooth pebbles. Your tongue
    hangs out of a silly grin, eyes crossed,
    and I imagine cartoon birds circling, tweeting.

    Two. You sit on the rug for an hour
    folding origami dinosaurs, educating me
    on all the particulars. You approve my choice
    of Mendelssohn on the record player
    and tell me you like this time with me.
    I iron and you fold, and outside it rains.

    Three. You list all the reasons
    for getting a low-maintenance dog.
    You’ve done your research. And when
    I hint you might have to wait until
    you’ve struck out on your own, you walk slowly up
    the stairs and begin, “What happens to a dream
    deferred?” You finish the last line
    as you close your door, softly.

    Four. And so many, many more.

  202. feywriter says:

    To Write of Love

    Once I could write a love poem,
    words overflowed from my heart
    as sweet as honeycomb.

    When did that all fall apart?
    Phrases trapped in cliché–
    no more a work of art.

    Do I have no more to say?
    Romance stuck in the past,
    lost in the everyday.

    My heart is overcast.

    by Mary W. Jensen

  203. Linda Lee Sand says:

    Heaven on Earth

    Thine eyes purchase for me the light
    open for me the door
    reflect for me
    a kindred fire
    my soul’s desire
    Oh! Soundless Word
    within a world above
    so filled with
    breath and bliss and
    love that startles
    soothes and stirs
    awakes like dew
    unlocks like grace
    anew
    a trace of another
    world
    so full of earth
    so staggering
    so divine

  204. Gwyvian says:

    Another loveless

    I knew love the second you turned away,
    and the moment I felt something snap—
    now there was a void in me where you used to be,
    nestled there without me even realizing it; and
    now you take a step or two, hesitate, and I
    can’t help but hope that it’s a simple misunderstanding,
    that a quick fix can clear it up – but even as I call to you,
    you never turn or even look back; that
    was the moment I knew that I did, in fact, love you
    and when you left I became loveless…
    it’s a title I’ve worn before, and I said I’d wear it
    for you, too, if you wish it – up until someone else
    picks a spot to settle down in my heart, then everything
    shifts again – new things to watch for, someone
    new to try and keep close; but know that a part of me
    always keeps up an empty space in your memory,
    where the strings were severed, the bleeding stemmed—
    and I will keep the title you bestowed on me – and try
    to forget that I ever loved you.

    April 15, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  205. Dan Collins says:

    Day 15:

    恋歌

    Also the blood red
    moon swells over the sleeping
    arms all around

    .

  206. DamonZ says:

    “For Dad”

    Behind closed eyes I see your face.
    Those childhood memories never erased.
    On your leadership my life is based.

    Wherever you are, I feel your gentle hand.
    Your wisdom and ideals of being a man.
    You lived a christian way, a simple principle plan.
    Love life and do whatever you can.

    More than a thousand memories shared.
    For a lifetime you loved and always cared.
    Your faith and love never pared.

    The ages may not know you, nor your integrity.
    Your greatness unrecognized by the current plutocracy.
    But this is not your definitive legacy.
    It is the love and respect of your friends and family.

    wherever you are, I feel your presence.
    Your unmistakable fatherly essence.

    By: Damon Zallat

  207. RJ Clarken says:

    Tempest Tossed

    “People who throw kisses are hopelessly lazy.” – Bob Hope

    O, fling my beating heart, my dear,
    as lazy kisses, thrown about.
    Just plant one on my cupid’s bow,

    ‘cause for the world, we’ll both appear
    like we’re in love, so there’s no doubt:
    there’s nothing else in this tableau.

    I hope I don’t sound cavalier.
    O kiss me now, full on, full out
    since I’m your own true love. Let’s go

    and snuggle in our belvedere.
    Emotion’s not the last holdout.
    Our stars are painted by Van Gogh.

    A lazy night, we settle in
    and fantasize a night of sin.

    ###

  208. James Brush says:

    SONNET FOR JULY

    With my feet firmly planted in the sand,
    the seagulls might mistake me for a tree.
    I’ve no idea why that would matter and
    anyway, it’s good to be here by the sea.
    It won’t be long before the sun goes down,
    and one-by-one the stars fill up the sky.
    Soon they’ll switch on the bright lights in the town
    and then, we’ll see old Cygnus rising high.
    When the fireworks begin to sing and pop,
    smoky spiders will weave our summer night.
    With each held breath, I’ll wish it never stops
    until the dark of space is filled with light.
    Do I hear mermaids singing each to each?
    No. It is your voice calling from the beach.

  209. lionetravail says:

    “John 15:13″
    by David M. Hoenig

    No greater love hath man, than he
    lay down his life for brotherly
    concern. No less a sacrifice
    of all one is, to be precise,
    would prove a man’s nobility.

    In war, in life, no way to be,
    save serving this reality.
    To risk his death, to pay the price?
    No greater love hath man than he!

    To stand in danger’s surety,
    upholding hero’s purity
    of purpose must, for man, suffice!
    So take thou heed, of sage advice:
    no surer grasp of heaven’s key,
    than brother’s love and life, hath he.

  210. James Brush says:

    KING OF THE BEASTS

    In house a full of cats, strays, unwanted, feral,
    a man called himself the king of these beasts.
    He fed them and pretended to find them homes.
    The whole place stank of ammonia and tuna.

    A man called himself the king of these beasts
    who made his house their lair and didn’t mind
    the whole place stank of ammonia and tuna.
    Every day, this king shoveled boxes and sang.

    Who made his house their lair and didn’t mind?
    He called himself king and lion and Caesar.
    Every day, this king shoveled boxes and sang.
    He loved them and believed they worshipped him.

    He called himself king and lion and Caesar.
    He fed them and pretended to find them homes.
    He loved them and believed they worshipped him
    in a house full of cats, strays, unwanted, feral.

  211. ToniBee3 says:

    “Gardenia”

    Forty-odd years later
    they arise at no specific a.m. time
    and playfully race to the toilet –
    she gets there first, he starts the coffee.
    Reminiscers between sips,
    they celebrate each other…
    in their garden.

    They hover just enough
    not to invade either’s space in the kitchen.
    He’s frisky flicking the dish rag on her hips.
    They switch on the banter
    preparing a leaner brunch
    with fresh tomatoes…
    from their garden.

    The arousing scent of gardenia
    meanders through the pergola.
    He graces her sisterlocks with one,
    but not before he thumps off the aphids.
    She hums a made-up melody
    better than that honey bee zipping…
    through their garden.

    No regrets of their solid oath.
    Grateful for grandchildren.
    Fascinated by the flock of herons
    taking off across the lake at dusk.
    Adventurers of the next forty-odd years,
    they celebrate each other…
    in their garden.

  212. Gwyvian says:

    Stale blood

    Blood is a current flowing from dark places
    and carrying embers of life, the force
    that moves me to want to feel your blood:
    in your lips, hot with urgency,
    in your chest, where it keeps your heart
    throbbing with feeling—
    but it is also blood that runs bitter,
    blood that runs cold
    and blood that betrays me…
    my flush is anger and profound sadness
    for my blood you spill so callously,
    and it is that lack of caring that fuels me
    to keep my blood inside just long enough,
    before the darkness comes, just so that
    I may have vengeance
    for the innocence you slaughter at a whim, for
    the love that seeps gently into the sheets and
    trickles away across the floor…
    but I’m afraid that I will never have that
    satisfaction, because the job isn’t done until
    my last breath has left, so you keep stabbing—
    if I knew what was beyond this moment, I
    would set to haunt you and kindle in you regret,
    but I know that I am powerless over you; but,
    your importance dies quickly: it is my life
    fading that matters… and it is not the pain
    that kills me, not the wound, nor
    the angels of death that come for my soul—
    it is the humiliation of being killed
    just because what we had grew old…

    April 15, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  213. Anvanya says:

    PERMANENT RESIDENT

    I’m here to stay, no matter what the family thinks;
    here with you, no matter what the neighborhood’s opinion.
    One does not wait a lifetime and then toss love’s last fling
    out the window, kick it down the block, turn away
    in the daylight’s glare.

    Now when we disagree, I know it’s not the end of the world.
    If I fall asleep first, you let me do just that.
    Cooking breakfast: I’ll be the sous chef this morning
    You can slice and dice and toast tomorrow.
    Doing the laundry: please wash the whites with bleach.
    Cleaning your truck? thanks for giving mine the once-over.
    Oh – you got to the roses before I did … well, I bet you
    had a good time cutting them back. More blooms next spring.

    I promise to never ask you what color to paint the kitchen.
    You promise never to criticize my driving on the freeway.
    I’ll teach you how to do the L A on-ramp merge.
    You’ll teach me all about Allison engines.
    Wear your overalls when you work on the airplane.
    I’ll wear my new flats when we go out to dinner.

    Kiss me awake and I’ll hug you goodnight,
    no matter what the day brought to either of us.
    Tomorrow unfailingly arrives with new thoughts and
    tasks – this is the way I love you.

  214. CathyBlogs says:

    Illuminated

    That night we sipped sweet dark wine
    and ate warm brie, and bread,
    and apples that carried
    the essence of winter inside them.
    He laughed when I shivered,
    took my face in his hands,
    and breathed the last warm breeze of summer
    with his kiss, then pulled away, smiling —
    Here, he whispered, This is for you.
    He reached toward the candle,
    scooped the flame into his hand —
    laughing at my surprise —
    And leaned towards me, saying,
    Take it, it’s yours.
    Slowly I cupped my palms,
    and he slipped the little flame
    onto my fingers. As I watched it flicker,
    he brought his hands together above it —
    as if to applaud — and crack!
    The flame shattered,
    and a thousand tiny sparks
    clustered around us,
    illuminating us,
    electrifying us.
    As an errant star
    floated before me,
    I said, For you
    then gently blew it away.

    by Cathy Dee writing at http://www.CathyBlogs.com

  215. foodpoet says:

    Poetry is a bandage

    Poetry is a bandage
    I am not in love today
    My heart is beyond
    Broken
    Coffee grounds fine
    Beyond
    Repair.

    Poetry is a bandage
    I hemorrhage words
    Coping
    With collapsing
    Memory
    Coping with
    Too little
    Time

    Poetry is a bandage
    Some days this is
    Enough
    To face the
    Day
    Some days
    The bandage is ripped
    Off
    And I
    Face the
    Day
    Loveless, poemless

    Poetry is a bandage

    Megan McDonald

  216. Roderick Bates says:

    Chocolate, Mon Amour

    by Roderick Bates

    On a good day, love is like chocolate —
    made warm and moist by body heat,
    enrobing us both in voluptuous pleasure.

    On a bad day, chocolate is like love —
    sweet and warm in the first sip,
    but gritty and bitter in the dregs.

  217. DamonZ says:

    “Sonnet for My Sweet”

    I once descried you in a sparkling dream.
    Souls fleeting on a windless sea so clear.
    Drawn to each other, full ahead we steam.
    Across the flat gap, enchantment draws near.
    Not the briny deep, nor terra so firm
    Could forfend love so raw, so unerring.
    Awake, I gaze at my dream confirmed,
    For at my Darla Jean I am staring.
    Her beauty so clear, a beacon of light
    Our euphoric fantasy does abide,
    And through the years, our love burns ever bright.
    Destiny saw fit our souls should collide,
    And so we progress as lover and friend.
    Together we will find our story’s end.

    By: Damon Zallar

  218. lethejerome says:

    “You Shall Overcome”

    Appeals to my inner desire to belong
    You appeal to the nights we can’t possibly waste
    Appeals to the echoes of repeated refrains
    You appeal to the traces I want you to leave
    Appeals to the absence of all that won’t be long
    You appeal to the reality we consume
    Appeals to become myself against old restraints
    You appeal to my senses and to my good sense

    Jérôme Melançon
    @lethejerome

  219. Hannah says:

    This Poem is ♥ Shaped

    This poem is ♥ shaped…
    it’s plotted on dotted red lines,
    it’s perforated for ease of use
    so that it’ll be easy to release
    when one becomes too attached.
    But I don’t think you’ll want to…
    folded and creased, it’s meant to please
    honey sown seeds are heavily fragrant,
    this bidding’s scented and hard to refuse;
    it longs to win your heart for her own.
    Lurking within the margins lives a secret
    it’s unspoken but gently and often alluded to.
    You’ll find its essence along the bottom,
    contained within a simple scribbled message:
    More than you’ll ever know…I ♥ You.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  220. Microcosms in Loves Macrocosm
    Lydia Flores

    Eternal maria on the moon
    eclipsed like your blood heart
    bruised by the world who forgets
    you forget not. Yet still my lips long
    to footprint your skin,
    journey your phases.
    I’ll take you crescent,
    full and every in between.
    make my hands a birth mark
    where love is born out of
    the womb of your corridors
    loneliness hollow no more.

    Draw the curtains back
    wind walks on your skin
    give me your vulnerability
    and everything I take.
    My fingers slide down your
    spine and the flower petals
    peel back for spring, opened to me
    a secret garden, you give to me.
    To this, to love but not a logic to the
    reasonable means… all a means of
    the second coming.Your mind then
    your body. To be you but I love you mine.

    A wild heat but I will kiss your eyes, burn
    and praise the God for morning it brings.
    Absence will visit but I will welcome rain
    when it is done I will smell your presence
    rise from the soils below my bedroom window.
    dumb luck, fumbling hands with spontaneity
    when our mouths meet I can taste tomorrow.

    I want the shadows of our wrinkled skin
    until death knocks at our door, teary eyed
    one of us will go back to the earth. But every
    other heart beat will be one for me. Together
    the song of our being, forever breathing…
    oh, Long live love a bruised beat underneath
    the sun’s song to the moon’s glowing being.
    From you to me, me to you.. here, always,
    in loves cosmic dwelling.

  221. Emma Hine says:

    To Hate, You Have To Love.

    To hate, you have to love.
    One emotion
    sitting in the pocket of another.
    Devotion.
    Condescension.
    Revulsion.
    Redemption.
    A constant roller coster.
    A un-merry go-round…
    and round…
    and round.
    Fun at the fair?
    In love and war,
    they say,
    “All’s fair,”
    Fair’s fair,
    take us there.
    Cos we’ve dug a hole,
    and the end seems black
    as coal,
    as night.
    Can we make it right?
    Can we see a light,
    or should we quit?
    Stop taking the hit…
    Put an end in sight.
    If I hated, I might care.
    But there’s nothing there…
    only despair.
    To hate you have to love.

    • Emma Hine says:

      Arggh, punctuation is out… It reads wrong. Please read this one instead!

      To Hate, You Have To Love

      To hate, you have to love.
      One emotion
      sitting in the pocket of another.
      Devotion.
      Condescension.
      Revulsion.
      Redemption.
      A constant roller coster.
      A un-merry go-round…
      and round…
      and round.
      Fun at the fair?
      In love and war,
      they say,
      “All’s fair,”
      Fair’s fair,
      take us there.
      Cos we’ve dug a hole,
      and the end seems black
      as coal,
      as night.
      Can we make it right?
      Can we see a light
      or should we quit,
      stop taking the hit,
      put an end in sight?
      If I hated, I might care.
      But there’s nothing there…
      only despair.
      To hate you have to love.

  222. Lori DeSanti says:

    Two Clams in the Sand

    I told you I’d tease you open
    as if you were a mollusk, as if
    you had an expensive secret
    hidden between your shells.

    Your pearls were tiny moons
    that I wished to touch, but were
    more rare than my two palms
    filled with moon dust. When

    you grew to trust me, and the
    moon was nearly tangible at
    the end of the ocean, I loosened
    each of your stubborn halves and

    you let me see your riches. I
    left you with the softest grains
    of silver sand, and we lulled in
    low tide; until soon an orb laid

    on your bi-valve tongue,
    iridescent as a cherub, the
    only pearl made from the
    sands in both of our seas.

  223. The memory of falling asleep

    I have loneliness heavier than the sky
    and the gray of afternoon feels like
    cinderblocks on my chest. Nothing fills
    the void where your messages sat on my
    phone. I let the word love into my mouth
    so I have something to choke on when you
    leave me. I have not seen you in weeks.
    At night, we are coupled in my head,
    having dinner at a diner, dropping our
    tired bodies onto the edge of a bed,
    waking tangled in each other. We have
    mastered the art of avoidance, speak in
    code when our bodies are near. Both of us
    too afraid to lace fingers in your car.
    Another car idles too long in front of my
    house. It is not you. The rain quickens
    and I want your skin on mine. I send
    another message and wait.

  224. Domino says:

    Comfortable Quarrel

    So many years together, over sixty,
    and she, Missouri to the core,
    and he, German accent still apparent,
    quarreled the years away
    in a comfortable style that
    occasionally worried the
    grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

    He was an ex-Catholic,
    excommunicated when they wed,
    and still he had his fish on Friday,
    though she argued his church
    didn’t care for him, why should he
    care for it? And besides,
    nobody had to eat fish on Friday
    anymore anyhow.

    She fed the dogs scraps,
    he argued it was bad for them.
    She found his taste in tv
    objectionable, “Karl, don’t
    let those kids watch Portland
    Wrestling, it is all fake.”

    “Nah, Betty, it’s all real.”
    and he would wink at us,
    and we would smile, in on the joke,
    as she argued about how fake
    it really was.

    I remember them, after all these
    years, the love apparent,
    even through the bickering,
    they lie side by side now,
    and I imagine them squabbling still,
    about why the weeds grow more
    near her headstone, and how
    he objects to her getting full sun all day,
    while he rests in partial shade,
    and how the children never visit.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  225. Emma Hine says:

    Pure Love

    Your love is pure as driven white snow.
    Incredulous feelings inside me grow.
    I thought I had loved but how could I know
    That only with you was it willing to show.

    With your love I can climb to new heights,
    Block out the past with all it’s blights.
    All around us, new smells, new sights
    Engulf our senses, put our worlds to rights.

    We reach the pinnacle yet I yearn for more.
    Release your hold and watch me soar.
    Free floating with you, defying gravity’s law.
    There’s nothing for you that I wouldn’t endure.

    As light as a feather, I wheel and glide,
    Experiencing feelings previously untried.
    With you, I’m free. I have nothing to hide.
    Now jump, my love, and enjoy the ride.

  226. msings says:

    “Love Didn’t Come”

    Love didn’t come wrapped
    in a Hallmark bow.
    It didn’t tiptoe in or ask
    if now was a good time.
    When love came it did so
    like the hurricanes of old,
    before meteorology
    and after it was forgotten
    how to listen to birds.
    Love broke down the doors,
    took up the cushions
    and upturned the
    floor. It didn’t give
    a fuck.

    And when love left
    it did so quietly,
    absence slowly expanding,
    sucking out air
    and compressing all joy
    to a trite phrase.

  227. bethwk says:

    When the Heart Rises
    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider
    farmpoem.wordpress.com

    When I said to you in that dream
    that the sky was wandering over the hill,
    what I meant was that I knew your heart
    would always find its own true pathway.

    When you replied that you would stay within earshot,
    even if the wind tore your voice from you,
    I knew that you meant that your heart
    could be shattered and still your roots would thrive.

    When I told you that I would be waiting
    here, on this side of the great wooden door,
    I know you understood that my heart
    would be listening for your rising.

    When you sang of the waters of Lethe,
    how you longed to drink, but turned homeward,
    I knew that you had given your heart,
    like a Phoenix, to the story.

  228. Love at Lowe’s
    –for Cris and Jim

    In the window treatment aisle
    in a home improvement warehouse,
    after months of the idea of you,
    I saw you together for the first time.

    And, right away, from the quiet tones
    you two used to debate material, color,
    and light filtering potential (because,
    really, what else do people in love
    talk about at a hardware store?)
    I knew you were right.

    And, I imagine you now in your
    perfectly appointed RV,
    rolling through western valleys,
    mountains reflecting in your sunglasses,
    the plains in your rearview mirror,
    your hope for one another tangled
    into your love for one another,
    the window of your future
    clean and bright.

  229. XV (The Devil)
    (from a gay tarot)

    The devil is drawn in all leather and chest hair,
    and not much else. Leashes lead to the collared
    necks of two men who are addiction and obsession.
    Given the kind of club we’re in, I begin to wonder
    if the reader has rigged the deck. But the devil
    grins– his fangs the card’s only brightness– whether
    or not he’s been dealt. There is always a rebound,
    a hate fuck, a manipulative ex. Or, the reader says,
    hand on mine, he represents the escape from
    himself. Each kneeling painted man has upturned
    the face of the agonized ecstatic. A little bit of self-
    destruction
    can have the needed balancing effect.
    And you’re here, says the reader, looking for– what?–
    in the club’s darkened attic. The depicted trio is
    repeated round the velvet-curtained room, after all.
    Passion begins to trim the simmering edge of rage.
    In any reading, odds are one-to-seven the devil
    appears in the static. He shows his face, and I know
    I’m tired waiting for last year’s love to call. I am
    scissoring the ties that bind, mouth to the reader’s
    mouth, unlocking some as-yet-undiscovered cage.

  230. Tales from Barcelona

    Waiting in line to ascend the helixes of Sagrada Familia, propping
    one flying buttress arm against the trunks, you tell me, here is
    a short tale
    : when old Gaudí teased Pyrenees doves out of the stone
    meant for a roof still undreamed-of, they asked, why would you put
    doves where no one will see?, and he said, God will see, and when

    he unthreaded pumpkin vines, plumped cabbages, with his worn
    pencils and chisel, they asked the same question, and he said, the birds
    need something to eat
    . This is what you tell me in halting English,
    warmed over Catalan heat, broken into pieces by the smile you save for
    strangers who rumpled your bed the night before, one of whom has now

    become the boy you lead with your copper hand– strong and burnished
    but flexible and kind– into the elevator, where our ears slowly pop
    and the cathedral unfolds beneath the window like a chemical reaction
    whose fumes go straight to the heart. Angels copulate dragonfly-style
    up and down delicate gutters, a Jacob’s ladder flamed with ivy, frozen

    gargoyle-still, while the crenellations pull loose like the skin which is
    burned loose in a fire until it sheds into black leaves, and there,
    poised on the roof’s wide bank, are those doves and their cabbages–
    cabbages, you ask, is right word?– who grant the privilege of themselves
    to us, to those clambering angels, to God. One time, you tell me, Gaudí

    built a primitive trampoline out of cords and thin leather, and had his staff
    launch him as high as they could, until he could rotate himself midair
    towards Las Ramblas, L’Eixample, El Raval, observing how they were
    softened and beloved, you say in your voice like the oboe’s most
    blessed note– you must’ve known this would be the way into me,

    telling tall tales as we ascend, then descend, approaching and then
    retreating from this stone salad atop the nave, which like this city
    has been beloved by the master architect, who knew how to draw in
    dreamers until they too feel their edges curl up and go floral, who are
    taken wholly, who lean in to see the details, lean back to discover
    the embrace.

  231. P.A. Beyer says:

    And we’re off…

    I long for the days when the gales blew wild, when
    we ran fearless and barefoot through the grass and
    you always slipped and my heart would skip
    as I tried to catch you (or pick you up off the ground) and
    we laughed until the sides stitches hurt more
    than the finish line of a 100 yard dash and
    you held my hand like a medal dangling around your neck

  232. jakkels says:

    Love portrait

    Emerald green eyes like a field in sunlight 

    Firy hair like a storm tossed sunset 

    Your cloud cream cheeks caressed by the rays of the setting sun 

    A painting that was stolen from a great artists mind You move like the playful breeze that excites still waters 

    As supple as the laughing stream 

    That dances through the Fairy Forrest 

    Your touch is as sensual as cream on a dry skin Your smile is like the promise of pudding after a dull meal 

    And your eyes shine like lamplit windows in  a storm at night 

    Your embrace is like a scented bath 

    After a cruel day at work 

    Surely none can doubt who your heart burns for 
    And alas, but it’s not me.

  233. LOST LOVE

    As the dense smoke of indecision lifts,
    it becomes clear that a heavy heart is cumbersome.
    Where once it entranced, it now serves
    to pelt the senses like a sack of cement.
    Reduced to a murmur, it is reluctant to answer
    love’s call. All stray thoughts travel
    to hell and back without a map.

  234. geetakshi says:

    You Exist

    You exist
    In images that extinguish
    themselves into repetitive smoke;
    You exist,
    in dreams that battle for tangibility,
    in every conscious thought;
    You exist,
    in unexpressed words and phrases
    of half-hidden wounds;
    You exist,
    a spirit of endless associations,
    in every face I long to see,
    You exist.
    Who are you,
    more real than the world
    in which I seem to exist?

    ©Geetakshi Arora
    April 15, 2014

  235. candy says:

    Fair Weather Love

    Iceberg blue skies with
    “happy” clouds that only
    Bob Ross could have painted
    smile down on my neighbor’s laundry.

    Pink sheets flap in erratic rhythm to
    the breeze and little lace trimmed
    dainties wave coquettishly on the line.

    The sky turns cement gray.
    “Happy” clouds are blown away by
    invading gusts and are replaced
    by angry black ink blots that bump
    against each other with loud,
    thundering jolts.

    Rain pours down in great sheets
    as if released from helicopters.
    And sheets and dainties sag sadly,
    pinned like prisoners abandoned
    In the storm.

  236. In The Distance She Stands (Monchielle)

    In the distance she stands,
    softly angelic, she.
    Beauty beyond compare,
    an ever-present smile
    and windblown auburn hair.

    In the distance she stands,
    a lost soul, complacent.
    Searching the horizon
    for a glimpse of love’s shine;
    compassion’s communion.

    In the distance she stands,
    a mournful heart, guarded.
    Longing life’s sweet caress,
    apparition most sweet;
    whose love beats in my chest.

    In the distance she stands,
    dispersing in the mist;
    a sad, sun-kissed farewell,
    an ever-lasting love
    here, where my angel fell.

  237. HoskingPoet says:

    Here I am, day fifteen, halfway there
    
Time to write a terza rima on…
    
A blank page open, I stop and stare

    Wondering if I can come upon
    
Anything to wax poetic of…

    I focus on chores, my mind is gone

    One site suggests we write about love

    Groceries sit out in need of my care
    
Housework neglected, given the shove

    
Attention divided spawns despair
!

  238. LCaramanna says:

    Ten Steps to Love

    Ten steps up to an impressive oak door,
    brass handle opens into foyer,
    mahogany framed mirror reflects my
    obvious delight to
    climb refinished oak staircase,
    fall in love with the
    apartment three flights up,
    with exposed red brick wall,
    original hardwood floors,
    sublet for summer,
    in the City.
    Harlem on St. Nicholas Ave,
    subway entrance caved in limestone
    two doors down beyond Devin’s Fish and Chips,
    convenience and coffee on the corners,
    laundry and groceries across the avenue,
    diverse neighbors crowd the sidewalk.

    Caught up in possibilities of summer in the City,
    no time for apprehension,
    only exploration and wonder
    who had hunted these haunts in Renaissance day,
    Langston Hughes, Jelly Roll Morton, Duke Ellington?

    Not one to throw caution to location,
    less than enthusiastic sensible daughter voices concern,
    unable to convince me of reasons to fear,
    until nighttime return from downtown on the D train discover
    eight men recline on the steps in various states of lounge,
    share swigs from a brown paper bag,
    a polite excuse me prompt delayed response to reposition,
    with lewd remarks to cause fear and a
    fall out of love
    with the apartment in the City behind that impressive oak door
    ten steps up.

  239. MaryAnn1067 says:

    Desert

    she says:
    spare me your checklists as
    you count my grey hairs, each
    one a testament to advancing
    wisdom, shrugging on her
    cloak of invisibility,
    gliding away from the
    oasis where horses are
    watered, dates, thick
    with sugar, consumed whole,
    crowding the mouth
    with the sweetness she longs for,
    preferring, instead,
    the blank canvas of
    the desert,
    shifting sands beneath
    her feet

  240. nmbell says:

    Love Poem

    Do you think that love can transcend death?
    The memories of a life bond traveling from one life to the next?
    The remembered touch rendered by a complete stranger
    At least in this life time

    The great love that lives in my breast
    Will not falter when life leaves this body
    It will go on with the Spirit
    Always seeking the touchstone that is you

    Down the centuries and the eons
    Facing the desolation of parting
    Over and over through the ages
    The glory of our union more than adequate recompense
    For the loneliness as we search for each other

    Nancy Bell 2014

  241. nmbell says:

    Anti-Love Poem

    What is it about hate?
    The flare and passion
    The abhorrence

    That so quickly can ignite into passion
    Flames that burn and bite
    Hate is the reverse side of the coin
    Love shrouded in dark desire

    Both equally as strong
    Testing your mettle
    Testing your courage
    Which call will you answer?

    To create or to destroy

    Nancy Bell 2014

  242. Pat Walsh says:

    PAD Day 15:

    Still Love Still
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    there is calm in the yard
    as they sit quietly passive
    in acquiescence of the brightness
    of the sun
    occupying opposite ends of a tiny bench

    they seem separate
    and maybe even angry

    the light shines benevolent
    illuminating their entire lives
    as though their stories were being told
    in miniature
    with a fine porcelain of delicate design

    perhaps they cannot
    feel the kindly warmth

    despite the fineness of the day
    there seems some strange malaise
    that has somehow settled on
    each of them
    like a sickly silent ague of distance and delay

    guilt and sorrow
    work slow insidious disease

    as finally the dead calm nears its end
    in the shadows of the garden
    a hint of summer rain draws
    them nearer
    in silent stilted conversation about the modalities of love

    evening darkly gathers
    drawing disparate varied threads

  243. skanet says:

    Your Love

    Your love is like a mal-intentioned barbed machete hammer knife
    It separates the skin from muscle, muscle bone, and bone from life

  244. Brian Slusher says:

    NOT ANOTHER LOVE POEM

    With chemical sleight of hand
    it turns a nerd to Adonis, a fat
    Waitress into Venus, mutates
    Us into bad poets, scribbling sonnets
    Onto napkins while staring off
    At the clouds, hoping to find
    Enscribed on high the perfect
    Rhyme for baby. I was raised
    To believe it could not be stopped,
    Just paused for commercials,
    That Love American Style,
    Like a lean, broken-field runner,
    Could navigate any crisis
    Of the heart in ten minutes
    Or less, happy ending guaranteed.
    Yet what was it with Cathy Trask
    In the Piggly Wiggly parking lot,
    With the girl from Barksdale
    Who made me feel leashed to
    Gorgeous misery, with the stolen
    Centerfolds from my granddad’s
    Stash? Now you’re probably
    Asleep, diagonal across the bed
    like there’s no place for me,
    your hair a riot of allure.
    And the guy across from me
    On the train has that smile,
    That blossoming, narcotic,
    Christmas-morning grin—
    He’s found the rhyme, and it
    Ain’t maybe, while I sit
    On my hands so I won’t slap him.

  245. drwasy says:

    Sunday morning before church

    you wrenched
    the last bits of me
    and flung them,
    indifferent,
    to the floor,
    trampling them
    in the tremulous
    morning light
    where our son sat,
    composing a story.

  246. Rolling Stone

    The riveting roar of the river phoned
    and surely I went—headlong.
    Attaching as moss to a rolling stone
    Encouraged by hymns of birdsong

    Basking through seasons, we flourished
    under cottonwood canopies; dense
    Little was ever discouraged
    and everything seemed to make sense

    Till sunrays were hindered by branches that swayed
    As wind gusted foul-natured scents
    from the swell of the river; collecting its prey,
    ending our game of pretense.

    Oh, still do I roam the kitten-soft banks,
    Remains of my haven, my home
    Armed with content, and free of the shanks
    once chained to a rolling stone.

    diedre Knight

  247. Filial Piety

    Everyone loves
    the baby, in turn
    the baby loves
    everyone.

    Give it time
    tho, and truth
    be told, all loves
    become less
    universal.

    Having been thru
    worship and honor,
    obedience and faith,
    having lost a self or two
    in lust and come full
    circle, babies having
    babies to embrace,
    we must find new
    depths of devotion.

    The old man who
    forgets what’s said and done,
    who has forgotten the time
    far from love in the lash
    of lives he defined,
    needs to be changed
    and needs to be fed.

    And one
    must find
    the love
    somehow
    to make
    the time.

  248. MMC says:

    an American Cinquaine:

    Don’t Ask Me How Many

    The loves
    of my life came
    and went. How many now
    still tower in my memory?
    Just you.

  249. MsGenuineLady says:

    Love Poem “The Type Of Love”

    I want the type of love that turns dreams into reality
    Makes non-believers believe type of love
    I want the type of love that only plays in the movies type of love
    To play every day in my life type of love
    And I want to cry tears of joy because I am so happy type of love
    I want the type of love that makes me want to tattoo your name
    Because I know that will never change type of love
    The type of love that will always stay the same
    I want that type of love

    Anti-Love Poem “Untitled”

    Guarded, skin-tight,
    I guess you could say i’m your typical broken-hearted stereo-type,
    I would rather run away than stay and receive love,
    It just might kill me the next time I fall in love,
    I would rather say good-bye than welcome love into my heart,
    Finish the race to love before I start

    My heart was never made to be won anyways

  250. Day 15
    4/15/2014

    Two for Tuesday:
    Write a love poem.
    Write an anti-love poem.

    (Love)
    Love Is a Seed

    that cracks you open
    makes you ache with need
    and demands you water and feed,
    nurture the one you love.

    Love is a seed

    that forces you to grow
    or else you die a little
    to love each day
    until it shrivels on the vine.

    Love is a seed

    that both plants you and propels
    you, moves you to bear the fruit
    of sacrifice, dying a little each
    day to be born as more loving.

    Love is a seed

    that will fill you with regret if
    you forget to tend it tenderly.
    But if you don’t, it bursts forth
    blossoms and sweet juicy ripeness.

    (Anti-Love)
    I’m Done with Love

    I’m talking the Hollywood, TV kind,
    the first sight variety,
    the kind Shakespeare said,
    alteration finds, at the first flaw.

    I’m done with love that isn’t
    love, just lust.
    I’m over the love that disses the lover
    and kisses the selfie.

    I’m done with love that gives up at first
    sign of trouble or spat,
    that flat refuses to stick it out.
    I’m done with love that ain’t really love.

  251. Andrea says:

    Patient, Kind and Blind

    Love is glue
    and blood sticky

    slow, fading stains
    that How-to Guides fabricate
    pulling out

    Patient, kind
    and blind
    beggar,
    Love, you sling yourself
    down streets,
    barge into novels,
    discriminate

    You meet up with Hate
    by the hour
    in chain smoking motels

    the whole cut-rate world
    waiting for you

    We fake knowing you,
    fake bestowing you,
    pretend you are
    satin and lips

    Be grateful
    the day Love
    crashes your party
    or on your couch
    and puts out its
    slow and achy
    stain

  252. “Because I heard these songs on the radio this morning and was prompted to write love poetry.”

    You think that people would have had enough of silly love songs.
    But the radio tells me they haven’t.
    Joan still loves rock and roll. Rick still wishes he had Jesse’s girl.
    And Paul still loves you.
    Yes, Baby. Paul still loves you.

  253. Jezzie says:

    To love or not to love
    with apologies!

    To love, or not to love: that is the question:
    whether ’tis easier for your heart to suffer
    the slings and arrows of all-consuming passion,
    or to avoid temptation and appear tougher,
    and, by resisting, so to miss the thrill
    of a lover’s touch that tingles down
    the spine until it reaches to your very soul,
    and tugs you deeper, deeper, until you drown
    in an uncontrolled ocean of desire,
    while you feel your heart will burst
    if you don’t put out the smouldering fire
    with which your yearning body now is cursed.

    For those who can bear the whips and scorns of love,
    tread carefully lest you lose your lover
    to wretched infidelity, which doth disprove
    the grunts of passion beneath your bed cover.
    Beware the yet undiscovered painful cost
    of losing the one who once did enthral.
    But know that it is better to have loved and lost
    than never to have loved like that at all.

  254. Emma Hine says:

    Eternal Love

    When you touch my skin you set me on fire.
    Kiss my lips, make me burn with desire.
    You chase my demons and cast them out.
    In your love, I have no doubt.
    Take my emotions, scatter them like petals.
    The wind can carry them until they settle
    in your heart where they’ll lodge forever.
    Water won’t quench, nor scissors sever
    the feelings of love I have for you.
    Whatever else happens, this much is true.

  255. Snowqueen says:

    April 15, 2014 Prompt: Love or Anti-love

    Love at the Laundromat

    They are newlyweds
    Still laundry must be done
    They have the “mat” all to themselves
    Nothing to do once the laundry is in
    She reviews the bulletin board under the
    Camera in the corner
    He picks up a magazine
    The windows steam up, no one can see them
    Her eyebrows quickly flirted
    He, never in a million years
    But he’s in love
    Hot passionate kissing
    The thrill of getting caught
    What if someone comes in
    The air is electric
    Dare they continue
    Let the laundry get clean while we get
    Down and dirty
    “But what about the camera”
    “It probably doesn’t work”
    The passion gets hotter
    The hands are everywhere
    Bodies pressing hard
    Breathing quicker
    Can’t stop now
    The phone rings
    They stop instantly
    Looks of shock
    He’s paralyzed, she looks at the camera
    Do you think?
    She laughs, he musters up a chuckle
    They never go back again

    Karen D.

  256. Clae says:

    More Than Magic

    Love can be a lovely thing
    Hate can exhilarate
    For each emotion that we feel
    we sample something great
    beyond what words can understand
    we learn about our soul
    We learn the powers we command
    and then we learn control

    T. S. Gray

  257. Michelle Hed says:

    Love Whispers in Your Ear

    and wraps around your body
    like a warm blanket,
    cocooning you in peace and safety
    and you float
    as if still in the womb
    secure, protected,
    wanted…

    Love is strong
    like a titanium lock
    with a missing key…
    you are never going to
    break it or break in
    to a heart so secure
    banks wish they had one…

    Love is eternal
    like a circle
    with no beginning nor ending;
    never revealing the secrets
    of the heart, just a constant tumbling
    to keep us going.

  258. poetrycurator says:

    Here is my Love poem for day 15

    Lovebirds

    A time to explore
    Where youthful lovers soar at
    Honeymoon Island

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  259. DanielAri says:

    “Promises something for everyone”

    Even Bob Denver, who played Gilligan,
    scored on The Love Boat working his berry-
    farmer charm—and on Love American
    Style, he sealed the deal with the hippie girl
    who’d chided him for eating bologna.

    His large features gave him a chimpanzee
    aspect with his sloped posture. Characters
    whose bungling ruined other peoples’ schemes
    were his bread and bologna. He muttered
    more apologies than wisecracks on screen.

    I biked hard around the block, angered that
    the anti-hero could get the girl. I
    didn’t know, after the director yelled
    “cut,” how the next scene could start with a smile
    in a bed somehow beyond the monkey

    business no girls at my school seemed to like.
    Those shows where either wrong or spreading lies.

    DA

  260. alana sherman says:

    Day 15 Poem 1 Love Poem

    Safe Haven

    At Sea

    The red hills.
    Wide sweep of blue sky
    gray clouds and light
    draped over the rolling hills
    For bird call, green moss
    and always you, dearest
    only you, rain or sun, you

    dark grassy field
    that surrounds no road
    nothing but trees,
    mountains silent against
    it and you dearest, center of my
    life, my home and shelter.
    you, always you, rain or sun, you

    On Land

    Wind in billowing sails
    zephyrs or blasts waves
    lapping of waves on the hull
    quiet sky filled with stars, sea a glory
    of bioluminescence rolling
    by on the swells a deeper silence
    and you, always you, zephyrs and blasts, you

    horizon filled with clouds
    coral and turquoise as if they
    were the only colors of this planet
    moon rising over the skin
    of the world and you my center
    my life, my anchor and sea
    you, always you, zephyrs and blasts, you

    alana

  261. Michelle Hed says:

    The Unexpected Pause in Love

    Wind whipped leaves danced in fiery circles
    before finally falling silent
    but she didn’t see the leaves, just life’s hurdles

    as she slid down, overcome by violent
    trembles, which shook the sobs right out of her.
    After a bit, she stood and with strident

    steps, she moved on with her life, not looking
    back, closing the doors on memories
    too painful… but some day she will be pulling

    on those doors, reliving those memories.

  262. julie e. says:

    Yesterday’s prompt stuck with me so today’s poem ended up being a double kind of prompt inspired.

    FOR PATTI.

    If i were made of stone
    of stone
    if i were made of stone,
    this grief
    it couldn’t touch me much
    now i’ve been left alone.

    If i were made of brick
    of brick
    if i were made of brick,
    then pain
    could never reach me when
    the walls were built so thick.

    If i were made of brick
    or stone
    If i were made of stone
    I’d never
    heard your words to me
    of “no, i love you more.”

    For i am made of beat
    -ing heart,
    yes i am made of heart
    This ache
    -ing hurt that washes me
    means love was there to start.

  263. aphotic soul says:

    My Little Love
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    My sweet little love, how I will miss you,
    Shining brightly like the sun above, with every action that you do,
    To bring tears to your face, I feel a great disgrace,
    But new adventure I must have from this place,
    Although leaving you behind is my greatest of distastes,
    In a world where love has become a shadow of the sun,
    You’re the only one, that I feel the warmth coming from,
    Your intelligence will have no match,
    But be sure to keep your creativity tightly latched,
    When you can express yourself more clearly,
    Your wisdom will shine more dearly,
    Remember money does have some use, but happiness it can never buy,
    A perspective people tend to lose, but I swear to you is no lie,
    I write this to you, with my heart in these words,
    To give you a glimpse of what I’ve been through,
    To help you avoid some of life’s little swerves,
    And although I might not always be there, to hold you and pat your hair,
    For you I will always… always care,
    And will do my best to help, whenever life is not fair,
    For you I hold a love that cannot be paired,
    For it is for you and only you that with it I share,
    Time may come and go as it pleases, but the feeling never ceases,
    In my eyes, you are the daughter I’ll never have,
    The happiness that money cannot buy,
    And a smile on my face whenever I am sad,
    You’ve kept me going through hard times,
    Many of which are expressed in my rhymes, but never once did I cross that line,
    For your smile is always there to shine, something never jaded with time,
    And an absolute delight of mine,
    Rest assured I will be back some day, From you I do not wish to be away,
    But I need a new place to stay, to evolve words that will someday sway,
    But you will always start my day, like the sun rising over the morning bay,
    You are my heart, you are my soul,
    You are a masterpiece of art, and you are what makes me whole.

  264. aphotic soul says:

    Hidden Treasure
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    Day after day I’ve started by seeing you,
    I could wish no more from my dreams,
    Since that alone so subtlely means,
    That they’re already partly coming true,
    But I desire it all,
    Even if it means I must take a fall,
    And although I’ve been reluctantly hesitant,
    I can resist no longer when I see that magnificent smile present,
    For I have yet to see a sun rise brighter than that apathy hidden treasure,
    Seeing your smile is the greatest of my life’s simple pleasures,
    Second only to writing about that sight,
    Just so others can see the essence of your illuminated light,
    It seems the barrier I felt is only the darkness of my isolation that had set in,
    The way your life also appears to have been,
    But I must wait for past feelings to subside,
    Before I inform you that your heart is where I wish to reside,
    I don’t even know if I’ll remotely stand a chance,
    But I’ll keep on writing until I decide firmly on a stance,
    Your smile I simply cannot forget,
    That I’m happy to state with no regret,
    I still remember the day when we first met,
    The feelings the same before as they are now but with no outlet,
    For I didn’t know in all of this what to expect,
    But I can tell you honestly I would leave you never with an ounce of neglect,
    For these feelings have had time to collect,
    And ever more you gain my accumulating respect,
    But for now I await patiently for the scars on your heart to mend,
    Before I give to you this love that I wish to send,
    A love for which I hope you can comprehend,
    Or maybe my feelings I will give to you on lend,
    To help you cope with all of life’s bends,
    And maybe just maybe our conjoint love will transcend,
    And bring about some meaning before life’s inevitable end,
    So I say this now ever so bold,
    It is you that I wish to hold,
    Whether it is to simply just keep you from being cold,
    Or to stop your heart from growing mold,
    These feelings are those that cannot be bought nor sold,
    Only ones that can be poetically told,
    It is you that I wish for to ever closer be pulled,
    And to see that magnanimous smile every day until we’re both withered and old.

  265. Nabeela says:

    LIP STICK ON HIS COLLAR

    His dinner’s getting cold, your stomachs still empty.
    The steam arising from his chicken is rising from your head now. It is 9pm. He had promised to be home at 7. What will you do? End up on that bed alone again. Feel his weight against you at 4am, hoping he is stealthily slipping into your present when he has already become a part of your past.
    In the morning he sips the coffee and skims the headlines as if his eyes don’t process the brick wall between him and you. Or maybe he’s just tired of holding your hand and pouring out I love you’s in a way that don’t make the heart beat like a school bell at lunch, make the pulse ring, hammering against your radial artery as he delivers a kiss. And before you know it, you’ll be scrubbing out those lipstick stains on his collar, scrubbing out semen stains of his soaked pants and finding black lingerie in his pockets that definitely doesn’t smell like you.

    It is now 9:15. You decide to eat your dinner-and his also in that process. But maybe, he has already eaten in a fancy hotel with a sexy secretary or just bending down to untie his shoelaces, his heart thumping out thoughts of you as they settle for long tanned legs on the bed.

    It bothers you. But at the same time, you feel disconnected. As if you are floating around, placing a comforting squeeze on the woman’s shoulder who has just found a text message in her husbands cellphone. A text message that could be there, by all means in the world. As one year has 365 days, that whales are mammals, that an astronaut is just attaching the cable cords of oxygen to his back, it should be there. But in a married man’s phone, it looks a bit out of place. Like cereal with soda.

    Looking at the pictures of you two, his smiling face you observe. Those creases around his eyes and mouth. When did they appear? When he caught you sneaking off to bed early? Or the time when his mistress danced in front of him, leaving the bonds of love between you, breaking and scattering into tiny balls of marble. He is laughing in the picture. Where was he last night when it was taken? You realize with a shudder, you don’t want to know.

    It is 11pm. The front door creaks open. There are the soft steps of a man who doesn’t want to be discovered. He holds a package in his hands. Turns on the light. The bedroom is empty. He calls out your name. Realizes the occupant in the house is only him. He turns off the light, sits down and looks at the moon shining on his face. Thinking back five years, he couldn’t decipher whether you are really gone. He opens the package, takes out black lingerie in hopes you will return. Someday.

  266. DanielR says:

    LOVERS IN THE DARK
    Velvet lips gently collide
    our wet mouths open wide
    I slip my cold tongue inside
    and let it probe for life

    Warm flesh slowly intertwines
    softens edges, straightens lines
    no longer is it yours or mine
    we have come together

    Embers of passion burn bright
    in shadows darkened by night
    we cling to each other tight
    having not lost ourselves, but gained

    Velvet lips gently collide
    our wet mouths open wide

    Daniel Roessler

  267. DanielR says:

    LOVE IN AN ASYLUM
    The smell of sanitary swells within my nostrils
    walking down endless hallways of locked doors
    screams from behind them warn me of the danger
    of having expectations that anything has changed

    She sits in a room with concrete walls, without windows
    her finger traces imaginary photographs in empty frames
    she can’t remember faces, people’s names, or any places
    that were once a part of who we were long ago, faraway

    She laughs hysterically at a joke I haven’t told
    I smile at the sound of her laughter falling to the floor
    I take her hand in mine holding it for a moment
    until she pulls away with panic in her eyes

    I tell her that her new haircut looks beautiful today
    she strokes her hair and contemplates telling me a story
    before I see that fleeting thought has disappeared forever
    and I wonder if she’d even know if I did the same

    She begins humming the melody to our favorite song
    her eyes dance a little to the rhythm in her head
    giving me false hope that someday she will return
    but I embrace it as if it is a long lost friend

    I stand and tell her it is time for me to go
    I kiss her on the forehead and say goodbye
    she murmurs out words about the color red
    reminding me that love is crazy sometimes

    Daniel Roessler

  268. Monique says:

    Fire of Love

    Love starts with a spark of interest
    That turns into a fire.

    The fire can burn red
    With anger, hatred, contempt, and fear
    It blazes a path of destruction
    Reckless and rambunctious
    Careless and chaotic

    But sometimes the fire turns blue
    And suddenly, it’s hotter than ever
    Lust that consumes, corrodes, collapses
    Burning down everything
    Turning good intentions into piles of ash

    Sometimes, though, the fire turns gold
    Warm without the intent to harm
    Glowing, shining, radiating, effulgent
    Erasing all fear of the dark
    As it casts its wondrous light

  269. De Jackson says:

    Anti

    -cipation, elation, realization, limitation, too.

    -quated, outdated, related to nothing new.

    -social, a no-show, 1+1≠2

    -hero, a zero, without a single clue.

    -depressants, regressants, a mess, now what to do?

    -cipation, elation, realization: One is whole, too.

    .

  270. PAD Day #15 prompt: Love/not love
    .
    long night
    tussling over
    the duvet
    .

  271. lsteadly says:

    For the Love of Peace

    Dream together
    on this path of life
    where soldiers fall and flowers fight
    among the stones pushed forth by spring

    Believe together
    in this world of souls
    where kings forget the people’s might
    inside the hearts held fast by love

    Hope together
    our days are long, our passion deep
    that we may slay the evil’s keep

  272. derrdevil says:

    The Hand That Fed
    By Derryn Warwick Raymond

    As I lie dying here in my garden of disenchanted revelry
    Reminiscing on what had come and wondering what lay still to be
    I hark back to the beginning, to the seed that I had sown
    And remember the gentle nurturing of the nursery I had grown
    From painstaking hours to months’ end knee deep in muddy grime
    Holding onto that pride and prize of what was surely to be mine
    Lost in neurotic thoughts and mild obsessive demeanour
    By the prospective rose to be and its awe inspiring splendour
    Losing, in time, the plot of moral conductivity
    My minds eye saw blind of what the plant had come to be
    How wrong, how foolish, how obliviously stupid was I,
    To nurture something so pure into an obscene cacti
    How and why, that which from the tiniest thorn veiled out of site,
    Do I wonder now, through tender hands can the poison bite?
    And so I question this revelation, and the follies of me
    As I lie dying here in my garden of disenchanted revelry

  273. Amy says:

    Small Moments

    Every day, you tell me of the beauty in small moments;
    that you would suffer all your years to string those moments together.
    Who knows better where these moments lie than one who loves?

  274. derrdevil says:

    The Wilted Rose
    By Derryn Warwick Raymond

    The rose wilted, her petals fell to ground
    And with it her lustre unbound
    Yet to the brittle and detreasured
    The garden was still measured
    For the rose was no mere flora
    Distinguished from it’s regal aroma
    Not at all a fern, yet not unlike a lily
    Bold, exotic, and sometimes silly
    She was all incandescent incenses
    To infatuate over all the senses
    And even in her delicate state
    She was the garden’s prized mate

  275. LOVE ENGLYNION

    In the shadows of the night,
    two lovers stand , both in sight
    of each others hearts. They light

    the path of life they have chosen to stride,
    Bride-to-be and her young man
    facing futures hand-in-hand.

    Obstacles may block the way,
    but face them not with dismay.
    Walk in courage and be strong,
    take love along from this day.

  276. Amaria says:

    love is the one thing we all search for
    it is the prize we are taught to strive for
    it can make a man or woman deaf and blind
    or it can ease the passage of time
    it can bring warmth to one’s heart
    but it can also create scars
    and when two people join forces
    it can tear families apart
    love can built bridges to connect us
    when we’re too rigid in our sensibilities
    yet some of us place too much emphasis
    on love and do not face reality
    love is not like birds singing or
    roses blooming – it’s not always joyful
    it can sometimes be cruel
    love can tear apart one’s soul
    or push you to your infinite limits
    love is certainly not for the timid

  277. dhaivid3 says:

    Poem Title: The Love-hate word

    Love is a four-letter word –
    And so too is hate.
    Make a decision about which you want
    And put that on your plate.

  278. rlmatt7 says:

    As the day is long

    I am not timid, though suffer
    aquaphobia, unlike the girl,
    seventeen, drowned herself, failure
    in love, they said. I have some pearls,
    my grandmother’s , pale like dead skin
    soft, like your touch, do you breathe out,
    Paint by numbers, moles as markings
    I sketch, my body my brush, my love.

  279. barbara_y says:

    To Know You

    A recent study (on the payroll
    of a online dating-mating giant)

    intended to prove effective their profiles
    and logarithms, snickered in their face.

    A goof, like love itself. (I had a crush
    on Bobby, two doors up, when I was four.

    He was the only boy around) As every
    Romance writer worth her chips knows

    they could have save their time
    and money. Love or hate at first sight,

    amazingly similar in tastes, or deaf
    to one another’s likes–the story depends

    on interaction.The study says we fall
    for who we’re with. Proximity’s the food of love.

  280. WE WERE IN THE TUB
    NOW YOU KNOW
    (For Scott G., in celebration of his engagement. Psst, take her to Paris.)

    Paris is all about romance –
    romance and art –
    romance, art and food –
    romance, art, food
    and long, luxurious mornings of love.
    We had all of these things
    on our first trip to Paris.

    Me, on a bed, with a baguette.
    You would think that bread was my lover.
    Does it live?
    Asked Ali, when she saw the photograph.

    After walking past Le Lapin Agile,
    realizing it was closed,
    but longing to sit in the same corner
    where Picasso or Modigliani once sat,
    we gave up staring at the hours of operation sign
    and walked up a very long flight of sand-colored steps.

    Arriving at the smallest hotel room in Paris,
    I fell onto the bed,
    baguette in hand.
    We’ll eat some of this later –
    with wine.
    I’ll just close my eyes here for a while.

    Click –
    husband took the now infamous,
    unattractive photo of me,
    asleep on the bed –
    comatose and hugging my French bread.
    I will never let go of good bread –
    that would be a waste.

    I dream walk into the tub,
    look at the bidet in the room
    with raised eyebrow,
    and sleep a bit more
    in the lukewarm water.
    My love joins me.
    We rest together
    arm in arm –
    leg resting on leg.

    I awaken to the sound of the phone ringing.
    Splashes fall,
    I do not move.

    It’s Scott.
    He’s here.
    Quick, get dressed.
    We’ll meet him at Le Jardin du Luxembourg.

    I bet Scott never knew
    what we were up to
    when he picked up that phone.
    Now he does.

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  281. modscribery says:

    Day 15 – Love poem

    “Hands”

    Hands
    As if to say,
    “I hear your.
    I’m with you.”

  282. Lindy™ says:

    Life in the Balance

    I love
    Flowers in the spring
    The color green
    My friends and families
    Dragonfly wings
    Intangible things

    I don’t love
    A hard freeze in April
    Walking uphill
    Overestimating my skill
    Disturbing an anthill
    The words ‘hate’ and ‘kill’

    I’m growing still
    and these may change
    or maybe not
    isn’t Life strange?

  283. dhaivid3 says:

    Poem title: Love makes a way

    When there’s no food to eat
    No shoes to warm our feet
    When we’re outdone and tired
    When all our tears are cried

    When time just seems so slow
    When pain is all we know
    Somehow we find a way
    And there’s a brand new day.

    We stand the test of time
    We love and we feel fine
    With resolve in our spines
    We walk these many miles

    We stand together strong
    And trust the Lord alone.
    We sing our favourites songs
    Help each other along.

    And though it has been hard
    And at times we’ve been sad
    We know that come what may
    God’s Love will make a Way.

  284. RebekahJ says:

    Hay(na)ku of the Preschool Palate

    Yesterday
    Cashews were
    His favorite snack

    Today it’s clear
    There’s nothing
    Yuckier

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  285. Eibhlin says:

    NO NEW LOVE POEM

    We love but once,
    according to the French –
    the first time.
    On n’aime qu’une fois –
    la première.

    So too with poems, surely?
    We write in truth just once,
    and not again
    [much less to order,
    and for posting on a public blog!]

    But I have loved
    and I have written
    and that is mine
    which none can ever take away from me.

    And so I do not try to write anew
    but murmur in my heart
    the old, first words.
    And my first love,
    my only love, will hear
    and know it is for him.

  286. A WASTE OF HEART

    I stand before the god’s of love again,
    and hope my fate is better than it was.
    For things are not the way that they had been;
    my heart still breaks the way a good heart does.
    To lay a heart to waste is such a sin.

  287. LaurelRose says:

    Blood Moon: A Love Story

    At 3am I collapsed in grandeur
    unexpected. There was a meadow,
    and the night sky. Luna danced,
    tearing off her white dress
    to marry the sun. We witnessed
    the red, a sacred union eclipsed.

  288. My Love For A Fish

    Love comes in many forms.
    Indeed, it also comes in different shapes.
    Never did I imagine it could
    Develop into what we have though.
    You’re my closest, and dearest, friend.

    These past nine years,
    Everything we’ve been through,
    Amazes me to no end.
    Children born to different mothers.
    However, our pasts are similar.
    Our DNA might not match, but we’re
    United by the heartstrings.
    The Scorpio and the Pisces.

    My Spirit Sister I wouldn’t be
    Alive if it weren’t for you.
    I’d be a robot again.
    Living a non-existent life.
    Emotions hidden from everyone.
    No one seeing passed the mask.

    From now on here’s our motto.
    Live, love, and write until
    Your last day on earth.

    My breath will be your air.
    Yesterdays no longer matter for us.

    Some people will fade from your life, but
    I’ll always be by your side forever.
    So, lets continue this unpredictable journey.
    Everywhere we look there’ll be roses.
    Ride on the waves our words created.

  289. briehuling says:

    April 15, 2014

    Day 15

    Remembering the Moon
    for Dennis, with love

    When I looked up into the sky last night at the Blood moon,
    I wondered if you could see it, too.
    If the anatomy of this Lunar Eclipse is the same wherever you are now,
    like my body is my body in Oregon and
    your body was your body in New York until it wasn’t anymore.

    I wondered if you were possibly one of those skywatchers
    out on the sidewalk between the families
    with a little toilet-paper-roll-made telescope pressed up
    to your eyeball so hard it left a ring,
    if you remembered to take off your reading glasses
    clip them on the front of your shirt with the other two blue pairs already hanging there;
    whiskey and pilsner on your breath,
    some smart-ass comment on the tip of your tongue,
    and a disposable camera ready to click at any moment.
    Were you right there lined up with the other masses
    and a few of those other incredible humans who left this planet too early?
    If you were standing in speculation in the thick of the night wearing a Sacha-made cap
    with lucky necklace tight around your neck,
    or if you were chomping on bodega chips,
    the bag ripped wide open to share with your friends?
    Were you betting on boxes and hugging your neighbors and making everyone
    fall in love with you, like always?
    Could you feel me there like I felt you in the silence of the night sky?

    Its hard to tell what’s real or not anymore
    but I swear you were right there with me
    and the moon, in the immensity of the stillness.

    I wasn’t really sure how good of an idea it would be to write
    you into a poem that you’d have to share with the moon but I realized
    you would probably just smile and throw your hands in the air if you were around anyway, and say “this place sucks, I’m getting out of here…”
    and give me a hug no matter what this poem ended up being.
    And whether I wrote you into a poem with the moon
    or a sailboat or a bottle of champagne, you would still always be that sparkle
    spirit at the end of the bar glowing love and friendship to any person that would take it.

    Rest in love, my dear beautiful friend. I love you.

    By Brie Huling
    bumblebriezer@gmail.com

  290. jean says:

    We need AGAPE
    Any time and every day.

    How often should we turn to PHILOS?
    It’s the quickest way to heal us.

    EROS is always nice
    Though it often turns to vice.

  291. writinglife16 says:

    I.
    Love Survives

    She is free.
    From earthly hardship.
    Constant pain.
    But love lives.
    The love survives her body.
    It dries all our tears.

    II.

    Candles

    He lit a candle for her.
    When the anger started to win and
    running did not help.

    He lit a candle for her.
    When the confusion tried to
    overwhelm him.

    He lit a candle for her.
    When his blood turned to a
    percolating river of hate.

    It was like a poison moving
    through his veins.
    Killing him from the inside.

    He shouldn’t have
    Remembered her birthday
    or bought the card.

    It would go in the pile
    with the others.
    He had three now.

  292. bookworm0341 says:

    “In Love”

    Look my way
    And my heart melts
    Heat like coals
    Burning from inside out
    Face all a glow
    As I smile like a dork
    I’m not used to being flustered
    I cannot think
    I unable to concentrate

    Wait.

    When did I stop breathing?
    Think.
    Focus.
    Concentrate.
    Breathe in.
    Breathe out.
    I am in love.

    By Jennifer M. Terry

    “Promise Burned”

    Sometimes, as I sleep
    I feel as if you are there
    Just to be by my side and hold me
    With your hand resting on my side
    Like when I would nap on your couch
    After a hard day at work

    Sometimes, when I hear sounds
    Early in the morning,
    I think it’s you getting ready for work,
    And I roll over to fall back asleep
    with a smile on my face
    half expecting you to come in my room
    and give me a kiss before you leave

    Sometimes, as I’m curled up on the couch
    Sleepily reading before bed,
    I think that you’ll walk in
    And tell me to go to bed-
    When I say that I want to wait for you,
    You lead me by the hand to bed
    As you tuck me in you
    Promise me that you’ll be back soon

    Promises
    That you would never hurt me
    That you were going to take care of me for always
    Promises of things we would try (blushes)
    Places we would go
    My smile fades and tears return- full force
    As sometimes turns to never again
    And I hate myself for missing you.

    By Jennifer M. Terry
    April 15, 2014

  293. barbara_y says:

    The Bed
    (is anti-love, as well)

    I do not love my bed. It creaks.
    Like the death cry of the last redwood.
    It would creak if a feather stirred
    in its sleep, and I, if down were lead
    would be a load of feathers.
    But that’s beside the point.

    I do not love my bed. Its mattress
    has a dent deep as the Marianas Trench.
    And tilted. Toward the ocean floor.
    My sleeping body clings to the raft
    like kinky, hairy ivy to a brick wall.

    I do not love my bed. I chose
    every stick and stitch of it. If I can’t sleep,
    or wake up tied in anxious knots,
    the onus can’t be shifted. The fault
    is mine and for that fact alone
    I hate the thing.

  294. Erynn says:

    I gave you my heart and soul
    But you gave them back to me
    I wanted you to make me whole
    But all you wanted was to be free
    Time and again I tried
    But you turned me away
    I can’t tell you how I cried
    When I thought you wouldn’t stay
    All I wanted was your love
    But you never wanted mine
    I thought you were sent from above
    I never saw the sign
    Falling into your unwelcome arms
    You crushed the life from me
    I was captivated by your charms
    The hate in your eyes I never did see
    I’ll always love you, despite the cost
    For you are my whole world now
    I’ll never regret the life I lost
    I’ll haunt you forever, this I vow

  295. elledoubleyoo says:

    A quickie (ha). I will strive for something later on when I have more time.

    At Sea

    The wind lashing my hair and brining our lips,
    I look to the horizon as your hands steer me on,
    searching for Scylla, though I’ve found Charybdis
    in the lust sent a-whirl by your salted kiss.
    You move my body like a captain, his ship,
    through the tumult of storms and your god’s ire.
    I hold you within, a treasure, but your desire’s
    a hungry thing. Selfish. I recognize this song
    (and my fate) too late: you were the siren all along.

    • grcran says:

      kudos for the imaginative and effective extended metaphor, plus the plot twist! very nice! if u r striving for quality, no need to write a longer poem, because this quickie is super good!

      • elledoubleyoo says:

        Thanks so much — the rhyme scheme was being a little problematic, not that it has to be perfect.. I’ll have more time to write later on (though admittedly I keep peeking in at the others when I have a minute!)

  296. De Jackson says:

    >b>Today I Scattered You to Sky

    And that is where I will find you,
    breathed in breeze and pinned
    to star. I pity this upside-down
    world, really, enraptured by all
    its tiny glories, its sacred stories
    of ever, ever, ever after and all
    that eye batting in between. In
    all its myths and mysteries, did
    it ever once know an equation
    such as this, a gentle, constant
    fusion of freedom, phrase and
    fire? The quiet shirring of edges
    around something small, swall
    -owed, sworn, and grown? And
    oh, the aching joy of being
    known. I can loose you now, be
    -cause I know this vast space is
    our home.

    .

  297. phocus says:

    Family Breakfast

    As a young child I was not afraid of anything,
    But the loud discussions of my parents,
    That included screams and insults.
    But I was even more afraid of the silence that followed
    And hung over our heads for weeks or months.
    The tension in our house was so dense that it was hard to breathe
    For the little girl that was me.

    In the evenings, my father was usually absent
    And my mother cried every night in the living room
    when she thought we were asleep.
    One day I asked my father to take my mother along when he left at night,
    “Because she cries and is so sad when you are gone,” I told him.
    He looked at me and said, “I cannot do that, dear. I will not take your mother along.”
    Before touching my head gently and then storming off to —
    Wherever he went at night.

    Every day I prayed to God to help them fall in love again and
    To make our family whole and happy.
    I even asked Santa to grant us that wish.
    It was the only wish on my list that year.
    When I showed it to my father,
    He said, “Making up with your mother is probably not possible.
    You should add something else to the list as well.”
    No, I didn’t want to ask for anything else.
    And he was right about patching up with my mom,
    but I doubt he ever really tried.

    What I dreaded most were the breakfasts, when we were all together
    Sitting correctly (as expected) at the table, freshly showered and all dressed up
    And no one spoke or made any noise,
    As if we didn’t know each other.
    I remember that we could hear each other chewing
    Which was more like grunting and
    would have been quite funny under different circumstances.
    My father stared into distant space as if he had nothing to do with us
    Or as if he wasn’t really part of our family.
    My mother usually had tears in her eyes and tried hard not to cry.

    One morning I couldn’t bear it any longer and blurted out:
    “Why don’t we talk and tell each other things?
    It is a beautiful morning!
    –Dad, why don’t you look at mom? She is so beautiful.”
    But they told me to be quiet and eat up.
    So I did.
    Tears were running down my cheeks
    as I decided that I would never ever get married.

    ©Uta Raina, April 2014

  298. April Valentine

    She’s got cat power,
    that one gal of mine,
    and that’s just one reason
    she’s my Valentine.
    She’s got cheetah speed,
    when it comes to what’s right.
    If you’re thinking I love her,
    you know I just might.
    She’s got an elephant’s memory
    after all of these years,
    forty-three and counting,
    most of them dears.
    She’s got the mischief of monkeys
    when it hits her, the mood,
    her teasing’s outrageous,
    her jokes mostly good.
    She’s not tall, no giraffe,
    more koala in size,
    but height doesn’t matter,
    she’s the light of my eyes.
    How many more critters
    do you think I can name?
    They all make me happy,
    that’s the core of this game.
    They’re just like my Barbara,
    helping me smile,
    likely forever,
    and that’s a long while.
    If forever’s not possible,
    well what can I say,
    I’ll treasure each moment,
    each delightful day.

  299. Conversation With A Friend

    It really was
    a beautiful ring,
    and it cost just
    a little less
    than I loved her.

    And then they
    added the tax.

  300. grcran says:

    Let me text you sweetstrong
    By gpr crane

    From time to time I surf the inbox texting on my phone
    it keeps up to twohundred then it won’t take any more
    so some of them I weed out and some others leave alone.
    When I deleted my dead wife, her texts were as before,
    excepting this: instead of name, her number now appears
    connected with the words. In the same way, my nameless grief
    does shout a message true: “You’ve now been lost for years and years.
    What’s next, you fool? Deletion’s not the key to your relief.”

    “ok, my sweetstrong”, that’s the text that lately set me off
    she’d sent me it as I retrieved some grocery for her
    confirming I remembered almond milk and rice pilaf.
    On finding this one in the inbox, sight became a blur
    no other called me sweetstrong, not before or ever since
    when lovers come together, that’s the root of what it is
    tis sweet and strong, tis strong and sweet, tis sparking from the flints
    you know she is the goddess and she knows you are the wiz.

    Deleting this one? No can do. And so I let it stay,
    with hope that everyone gets called sweetstrong on some fine day.

  301. PressOn says:

    NO ANTI IN AUNTIE

    My mother died when I was two.
    I was raised by Auntie Lou,
    who stuck by me through sick and sin;
    who tweezered gently when pins stuck in;
    who tolerated dung and din
    no matter the mess I wallowed in.
    Now that she’s home, in realms above,
    I miss my Auntie Love.

  302. AleathiaD says:

    My Heart Sometimes Feels Things It Doesn’t Mean

    I awake under a dark cloud
    the last few days compounding
    into an irritable darkness.

    The stubborn hunger strike,
    the antisocial behavior,
    except at night when I try to sleep
    which suddenly makes me a popular girl.

    I awake to the pouring rain
    knowing that his super power
    for finding mud will be in full force
    and I think for a minute

    that I don’t love him
    that I understand why
    he was left in a cage.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 15 Anti Love

    Lucky to Love You

    After the muddy wet walk
    I crawl back into bed
    where it is dry and warm.

    You are shirtless and the room
    smells like your skin.
    It’s a smell I’d miss if it were gone.

    We commiserate about the dog
    until I’ve let go of my bitterness
    and the conversation moves forward.

    You talk about your disillusioned ideas
    with religion and how people thank God
    for the demise of those that may have hurt them

    and how Jesus would never be party
    to that if he were here. It is one of those moments
    when I see how good your heart is

    and how lucky I am
    to know you,
    how lucky I am
    to love you.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 15 Love

  303. TOGETHER

    As many blueberries as we could steal
    when the grizzly wasn’t looking –
    as many salmonberries
    and one king-salmon that fit perfectly
    in your hip-boot; as many hours
    of storm in a canoe as there were loons
    thundering the lake; as many
    breakdowns in the old VW that bore
    us off the map; as many
    fisherman’s floats as we could carve
    to chess pieces; as many nuts
    bolts hammers nails wrenches as it
    took to build by hand
    a house to live in, but not to keep
    track of, lost and rusting
    in my sleep; as many willow thickets
    as you could find to lose
    us in – the briefest meadow
    summer, as many mountain chickadees
    as I could fledge from my
    open palm; more than I could count
    but as in a fairytale when the numbers
    are emblematic and don’t
    really matter compared to what
    we remember and what we forget.

  304. Scribbling Sue says:

    NONET OF ARDENT LOVE

    In his scrapbook, a tress of blonde hair
    Cut from behind, close in a crowd;
    Satin ribbon, sweet-smelling;
    Cutting from newspaper;
    Photo on his phone,
    Her hidden face.
    All day his
    Prey he
    Stalks.

    Suzanne Lalor
    15th April 2014

  305. Gammelor says:

    Write a love poem.

    Oneiri co.i

    I on side,
    crooked question mark.
    You behind,
    echoing shape,
    untouching.
    The inches between
    bubble and sing—
    our primordial universe.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  306. barton smock says:

    -psychiatry-

    peace
    was found
    in the backseat
    of a cop car
    where no one
    was held
    outside
    a closed
    thrift store.

    when faced
    with being
    left behind

    passed over
    wins out.

    I’d go fishing
    if I knew
    where I’d gone.

    would drive, dog walk, divine

    would these
    our mothers

    were it not
    for sudden
    bouts
    of lucidness.

    again
    an illegal
    pair
    of dogs
    has diagnosed
    dad
    with doll’s
    ankle.

    the movers

    take the table
    leave the cloth. please

    love our baby
    like the man
    they didn’t
    send.

  307. Elizabeth C. says:

    If reincarnation is a fact, hope I come back as…

    A hawk wing waltzing with windy currents
    while delivering rare messages between
    God and the People.

    A tree deeply rooted, but always reaching.
    Each year adding a ring
    to my knowing.

    Rippling waters of rapidly running river,
    constantly moving, nurturing
    whatever lives within.

    Rich dark soil of spring
    holding seeds of beginnings,
    defending their right to become.

    A mountain meadow filled with wildflowers
    and weeds, devoid of any purpose
    other than being.

    Traveler of any age, wearing
    flannel shirt, color of home made
    dark concord jelly, seeking peace
    in that mountain meadow.

    Perhaps, more than any of these,
    I would wish to be words of a poet,
    whispering, dancing, changing, evolving,
    always breathing inspiration,
    bringing life to a single sheet
    of white paper.

    Elizabeth Crawford 4/15/14
    http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/

  308. Mr. Take The Lead says:

    The Unsung Song Hero of Love
    Daniel R. Simmons

    This hero doesn’t play ball and average 20 points a game
    This hero is a King
    And no I’m not taking about LeBron James
    This hero doesn’t save people from houses burning down in flames
    In fact many don’t even call His name
    You won’t see His face on the cover of Time Magazine
    Or in a fancy interview with Larry King
    This hero wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth
    His very existence raises plenty of doubt
    When we talk about love, His name is hardly raised
    But instead we worship our idols that dance and sing across the stage
    This hero is not made up
    And He showed the true test of love when he drank His cup
    This hero doesn’t bear the Nike logo on a shoe
    But instead walked the Earth in sandals and died for me and you
    Yes, He saved the world from death sin and destruction
    But He isn’t talked about in our age of pop culture
    He was born in an unsanitary way
    Animals surrounding His bed of hay
    They said it wasn’t any room for Him
    And the same is true today
    Yes, we push Him out our world
    As we go after success
    The chains of religion put the power of His name to rest
    This Hero’s sing we don’t sing
    We push Him aside as we build our self-image and go after money, cars, sex, fame and bling
    Failing to realize that those things are vain and will pass away one day
    But this Hero’s Word will stand strong and remain
    At 12 years old He Spoke knowledge that astonished men years beyond His age
    Parents lost Him one time, as He was out about His Father’s business for days
    He gets older and times flies by
    Everyone knows He’s different
    Even turned water into wine
    Yeah this hero did some malicious things
    Walked on water and calmed the sea
    He turned fishermen into disciples
    Build them up as they preached His gospel
    For He knew that He wouldn’t be here for long
    But His work was yet done
    Everything we go through He can relate
    For He was, hated, betrayed, spit on and disgraced
    This hero doesn’t wear a cape
    But was stripped naked beaten and beaten in the face
    Dragged around in front of many
    He stood there and took the beating
    Never once denying who He was
    He took the punishment even though He was gentle as a dove
    Standing before foreign men as they falsely judge Him
    He stands and takes it
    Saying I love them
    Yes, He loves me and you
    Got arrested on charges He did not do
    Pilate gave Him a chance to be free
    But His people wanted a murderer
    Instead of their redeemer
    But it was all in the plan
    After all He died because of our sins
    So they take Him and put a cross on His back
    As they get in one more slap
    He takes the long hot journey
    As He continues to say He loves me
    Yes, He loves me and you
    He thinks about that as they drive the nails through
    Now He’s hanging up on the cross
    Naked and beaten, but all is not lost
    He hangs His head and dies
    So that you could have everlasting life
    This is greatest act of love
    Three days passes and He’s rising above
    Yes this hero dies and rose again
    I told He was great
    For He died for your sins
    But in our busy world
    His song we don’t sing
    Because His name isn’t LeBron that bears the number six
    But His name is Jesus
    And of His love we all are witnesses
    Jesus the Unsung hero of love

  309. Zart_is says:

    Him and You

    I felt his abhorrence
    he detested me
    his dim revulsion
    thick with loathing
    a hostile aversion to me
    oil poured on water
    ours had been a tawdry
    miserable association
    simmering low
    until the fire went out
    every strained desire
    dashed away
    accepting despair.

    Then with you
    I tried so hard
    not to say the word
    my affection so radiant
    glowing devotion
    joyful passion surpassed
    in a dazzling adoration
    of you my dearest confection
    I cherish you
    my irresistible darling
    I fear you will disappear
    if I do not love you
    or turn into him if I do.

  310. acele says:

    4/15
    The Four Loves and Hate

    Storge naturally came to the party
    without need for invitation.
    She brought with her, human happiness and distributed it freely
    as she kissed all the mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers,
    indiscriminately sharing her gifts and fulfilling human need.

    Hate looked on quietly
    lurking in corners and waiting to exploit
    the expectation of Storge’s ready-made gifts.
    He served up jealousy, ambivalence and smothering.

    Philia arrived next.
    She was dressed gracefully in the clothes of the Ancients.
    Her smile was quiet and profound as she shared gifts
    wrapped in often unnoticed elegance.
    They were carefully opened and cherished by close friends at the party.

    Hate watched still,
    winking a deceitful eye as he whispered about Philia’s faded dress.
    He offered pride
    wrapped in lofty conspicuous, ribbons
    which seemed to entangle the more they were pulled upon,
    in the end revealing an empty box.

    Eros entered.
    She was stunning in a sleek, dark velvet gown.
    Venus orbited her like a crown.
    She spoke in Shakespearian sonnets as she captivatingly circled the partygoers.
    Her gift was invitingly wrapped in pleasure.
    It’s opening was accompanied by the flutter if angels’ wings
    and revealed something much deeper, more beautiful and somewhat unnamable.

    Hate folded his arms with a spiteful huff.
    He followed Eros closely,
    deceiving many guests into seeing only the pleasure
    on the outside of the package,
    yet never experiencing the true gift within.

    Agape at last arrived
    dressed in white and golden light,
    Charity – her gift,
    received with awe and wonder,
    unwrapped with humility
    and the knowing that it was utterly undeserved, yet freely given.
    For she new the price that was paid for this, most precious of gifts.

    Hate slipped away in defeat.

    A. Cele

  311. k_weber says:

    xoxo

    your actions speak in a language that makes my face warm.
    who needs that word when you’ve given me music?
    you barely knew me when you handed me that digital piano.

    if this is the last love that isn’t really love but feels like love
    and i don’t get any more love in this disjointed life
    then i will assume i knew love because you were kind.

    we can stare at an empty field and not touch.
    we can touch in an empty field and not stare
    at all the gaping wounds this simple friendship will ooze.

    the ease of this and all the nice books and suggestions
    and your whole mouth cooling my neck; it’s so easy
    that it’s probably the worst of all wrecks.

    i might die not hearing from you and then i am revived
    when signs of you re-emerge and the lilt returns.
    “i can’t go on, i’ll go on” is the only constant thought.

    i wish you could love me more.
    i wish i could figure out why it’s not an option for you.
    i wish i could stop doing everything with my hands.

    – k weber

  312. PressOn says:

    CAUSE AND EFFECT

    Dovetails
    of rejection
    ossify affection
    and blanch the rosy complexion
    of love.

  313. brendam says:

    First Love

    I look into your eyes,
    Lost in the possibilities,
    The promises of tomorrow.
    I trace your nose,
    Your lips, your chin,
    Marveling at your gentleness.
    Your hand brushes my cheek
    And I cry at the splendor
    Of your being.
    I wrap my arms around you,
    Holding tightly but tenderly
    Close to my heart
    Overwhelmed by the tidal wave
    Of love for you,
    My newborn baby.

  314. Lori DeSanti says:

    Sunday Breakfast

    You press lips to the folds
    of my palm, I smile into your
    skin and your teeth bare in

    hunger; but I am full of your
    love, and the waffles you made
    me for breakfast, of whipped

    cream covered fruit and the
    blueberries you placed on my
    tongue. You taste of sweet

    syrup, and you nibble on my
    shoulder blade as if it will
    break open and cover you in

    molasses. But we lie in bed,
    our sheets lather us like a
    basin of honey, and we feed

    on each other over, and over,
    and again.

    • k_weber says:

      love this! the image of “nibbling on my / shoulder blade as if it will / break open and cover you in // molasses” is so new and exciting. love the interplay of breakfast as being a time to have a meal consisting of foods but also in savoring one another. nice poem!

  315. CLShaffer says:

    Love Letter from Clueless by C. Lynn Shaffer

    Oh honey, I bet spring envies
    the green of your eyes. I could see them better
    if you’d put down the books and look at me
    more often. Even I can arrange the letters
    into words you’ll like. All I have to do
    is tell the truth. Let me speculate,
    let me kiss your neck and make you mew.
    Close those feline eyes, give your brain a break.
    Those long, lovely fingers were made to hold
    more than a pen. Let yourself leave
    the earth awhile and lie down. Let’s go
    away together to a place no one’s conceived.
    The words will come to mind when we reach
    for heaven, hard as pearls between the teeth.

    • BDP says:

      Quite the start to your sonnet: “I bet spring envies the green of your eyes. I could see them better if you’d put down the books….” Love that. Made me smile, too. As well as: “Even I can arrange the letters into words you’ll like.” Another smile, and more throughout this entertaining poem.

  316. Deborah Hare says:

    He loves me!
    Yes, yes!

    He loves me not!
    No, no!

    He loves me!
    Yes, yes!

    He loves me not!
    No, no!

    Oh, how I hate flowers!

  317. smdnyc says:

    Missed Connections

    Eyes met on 7 train
    Subway eclipse conversation
    Asian girl with black pants
    You asked if I needed a wife
    YOU=frosted blonde Starbucks
    mom Corsican senior who
    i met in the Village you
    didn’t call All time need
    sex 3rd floor
    “hey”

    we worked together…
    kind of

    You took Zumba class
    “Lady in Beige” I am
    looking for Helen A
    beautiful girl at Shake
    Shack Petite Latina on
    E train Earth Angel Do
    You Feel The Same?
    Miriam of Acropolis
    Gardens Gorgeous Goth
    on N line We met at a
    sacred place

    Red-haired girl!!! Love
    Actually (sucks) I
    wimped out You’re a
    total bitch You caught
    me masturbating JUST
    A THOUGHT: you
    read socialism history
    nice sista huge sexxxy
    ass came into Amy
    Girl, where’d you go?

    Lost my soul mate the
    smile the blue eyes Petite
    Indian girl with gray
    TeddyMae Q train
    beauty Cupcake on the
    L Saw u and still do
    For when I can’t sleep
    at night Why’d you leave
    Our Jazz Warrior’s Struggle
    when did things change?
    U appreciated me

  318. LOVE LIES

    Love lies deep within the hearts
    of two so inclined to share all that love provides.
    It resides in the soulful kiss that parts lips
    allowing two to breathe as one, through the other.
    It hides in the tender moments, the longing of passion.
    In the breathless sighs, love lies.

    Love lies bleeding in compassion’s arms,
    all the charms laid bare, shared as battle scars
    and scathing wounds held together with threads
    of hope. Coping with life’s obstacles, hurdles
    meant to slow the pace, really placed to cause
    love to fail and fall. And there love lies.

    Love lies. Words once thought to entice and inflame
    revert to names called in anger. The danger of threats
    leveled in the heat of negativity, is the nativity
    of the end. Sending the wrong signals, mixed messages
    that pass as volleys across the bow. but now
    you believe just one thing. Love lies.

  319. For those in love upon the sea.

    We have a complicated relationship you and I
    so complicated it goes through complicated and comes out the other side
    looking simple and easy and on the surface nothing much is happening
    as you wash the dishes and I tap away at the keyboard,
    the picture is of tranquillity and harmony
    calm sea and ship’s orchestra
    which would be perfect if it weren’t for the iceberg.

    But we’re luckier than that,
    our iceberg doesn’t sink the ship
    and we’re unluckier than that because
    our iceberg doesn’t melt or float away.

    Our iceberg is always there
    because it is a part of who you are
    and we have to learn to love
    the feel of ice water down our necks
    when we get too careless.

    We make the shivers change their meaning.

    It’s like you always told me, “Drive into a skid,”
    and that’s what we do to take control
    or at least pretend to be guiding
    not sliding into the sea waiting to swamp us.

    There a ship is much more use
    than a car in the dangerous waters we share every day
    and another plate smashes
    as I, tapping away at the keyboard, try not to hear .

    Michele Brenton 15th April 2014

  320. Love
    Thrilling, fulfilling
    Hugging, kissing, loving
    House, kids, fights, luggage
    Seething, leaving, forgetting
    Painful, bitter
    Hate

  321. He chased her till she caught him.
    She loved and then forgot him.
    Then another girl came calling,
    And he felt himself falling.
    Will he be fooled twice? Not him.

  322. 4/15 love poem

    My haiga is here :http://wabisabipoet.wordpress.com/2014/04/15/poem-a-day-16/

    breathing room –
    we hold hands
    with the autumn sky

  323. We Will

    It’s been almost 35 years
    Since we made the promise
    I will
    We’re like westward-bound pioneers
    Fooling doubting Thomas
    Uphill

    Been through mountains, valleys, deserts
    Raised two kids and then some
    Time flew
    We have learned love heals, thrills and hurts
    It’s been real, a pain, fun
    Luv you

  324. kab says:

    His body is scaling like the Eiffel Tower
    and I want to climb him.

    I want to be as deep as the cellos making
    music in his wrists. I want to kiss him so
    hard that I suck the Adam’s apple straight
    out of his throat. I want to be as far down
    in his chest as love has ever been, so soiled
    that he will spend a million tiny infinities
    pulling my teeth out of his mouth

    When I think of his hands I think of them
    open, wearing my hips the way a body wears
    nakedness, learning the roads of my shoulders.
    Once I ate his smile and memorized his laugh.
    Grew a new body from the skin between his
    crow’s feet. He is a burning star caving in the
    Belly of my palms and when think of him, my
    hands begin to shake. When I think of him, I
    hold them.

    Some days I am so sure that I have more than
    Just a four letter word taking sanctuary in my chest.
    That he kissed me and left a bullet in my mouth
    And that every time I choke his name it is gunshot
    Wound to the well of my throat.

    Just to be clear: honey I still love him. He is a tree
    splitting my home into half worlds. He is a wave
    violently scotching my lungs. He is the buckshot
    grazing my left ear and I still love him.

    I love him. I love him. I love him
    -Karese Burrows “Mad Love Poem”

    • Lori DeSanti says:

      This poem literally made me hungry for someone… great images. You almost write the poem completely from metaphors… really great… I particularly love the lines, “His body is scaling like the Eiffel Tower/ and I want to climb him” and, “I want to be deep as the cellos making/ music in his wrists.” Memorable.

    • aphotic soul says:

      Love in an almost psychotically creepy way. I like it, though imagining some of those analogies made me cringe a bit, lol.

      • Lori DeSanti says:

        aphotic soul…. some of the images were intense, for sure. I leaned toward the beginning of the poem, more, myself :)

        • aphotic soul says:

          Agreed, the beginning has some very vivid images… that kinda make you flinch lol. I’d love to see this writer do a poem “in the mind of a serial killer” or something to that degree, where the vividness could be used to its full potential lol.

    • elledoubleyoo says:

      This is amazing. Great imagery, and unfortunately I can relate (only unfortunate due to the ending).

  325. TomNeal says:

    Love Abuse

    He drove a flash car,
    And he was your first date,
    But sister he wasn’t a saint.

    He struck the church bell
    And broke your nose- that’s fate,
    But sister he wasn’t a saint.

    The twins cried feed me,
    He bought drugs to escape,
    Sister he wasn’t a saint.

    When he was imprisoned,
    For smashing your face,
    Sister he wasn’t a saint.

    Now that he is dead,
    The facts remain in place,
    Sister he wasn’t a saint.

    I know what you think,
    But heaven can wait,
    Sister he wasn’t a saint.

  326. James Rodgers says:

    Tis Better…

    At thirteen,
    fearing the concept
    of love,
    fearing the prospect
    of having her heart broken,
    Karen constructed a wall.
    Not being
    much of a carpenter,
    and using
    what she had around her,
    the bricks were her mothers’
    old Harlequin romance novels,
    held in place
    by a grout
    of two parts Quaker Oats
    to one part Elmer’s Glue.
    The wall wasn’t solid,
    as flimsy as a plotline
    from one of the bricks,
    could have been pushed over
    with an indifferent shove,
    but just its mere presence
    kept the boys,
    then the men,
    away.
    When she passed,
    five decades from the day
    she erected the wall,
    her final thought
    was one of triumph.
    She had succeeded.
    Her heart was intact,
    never broken.
    What she did not realize,
    never understood,
    was her heart,
    though never shattered,
    had begun to slowly fail
    the moment she put down
    the first brick.

  327. aphotic soul says:

    My Love Poem

    Long Lost Friend
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    I still remember your cute little face, of a time long long ago,
    As far back as my memory can trace, of a distance I don’t even know,
    My childhood friend and first little crush,
    Before emotions I knew how to show,
    It all comes back to me in an intense rush,
    But this time my minds had a chance to grow,

    It’s been a decade or two, since we last sat and talked,
    It feels almost new, but also a path we’ve walked,
    And despite the distant ages,
    We still seem to sync,
    Reading up on the missing pages,
    Of our pasts we still link,

    Now you’re a world away, doing what you’ve always dreamed,
    Not doing it for the money nor pay, but a life experience you’ve deemed,
    Which makes you truly amazing, and you really are,
    For pearls are with which your smile gleams,
    Shining as brightly as the midnight stars,
    And brighter still, from what it seems,

    Although it may be a year or two, until we again meet,
    I look forward to sitting next to you, and rewalking down our path and street,
    For you are still so gentle and so kind,
    So silly and so sweet,
    While still having a vastly articulate mind,
    So amazing and so neat,

    And as I start to stumble on these words and phrases, doubts and fears,
    I stare at your smile that truly amazes, and am ready to write for a thousand years,
    But looking at you there’s no way to compare,
    For you make my writing look like crap,
    Because you are perfect down from your feet up to your hair,
    Beauty for which my words cannot wrap,

    And as this poem comes to a fateful conclusion, for this girl that truly I adore,
    I hope not that this is a delusion, and that this bottled message finds its way ashore,
    Because to you Maggie this poem is for,
    Filled with countless rules that I bend and ignore,
    For in to this, and you I pour,
    My heart, my love, my soul and more.

  328. mrs.mjbauer says:

    Frenemy by Mary Bauer
    Dedicated to the many young women I have had the privilege to teach

    Frenemy, oh frenemy
    Pretend to love,
    But you cannot stand me
    I often want to talk to you
    But I feel awful when I do
    This twisted friendship I must end
    I’m off to find a truer friend

  329. Linda Goin says:

    Six Reasons Why Love is Pissed Off Every April 15

    i. Today is the day when Wordsworth and his sister
    spied a host of daffodils dancing in a field.
    He wrote a poem, and love doubted his sincerity.

    ii. Today is the day when the Titanic sank
    and Abe Lincoln died, and love lacked
    the equipment and experience to bind the holes.

    iii. Today is the day when Americans are taxed,
    when love takes a back seat to obligation.
    Annually, love becomes passive-aggressive.

    iv. Today is the day when the Mississippi raged,
    and McDonald’s opened its doors. Love can’t
    compete against so much flood, fast, food, fat.

    v. Today is the day when love becomes a subduction
    along the Peruvian coast, where no one can stop
    the slow creep of plates off the shelf.

    vi. Today is the day when daffodils and death
    break the bank, and the task falls on us
    to find and fix love’s furious fragments.

  330. Lori DeSanti says:

    Tracks

    I am the train: I teeter along your rails
    and you keep pulling me forward; I am

    the pendulum, you are my gravity.
    Even in the rain, your metal against

    my metal will squeal; but I trust you
    to hug my wheels, and you trust me

    to balance on steel like a tight rope;
    but it’s our equilibrium that keeps

    us on track, your give and my take,
    that keeps us moving along.

  331. gus says:

    Day 15 (Entry 5): What is Love?

    Love?
    I’m not sure I know
    What love is anymore.
    Not like I ever knew before.
    I didn’t.
    But I thought I did.
    However,
    Considering the current state
    Of the situation at hand,
    One can only infer
    That they were wrong about love
    The entire time.
    Each time I fall in love,
    It feels different than the last.
    And I tell myself:
    “That. Now that’s love.”
    But the feeling goes away soon,
    Or is forcibly ripped from my heart,
    And by now I’ve convinced myself
    That I’ll never truly know
    What love really is.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  332. novacatmando says:

    Unification

    It is a rude bone that wakes at night
    this elbow, that knee
    an eye for an eye
    the thrash of mercy
    lord, uncle,
    it joins you and me.

  333. pomodoro says:

    Love Note

    This is just to say
    I have taken the last piece of pie
    that was left in the tin
    and which you’d probably expected
    to see this evening after dinner.
    Forgive me
    It was so tempting
    And, yes, as irresistible as you.

    ( with thanks to William Carlos Williams)

    • aphotic soul says:

      I was going to say, this reminds me a little too much of “This is just to say”… And I thought William Carlos Williams’ poem was crap in the first place. Meaningless poems annoy me.

      Only the last part of this is your writing in my eyes, and it’s the part I like the most.

  334. gus says:

    Day 15 (entry 4): Homecoming (a Shakespearean-style sonnet)

    I sat there thinking of the days of yore,
    When you were nothing more than dearest friend.
    I see thee now much different from before,
    And thinkest of thee ev’ry now and then.

    I sat there, sitting inches from thy face,
    As hand in hand, thy tender fondness grow.
    These memories, nobody can erase.
    My feelings felt for thee, through actions show.

    Thine lips, like rosebuds I to thee compare
    When softly thou hath pressed them on mine own.
    Upon thy gorgeous face mine eyes did stare.
    No greater than that night hath your face shone.

    Now unto thee my thoughts roam ev’ry night.
    To hold thee once again I pray I might.

    -Gus Gonzalez

    • aphotic soul says:

      I like it… I hate Old English though, lol. Only thing I notice as far as a critique is you cross the past and present tense in the second Stanza. I know of course you did it for the rhyme’s sake, but yeah… when that happens to me I either try to manipulate the rhyme to make it work, or manipulate the tenses and phrasings to accommodate.

      • gus says:

        Thank you for the feedback! This was an old poem that I hadn’t really gone over again to check for errors, so thanks for pointing it out because I never would’ve noticed…

  335. gus says:

    Day 15 (entry 3): Run

    I never thought I would feel this way about you.
    I always thought you were a friend, nothing more.
    Yet I can’t seem to get you off my mind!
    I think of the way you made me feel
    When we looked in each other’s eyes,
    When I held you hand in mine,
    How sparks flew when we kissed.
    Let’s take this journey,
    Just you and me,
    Together.
    Let’s go.
    Run.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  336. Liliuokalani says:

    Ode to My Giant

    Silent in a din,
    steadfast in spin,
    and tender in a fight –
    your teardrop eyes
    drip vanilla
    then tilt toward battered ears –
    never beaten –
    crumbly croissants
    whose buttery open folds,
    take in me,
    all surging surf and tidal waves;
    a Giant undertaking

    my undertow.

  337. gus says:

    Day 15 (entry 2): Final Goodbye (a sonnet)

    The human heart is like a raging bull:
    It wants to love and to be loved as well.
    The heart will never rest until it’s full,
    And when that time will come no one can tell.

    My heart was lost until the day we met.
    I fell in love with you with all my heart.
    My love for you took flight just like a jet,
    And has been soaring ever since the start.

    But now that jet has crashed and burned mid-flight;
    Two lovers torn by mother’s worried love.
    And now I sit and think about the night
    I met a girl whose beauty matched a dove.

    I leave you now with one final goodbye;
    How sad it is you’ll never see me cry.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  338. gus says:

    Day 15 (entry 1): Beth

    I don’t hold my breath.
    I lean right into the kiss,
    And I close my eyes.

    Just for that moment,
    We were two, but we were one,
    Both outside and in.

    Her hair was flowing;
    Her eyes sparkled like diamonds
    Through the dark of night.

    Ever since that night,
    I haven’t ever seen her,
    But we keep contact.

    The weekend that passed,
    We were both lost and confused,
    And we almost split.

    But that bumpy road
    Has been paved over again,
    And we will meet soon.

    We share our secrets;
    Our innermost thoughts we share,
    And we do not judge.

    Even though she said
    She sometimes inflicts self-harm,
    I still love her so.

    I long to hold her,
    To comfort her; make her smile.
    To kiss her again.

    I haven’t long now,
    Just three-and-a-half days left
    To see her again.

    I’m in love with her,
    This girl who has caught my eye,
    And her name is Beth.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  339. Side effects may include

    (warmth or redness in your face, neck, or chest; stuffy nose; headache; memory problems; upset stomach; or back pain; allergic reaction. hives, difficulty breathing, swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat. sudden vision loss; ringing in your ears, sudden hearing loss; chest pain or heavy feeling, pain spreading to the arm or shoulder; numbness, or tingling in your chest, arms, neck, or jaw; dizziness, nausea, sweating, general ill feeling; irregular heartbeat; swelling in your hands, ankles, or feet; shortness of breath; feeling light-headed, fainting; unmentionable swelling that is painful or lasts 4 hours or longer. This is not a complete list of side effects and others may occur. If you have any of these signs, stop immediately and call your doctor).

  340. LOVE RETURNS

    He felt the weight of life’s chain,
    each link forged from his misdeeds.
    It was a sure sign of his humility
    as the gravity of his actions
    mirrored the draw it had upon
    each metal link, pulling both downward.

    The constant refrain in his life repeated,
    it greeted his ears and heart
    whenever he would start to forget
    where it was both belonged. Home had a claim
    upon his presence; a place to plant his roots to grow
    tall and strong, invariably to stand alone.

    But the weight of his despair played heavily
    on each tenuous branch; every creak and crack
    triggers a spray of memory to reign down.
    He relishes the opportunity to re-connect,
    feeling how her love swells within him
    to grittle his passion; to flick his stubbornness.

  341. KatNalley says:

    Words I Hate: the Anti-Love Poem

    Anxiety, allergy, abacus, all-consuming math. Books about bettering your life. Colonel, such a phonetic mess. Exception: Forché’s “The Colonel.” That was brilliant. Dank coffee grounds draped over the garbage can: dreg and dross. Dust. Dander. Ermine, a fur or varied tincture. Eulogy, not to be confused with elegy. I tend to like elegies. Father, says Freud. Also, flaccid. Ghost hunters. Leave the dead be. Go away. Hapax. Happy this isn’t a sestina, I guess. I, of course. My ex, Joshua, man of God, man of 18-year-old husband stealer. No hate for the letter K. Just look! So kick-ass! Exception: kernel. Lactation, giving yourself to someone else 24/7; loose shirts, wet lace. (And the word is just so languid.) Money. Money. Money. Man. Money. Noon: the nascent that narrows into night. Ovulation, when you feel the door open and shut. PSA, palsy, pap smear; possums pinned to the road. Quadrangles with defined parameters. Rancid, rectum, reptile, refulgent, refuse, rubble, reason. Sassoon: suspect for my lack of silky, shiny hair, split ends. Tincture, tonic, titties, tight spaces. My daughter’s football uniform made just for boys. Velour, velvet for the poor. Wait, wart, wort, words that make you cringe. X-ray because it means something bad; the aforementioned ex; the IX of the family; Xtina; yo-yo dieting; yellowbellies and yahoos; zzzzzzzzz, that sound my new husband makes when I ask him to read my poems.

  342. carolemt87 says:

    Love and Anti-Love….I can do that!

    Love I

    Plato says
    that we are destined,
    severed and turned
    by the gods,
    to constantly search
    for our “other half”

    incomplete like
    empty hands
    with lines of life
    head and heart
    waiting
    once again
    to be strummed

    Itch

    Burn off my skin
    wash your touch away
    scrape me with pumice
    and sandpaper,
    erase every trace
    of your soft whispers.

    Passionate promises
    intended for someone else
    rehearsed on my heart
    your crystal song of love
    etched on my empty soul.

    Rake my flesh with locust thorns
    clot these gaping wounds
    against your golden lies
    those glorious words
    I still want to hear.

    My blood ignites when
    I speak your name
    to the wind, to the
    un-extinguishable dark,
    your heart barred
    against my voice in
    a frozen blue manor
    high upon your
    comfortable hill.

    I screech at the earth and
    roll naked in the soil,
    asking sharp grass and gravel to
    rid me of your splendid poison,
    for you are the intoxicating itch
    that all my constant scratching
    cannot erase.

    Carol J Carpenter

  343. break_of_day says:

    You are Orion
    always in the sky above the horizon
    where I can find you
    even if I have moved

    You are a knife’s blade
    ripping the veil into pieces
    so I can see
    a mystery revealed

    You are the cloudy sky
    that holds me tightly against my fear
    You are the wind across
    an open field

    You are redemption,
    the storm that uproots the rotting trees
    and the softest
    beautiful caress

    You are lifeblood
    feeding the baby at the breast
    and washing my sin
    into nothingness

    This is love

  344. PressOn says:

    ILLOGIC

    It’s funny, how
    the beauty of a cow
    is clear as day,
    now love has come my way.

    It’s marvellous
    and surely worth a fuss
    that downcast eyes
    are bastions of surprise;

    that daffodils
    can promise nights of thrills;
    that raspy hands
    excite sebaceous glands.

    That’s how it is:
    a most unreasoning bliss
    since love came in
    and took me for a spin.

  345. Quaker says:

    There is a love like soft notes of rain on eelgrass.
    There is the silence afterwards.
    In between, there are moments when nothing exists
    except the moment. We are desperate for each other,
    like a mountain rubbing against wind asking for love.
    This the aching moments, when two rivers rush together
    and the noise blanks everything else, and after
    there is such stillness, it is like whatever happened to the rush?
    We rub the smoothness of each other, like two stones.

    We all want this love. However, it is seldom like this.
    The reality always disappoints. It is not flurry and flint sparks.
    Today, if we try several times, we might succeed.
    What have lost by trying? I will bring my thunder,
    you bring your earth absorbing my gentle rain.

  346. LOVE IN INSOLENT TONES

    Hearts split abruptly,
    a degradation of emotion;
    a commotion of fact and fantasy,
    brought to bear, wrought with the fear
    of a lonely life, or an amazing facsimile
    of the same. Lost in the game
    of who did what to whom,
    finding out none too soon that the reasons
    for your union were not strong
    in the first place, finding yourself
    in the worst place you could have imagined,
    bereft of passion and a mindless muse.
    You have to choose between
    what you really need, and what
    your heart requires. A smoldering pyre
    of indifference, spoken in a demeaning nature,
    and her nomenclature tells you
    that love’s labor was not lost,
    it was blown to smithereens.

  347. Kimmy Sophia says:

    Love or Anti Love

    We’re all so wounded
    I’m amazed any of us can breathe.
    There’s a basement
    at the bottom
    of a thousand steps,
    where there’s an old valve as big as a steering wheel,
    and you need both hands to open it,
    because in most of us
    it’s rusted shut.
    The litanies and laundry lists
    of merciless teasing,
    harsh parenting,
    posturing bosses,
    shallow friendships,
    fear of failure,
    lying to others,
    lying to ourselves,
    the mean words,
    short tempers,
    hard hearts,
    self justifications,
    manipulations,
    defense mechanisms,
    and coping strategies,
    numb us into distortions
    of our real selves.
    So one day when the death feelings are looming
    and the hot tears are searing,
    you run down those steps
    and you wrestle
    and kick that valve
    until it opens,
    because the love reservoir
    has been there all along,
    you just needed to be
    desperate enough
    to open it.

  348. EeLas6678 says:

    Title: The Heart of the Artist
    I’d rather…
    Love a broke artist
    than have a broken heart full of artificial love.
    Enjoy the superb view of just staring at the sun
    than be reminded of his superficial baby blues.
    Have hand written cards with your signature S
    than flowers, dinner, and the material mess.
    Create days that end with see ya later…5 minutes later
    than have this ten year plan all figured out.
    Love deeply and purely
    than just give in.
    Have long-term satisfaction
    than instant gratification.
    Be your broke artist and illuminate what’s already there.

    -Emily Lasinsky

  349. kelly letky says:

    snowdrops {a love poem}

    in a garden of barely there
    two white flowers stand side by side

    heads bent in a soliloquy of prayer

    the ground is barren
    in all directions

    but for these brave soldiers
    sent ahead to scout
    for possibility

    in the rooted dance
    of no escape

    outstretched arms always almost touching

    two white flowers stand side by side
    in a garden of barely there

    ~Kelly Letky

  350. JanetRuth says:

    Love:

    Worthless when kept
    It is laughed,
    Groaned and wept
    For it we die
    And live
    None are so rich
    That they no longer need it
    Or too poor to
    Have It to give

    Climax of joy
    Yet apex of sorrow
    Bitter and sweet
    Intertwined
    It can never be
    Stolen or borrowed
    Mystery
    By God designed

    We cannot gather
    Or hoard It; Its increase
    Can only be given
    To prove
    Its divine fullness
    Ah, who can explain
    The glorious Mystery
    Of Love?

    Anti-love:

    Gentle and kind
    Holy, humble Healer
    Heavenly Father
    Comforter, Friend
    Lamb on a cross,
    Pardon perfected
    Hope and salvation
    Love without end

    Gentle and kind
    Yet scorned and rejected
    Holy humble Healer
    Yet pierced with a sword
    Heavenly Father
    Hated without reason
    Comforter, Friend
    Crucified; our Lord
    Lamb on a Cross
    Bleeding redemption
    Pardon perfected
    For hate could not slay
    Hope and salvation
    Free through the ages
    Love without end
    …yet we turn away

    © Janet Martin

  351. creilley says:

    I Must Have Loved You Before

    As we go through our lives in separate ways
    Distant, apart – or so it sometimes seems
    Our together nights punctuated by days
    I keep you held closely in my fevered dreams.

    I must have loved you like this in the past
    In lives that unfolded before this one.
    Feelings this deep, this wide, this vast
    Must have their source in centuries done.

    You fit neatly into the hollow of my heart’s core
    Softening my edges with Love’s gentle blur
    So you must have lived in my soul before
    Us two locked in passion as we were.

    In pillow talk my soul is laid bare
    Revealing all to your gentle touch.
    No other soul has ever gotten there
    Or charmed me into revealing so much.

    Our every step a dance of harmony
    A knowing waltz that feels so right
    I sometimes cannot separate you from me
    In the darkest hours of the coldest night.

    When first we met, I did not stand a chance,
    I fell headlong into your soft eyes
    My heart knew yours and in my chest did dance,
    I was stripped of all artifice and disguise.

  352. Joseph Hesch says:

    Like Bloodroot

    He was fairly sure it was lost,
    perhaps tossed last year
    in that moment of realization
    and frustration he’d had
    after holding it for its twenty minutes.
    He always dug it out and embraced
    the smudged possibilities there
    in its past, wiped at
    the thumb-stained barrenness
    of its present, then turned over
    the sharp-focused realities
    of its future.
    What were you thinking?
    he’d always ask as he stuffed the photo
    into a pile of unmarked manila graves,
    in the bottom of a locked drawer.
    But it’s early spring,
    and like pale bloodroot,
    she’s come blooming again,
    delicate, shallow, toxic,
    beautiful.

  353. Jezzie says:

    Love or Anti-Love

    I love lots of things:
    mostly things that can’t hurt me.
    I’ve given up loving people
    because I know they’ll desert me.

  354. break_of_day says:

    I love the sound
    of rain outside,
    and quiet rooms,
    and rock-song booms,
    and symphonies that make me cry

    I love the taste
    of shepherd’s pie,
    and espresso,
    and cantaloupe,
    and medium-spicy pad Thai

    I love the smell
    of gasoline,
    and bacon fried,
    and bleach-clean tiles,
    and blossoms on a linden tree

    I love the things
    that come and go,
    the favorite tunes,
    the half-full moons,
    the mountaintops dusted with snow

    Do I love more
    eternal things —
    a love that stays,
    a faith that prays,
    a hope that is everlasting?

  355. IMAGINARY LOVERS

    There in the dark, faces illuminated by candlelight,
    there, passion scurries behinds the closed door,
    held in tight clenches naked and hiding under
    the cover of fantasy. But this love lacks a root,
    it is in their minds that this lust has given birth.
    No sense of self-worth for imaginary lovers.

  356. grandma and grandpa

    after the great depression
    he was the hand vise attached to the work bench
    she was the thing that needed holding
    gripping too tightly
    the garage was his
    kingdom
    the thing they called god
    what sawed
    and hammered them
    it made of her
    a home

  357. Earl Parsons says:

    She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

    She loves me
    For the things I do
    For the things I say
    For standing by her night and day

    She loves me not
    When I drag my feet
    Or procrastinate
    Or lose track of time and show up late

    She loves me
    When I place her high
    On her pedestal
    Especially when all is going well

    She loves me not
    When I snore too loud
    Or I drive too fast
    Or I bring up old girlfriends from my past

    In truth, she loves me
    No matter what
    In the bad or good
    Just like those in true love should

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  358. Bitter Love Poem

    Had a sudden flashback today.
    Opening the wardrobe which now
    houses my winter clothes,
    for a moment I saw the ghosts
    of all your garments.

    The black leather jacket
    with the collar just starting to go;
    the maroon blazer you bought
    when our marriage was new;
    the yellow raincoat from Edinburgh
    that matched mine, which I still have;
    the fawn shorts; the grey trousers;
    all your shirts and T-shirts.

    I didn’t keep them.
    Some people need a shrine,
    but not me. I didn’t want
    to look at them and cry.
    And for all this time I didn’t.
    (A year and a half and a bit.)

    Today, for no visible reason,
    I saw them anyway,
    hanging there as usual —
    only it’s not usual any more —
    and sure enough I howled,
    leaning my forehead
    on the quickly-closed door
    and wailing, all alone.

    So is this the love poem or the anti-love poem? It’s both.

  359. RuthNott says:

    Luvulots

    As technology continues
    To invade our daily lives
    It changes how we think and act
    And often how we survive.
    Those spoken words
    “I love you!”
    Or a signature
    “Love, Mom”
    Somehow seem outdated
    And need to be revived.
    “Luvulots”
    “Luvu2”
    What other combos
    Might I do?
    Those lengthy conversations
    Or letters from your kids
    Are now on Skype or email
    Or on your Facebook page
    Along with private thoughts
    (made public)
    And,( God forbid) our age!
    It’s funny how our habits change
    As we learn a brand new language
    Of abbreviated, run-on words
    Or throw up our hands in anguish
    At the gibberish we’ve contrived!
    I guess it doesn’t matter
    As long as we still “talk”
    And don’t lose track of love
    Along technology’s walk.

    ©2014 by Ruth Nott

  360. mogorman says:

    The Opposite of Love Is

    racing in a current of hair-raised regret
    belly-up on this river of guilt–
    after the isthmus of yes
    the mound of more
    the cypress knee of now
    the low tide of this–
    the pull from below
    that wishes you would go.

  361. David Timmermann says:

    The One That Got Away

    You stole my eyes
    You took my heart
    You lost my eyes
    You broke my heart

    The one that got away.

    Gone, gone like the wind.
    Gone, at Mach-5 Speeds.
    Gone, forever out of sight.

    The one that got away.

    Anything, everything for you
    Anything but you..

    Getting away.

  362. mzanemcclellan says:

    Trust Not Love
    ~
    How can you stand there so calmly
    as you speak so matter of fact.
    While I’m reduced to a puddle
    the void in my soul is a fact.
    ~
    You promised to love me always,
    never to hurt me or betray.
    Then that trust we worked so hard for,
    ripped out of me and thrown away.
    ~
    I want so badly to hate you,
    as you rationally explain.
    I can’t hear a word you’re saying,
    but understand you just the same.
    ~
    I don’t know what the future holds,
    nor do I care to speculate.
    When I need you most to save me,
    you always seem to show up late.
    ~
    So fine, we’re finished, good riddance.
    Don’t bother to ever look back.
    I can do without loving you
    since you never seemed to give back.
    ~
    In fact, I will eschew all love.
    I don’t need perpetual pain.
    I just know that after you’re gone,
    nothing will ever be the same.
    ~
    Colors will appear less lively,
    and love songs will leave me in tears.
    I know some day I’ll forget you,
    I’m just afraid it will take years.
    ~
    I did learn my lesson this time,
    to keep my soft heart locked away.
    And never again trust you,
    no matter the things that you say.

    ***
    ~ M. Zane McClellan
    ***

    Copyright 2014
    M. Zane McClellan
    All rights reserved

    • mzanemcclellan says:

      ****CORRECTION ****

      Trust Not Love
      ~
      How can you stand there so calmly
      as you speak so matter of fact.
      While I’m reduced to a puddle
      not a shred of my soul intact.
      ~
      You promised to love me always,
      never to hurt me or betray.
      Then that trust we worked so hard for,
      ripped out of me and thrown away.
      ~
      I want so badly to hate you,
      as you rationally explain.
      I can’t hear a word you’re saying
      but understand you just the same.
      ~
      I don’t know what the future holds,
      nor do I care to speculate.
      When I need you most to save me,
      you always seem to show up late.
      ~
      So fine, we’re finished, good riddance.
      Don’t bother to ever look back.
      I can do without loving you
      since you never seemed to give back.
      ~
      In fact, I will eschew all love.
      I don’t need perpetual pain.
      I just know that after you’re gone,
      nothing will ever be the same.
      ~
      Colors will appear less lively,
      and love songs will leave me in tears.
      I know some day I’ll forget you,
      I’m just afraid it will take years.
      ~
      I have learned my lesson this time,
      to keep my soft heart locked away.
      And to never again trust you,
      no matter the things that you say.

      ***
      ~ M. Zane McClellan
      ***

      Copyright 2014
      M. Zane McClellan
      All rights reserved

  363. Mark Conroy says:

    “DoveTales”

    Breath Sight Touch and Taste
    Whispers and Words
    Thoughts Feelings Longings Finding Missing
    The whole of me in and near where ever you were.

    Sitting alone next to you
    Knowing you’re there
    Even when you’re not
    Listening and Hearing
    Nothing when you’re gone
    The sighs between us
    The stillness of our stare
    Your warmth on my skin
    A touch so tender between us
    Dovetail tips across my lips
    An ache when we’re apart

    All of these gifts we give each other
    The signs that your love is my life
    The heart of my home is in your arms

    Where you come back Together Safe each day With me

    Mark Conroy

  364. Inner Chambers

    My inner chambers
    were sealed,
    shut within.
    Heavily guarded
    by mistrust.
    But you,
    were given
    the hailed
    passe-partout.

  365. Happy Tuesday. Fifteen prompts (half way there!) fifteen haiku.

    beyond the welkin
    a sleepy angel awakes
    off to work wings brushed

    the commute is quick
    one giant leap for mankind
    for angel one step

    the task is simple
    persuade men to be happy
    that’s what angels do

    since the creation
    happiness has been men’s foe
    men prefer ruin

    men long for passion
    harmony unsettles them
    men would rather burn

    men inhale cities
    drink beneath the rural moon
    on the airplane wings

    ever amateur
    created in God’s image
    hopelessly human

    torment their lovers
    dance themselves to destruction
    ever lonely men

    finding no refuge
    men cry when they see the Pope
    vagabond pilgrims

    empires rise and fall
    look back foresee the future
    humans do not change

    men bend their beliefs
    divide sex and sentiment
    still believe in love

    strolls through central park
    wild quarrels starting over
    beautiful and damned

    men battle their beasts
    walk along the precipice
    all the sad young men

    if i were God i
    dancers and storytellers
    always reasoning

    love is all there is
    still men crave bitter in sweet
    never satisfied

  366. Demetra says:

    Faded.
    By: Demetra Gregorakis

    Its funny how two people meet, you connect sparks fly instantly.
    The way we looked at each other, the way our eyes met.
    It was like being lost and then found again.
    Everything I did, everything that happened I would tell you.
    You were my best friend, my person, my lover. I loved you.

    I could never imagine it would one day fade away.

    And It Faded.

    We have faded.
    Once a masterpiece, full of color and beauty.
    Now, just an old picture. Barely hanging, frame cracked, so unsturdy.

    Crumpled up.
    Ripped Up.
    In Black and White.

    A picture that has clearly expired over time.
    Can barely make out what memories lied their once before.
    A picture that has been siting in the sun,
    Being drained from all the pigment and life that once hung there and what begun.

    You drained me.
    Drained me of my beauty.

    We became strangers, we walk by and our eyes meet.
    This times its just feels like being lost.
    No colors do I see.
    One day a new set of eyes I will find,
    A masterpiece that will be truly beautiful, real and all mine.

  367. A HEART IN THE SILENCE OF LOVE

    Silence is a comforting companion,
    a reminder that peace soothes
    and love is the cure for
    a heart left to languish.

    Even when it seems to be hopeless,
    you find a way to embrace
    life as the gift it is,
    you are not far from
    living to the fullest
    in the throes of a lifetime love,

    Fondness of heart strengthens
    In the absence of it, But above it all
    you know that life is in the living,
    and love is found in the giving.
    For it is the truest of hearts that
    never feels abandoned for lack of it

    The independent (poem) message:

    LOVE LIVES ON

    A heart left to languish
    in the throes of a lifetime love,
    never feels abandoned for lack of it

  368. Demetra says:

    Missing
    By: Demetra Gregorakis

    I lay in bed, wondering, thinking.
    Thinking…something is missing.

    That innocence of being held by each other till we fell asleep.
    Lightly kissing, cheek to cheek.
    My head against your chest, feeling the beat of your heart.
    Everything in slow motion nowhere to go, nothing to start.

    I miss our noses touching, our legs intertwined,
    Knowing everything was okay, you were all mine.

    I miss your strong grip, running your hair through my fingertips.
    How you’d pull me closer with just your big, soft lips.

    Looking at your beautiful eyelashes curled up,
    Your cheeks blushed from our bodies’ warmth.
    I miss the softness of your hands against mine interlocked.

    But the truth of all this is,
    The one thing I miss the most is..

    You.

    Do you lie in bed missing me too?

  369. donaldillich says:

    Tunnel

    S. refuses to take the CDs I ask her to borrow.
    She studies their covers, an indie conglomeration
    of cut-up pictures, nature photos, then shoves them
    back at me. “Well, I got to go. It’s been fun.”

    I walk away to the Metro station, my heart beating
    loudly, my head repeating lyrics, “This was it,
    now it’s done.” Her green car speeds away quickly,
    back on the highway toward her Columbia home.

    At the end of the green line, I wait for half an hour
    for the train to slide toward me, slot me in place.
    I want to write how the break-ups and reunions,
    kisses in my backyard as we rolled around half-naked,

    the e-mail of refusal that shattered pieces inside me,
    will stay with me. But I refuse to get out my notebook.
    I let the thoughts circulate through my busy mind.
    I stare ahead into the coming tunnel’s darkness.

  370. Gwyvian says:

    Succor

    We were secrets to one another,
    a cherished rose with only a few thorns visible,
    and a chasm of imagination kept us apart—
    we stared long and thought our bridges
    fell a little short, but there is always a chance
    when speaking in hypotheticals: maybe
    we need a little warmth, perhaps we
    could innocently look at the stars; but mostly
    indulgence was on our side, when
    fingers of madness played stark tunes on my mind,
    talking to you was my sanity check—
    love is wondrous, a good liar who traps us, love
    is selfish – and your succor was an elixir
    that made me feel complete:
    when you think of it that way, it took no bravery
    to take the final leap…

    April 15, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  371. A TOUCH

    Hearts ablaze in an unquenchable fire.
    It is desire of the highest power.
    It has been left to burn unattended.

    It was a cold ember, a lump of coal
    sparked with the excitement of a single touch.
    Now burning brightly; love inflamed

  372. Poetess says:

    Bask

    Hold me when dreams lace my mind
    With the flavor of your tongue
    Satisfied by the taste of our lips
    Tender with sweet passion fulfilled
    Let me bask in your arms
    When morning leaves cool air
    On my bare shoulders sensuously
    The shrouding linen abandons
    Masculinity femininity we are one

    Beyond Dried Tears

    His image soothed my eyes
    And for an instance seeing beyond dried tears
    Into the internal recesses of my mind
    Where a faded glimpse of love remains vivid
    And real as the salt of my burning cheeks
    My senses longed to embody his passion
    And give life to the overture of his desire
    My essence drowned with s saturated emotion
    Stagnating in the rich heavens of my mind
    Materializing the man of my mental design
    Soothing image I wrestled and revived
    The heat of his breath feeling inside
    Calling me there in that moment
    My passing resistance to his lust fell
    And he took me there….beyond dried tears

  373. BLOOMS OF LOVE

    …and all at once, the rain had ceased.
    The length of sunshine has increased.
    When did my children grow so quick?
    Why has it left me feeling sick

    when the warmth of Spring emerges?
    Comfort in this season’s surges.
    Little girls become young women
    and all the changes from within –

    blossoms having rooted now bloom,
    fragrant flowers fill up the room.
    Decorating each life they touch,
    truly knowing they mean so much.

    Life’s bouquet gathered together,
    flourishing in all kinds of weather,
    Grown in love to know what life means;
    ever-growing, evergreen!

  374. courageousdreamer says:

    Here’s an acrostic poem which I hope you all will enjoy.

    Lillies, daisies and cherry blossoms, floating in the autumn breeze.

    Only the most beautiful human being walks across the room.

    Velvet bow ties, white shirt, impossibly blue eyes.

    Each line is captivating, hilarious, pure bliss.

    Time to decide whether or not I should side with my brain or my heart.

    Overlooking the fatal flaws, forgetting that cats have claws.

    Hydrangeas, lilacs and carnations I see no more.

    Anger grows, impossible to contain, resentment shows,

    Trust betrayed. Does everyone go through this pain?

    Even the romantics know how to hate to love.

  375. Every October

    As the autumnal splendor begins to fade,
    we pull from the treasure of our garden,
    still rich with flowers and herbs, that day
    when holding hands under Creator’s dome,
    we affirmed before our children
    that which had created the “us,”
    now wrapped like those saved from near-death
    on a frozen mountain top in a Pendelton of love.
    Our abundance overflowing, we walked side by side
    under the arch and into this life.

    When Winter Comes

    The icy skeletons of birch
    haunt the recesses of memory
    pulling up the pain and picking raw
    a heart once devoted.
    How long will it be before
    the life-blood finally ceases to
    hemorrhage – before the specter
    fades into the cold dark night?

  376. jclenhardt says:

    Settled

    You can see how
    body language
    will give the
    heart away,
    eyes too, and how little
    they aren’t capable
    at hiding,
    in the placement
    of hands,
    in the distance between,
    in the lack
    of their turning
    into the other,
    and it’s a good mask,
    but a mask,
    all the same,
    when the bride
    and the groom fade
    at the top of
    of the cake,
    but they can’t
    be blamed
    because how could
    they know
    what it was
    they were choosing;
    not a lifetime of love,
    but an ideal
    that they married,
    “just because,”
    they had found
    somebody’s body –
    who would wear
    the ring.

  377. Still

    The lines engraved
    In my petrified heart
    Still form the shape
    Of your smile.

  378. Gwyvian says:

    The gauntlet

    Obsession is a blind spot that seems to erase memory, and
    forgiveness is like a salve bleeding all over my heart’s stinging cuts—
    but necessary in the game you and I play to be willingly blind: always so
    tempestuous, first promises then the moon ripped from the sky, and
    it was just the first arrow shot on the battlefield, in jest, where much worse
    would be said and done: because retreat was ever out of the question…

    I am in over my head, I’ve lost my wits—
    the game was played for love, but I’m not sure that’s what it is,
    because what I feel goes beyond affection, it is addiction and a thorn
    in my side: love is a desire to succumb to this sickness – love is to die.

    Infatuation is a curious patch, leaving me dazed and mesmerized,
    as yet untouched and wishing forgetfulness; our dance was serious,
    but so light-hearted – it became a part of me, unless I would stop it—
    and I did in the end, but the feelings already dug in their roots, and
    no matter how I tug at them, I’m deadlocked in a fantasy, where
    our innocent fiction turns to reality…

    My love has bitter resentment planted at its heart, I
    keep thinking that my course has always been set – but too late,
    I realize I know just about nothing and love isn’t singular; it
    overwhelms me: now my love has split, oozing its thick blood over me.

    Denial is a symptom of my distasteful condition, when I find a place
    to curl up and wish away all that has happened: I found comforts
    in your touch like in no other, but that well was already parched—
    your love was a decaying cloak of faded affections that I cherished,
    ink running on a page left out in the rain – I always wished that I felt
    differently, but I knew that someday soon the illusion would end.

    The love I carry is imbued with cruelty, my sorrow has become a callous
    whip to crack over the innocent – my forgetfulness rooted out more than
    what I felt, but my ability to judge fairly what slaps are deserved went, too:
    love is blackness in a heart of stone: a poisoned treachery I give to you.

    Passion always comes after there is nothing left to love,
    but it happened that it suddenly took hold of me without warning—
    I let love slide by more than once, thinking myself undeserving, but
    before long I was once more infatuated: such a pretty face, so dark and
    just as arrogant as what I love most: a tainted flame to my yearning
    sensitivity – where I live in inky black, that flame was desire itself…

    But love is of more than the flesh, love is a spine that thrusts deeper—
    where I sought a connection I found only a boy asleep; a fool, where I sought
    a tormented goodness to soothe: this one never had a rogue to find and twist
    around my finger, he was as hollow as I am – we’d have been such a match.

    A cloud of sadness can be as infatuating as unquenchable passions
    that burn through resolve, so I found myself trapped in a mad dream—
    where being eviscerated was the touch of deep affection, where
    lack of commitment was a gem – I was possessed and possession,
    a stereotype to dress and coddle or make to suffer – because I asked for it,
    I thought we’re such a good pair: you are broken, and I desire despair…

    My love is sorrow, my love is shared pain, my love is always being
    torn away; dysfunction is the trend, arrogance my style, I follow it like a
    thing on a leash, until I’m forced to break away – when chains are bonds
    and love is bleakness, there’s nowhere else to go, no more price to pay.

    After the gauntlet is run and I am left a shell of what I was, I thought that a
    little forbidden taste could not hurt of someone too good for me, but I found
    myself obsessed: coming full circle, we have a shared pain, but instead of that
    being our focus, you actually tried to love me – a feeling I always felt I can’t
    quite remember since those first battles, nor the surge of passion I thought only
    came disconnected: and I am a fish in the net now, hoping I won’t regret this…

    Love is a double-edged blade that’s cut me however I swing it, though love’s
    suffering eventually had to reset to factory settings – but memory
    can never be wiped clean: the burden of what I’ve done and felt haunt me, all
    locked in a treasury where my dragons sleep – inside this love I intend to keep…

    April 15, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  379. TomNeal says:

    Love suffers long and bears all
    (a short love story)

    John Donne loved Anne More,
    He was Abelard after Eloise
    Before whom all reason to feeling fell.
    Anne’s father’s objection met by action
    On a bridal bed making the union
    In law valid, but in-law wrath and rage-
    Unquenched and uncontrolled- the lovers pursued
    Until, in the poet’s words, they became:
    John Donne, Anne Donne, Undone.

  380. utsabfly says:

    I Would Love You Still

    I would love you still,
    If we had never met.
    I would love you still,
    If we weren’t blessed to connect.

    I would love you still,
    If I never saw your face.
    I would love you still,
    If I knew not your embrace.

    I would love you still,
    If I’d never kissed your lips.
    I would love you still,
    If our worlds had never mixed.

    Of all the potential misses,
    Which may have kept us apart.
    I’m glad I never had to learn,
    To live life without your heart.

    ©E.D. Allee
    April, 2014

  381. mzanemcclellan says:

    Never Fade Away

    ~
    When I told you I’d love you forever
    I did not mean until the day I die.
    My love for you spans all eternity,
    as limitless as stars in clear night skies.
    ~
    There was never any doubt in my heart,
    my truth plain from the moment I found you.
    I have demonstrated my devotion,
    not with words, but with the things that I do.
    ~
    I have walked my path with you beside me.
    Together we have grown in many ways
    I could not have dreamed someone more perfect,
    which is why we will never fade away.

    ***
    ~ M. Zane McClellan
    ***
    http://thepoetrychannel.wordpress.com/2014/04/15/writers-digest-2014-poem-a-day-challenge-day-15/

  382. dsborden says:

    The Never Had
    by D.S. Borden

    Tell me about the night
    we never had–
    will never have–
    so I can taste its memory

    You can recount
    the story
    in luscious details
    across a cafe table,
    laughing until you cry

    (a love and anti-love poem in one)

  383. Forgiving Your Hair in Your Nose

    Oh,
    you gave me
    a license
    to park all over
    Copenhagen.

  384. PowerUnit says:

    Love Springs Eternal

    Spring around here is not a time of pure joy but a time of transition, of
    remembering the past as you watch it melt away revealing blankets of green, of
    listening to the early morning woodland songs of joy while death remains heavy in the snow, of
    emerging life while the roads that got us here decay spectacularly
    and despite this passage of time, the unceasing flux of creation, and
    the uncertainty of life, our love lives on, stronger than ever in this season of hope.

  385. dianemdavis says:

    HOW TO FIND TRUE LOVE

    Are you sure this will work? Sarah asks,
    inspecting the apple as carefully
    as a mother examines her newborn.

    I nod, peeling the fruit
    in one long strip
    like a ribbon in a young girl’s hair.
    This never fails so long as
    you trust your heart.

    Sarah closes her eyes tight
    then tosses the apple peel
    over her left shoulder.

    I can’t look, she says.
    Tell me, Manny,
    does it form a J?

    I nudge the bottom of the peel
    into a slight curve.

    Of course, Sarah–
    everyone knows
    you and Jackson
    were meant to be together.

  386. Day 15
    15.04.2014

    The insanity of loneliness

    A mass suction of the heart
    No blood left in my veins
    Pale and afraid
    That death would carry my name without anyone noticing
    Or care

    Fear is the factor in this fraction

    Sitting up late at night
    Slammed in the face with the fact
    If I die right now
    No one would know
    Draws my attention towards insanity

    Makes me think about my friends

    My friends

    Friends

    Such an abused word
    Used to be connected
    With honour and strength
    And passion
    Obsolete passion
    Could even mistake it with love
    It excerpts itself from the same emotions

    When it is gone, nothing exists
    Except from pain

    Pain

    The sort of pain that sucks life out of you, and only leaves you with a name
    Another name
    On your wall

    And I would be just that
    Another name
    But without a wall to hang it on

    And that will drive me insane

    Insane

    The connection is in a frame
    Insanity and loneliness derives from the same patterns of emotions

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