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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 210

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

    Tomorrow is V-Day, so there’ll be plenty of chocolates, kissing, fighting, and lonely hearts out there as a result.

    For today’s prompt, I’ve actually got two options:

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

    Here’s my attempt at a Valentine Poem:


    there’s a creek down this hill
    that collects all the rain
    falling on this morning

    like lovers leaping off
    the moon & transforming
    into bright shooting stars

    the creek collects the rain
    & distributes the rain
    so that each drop becomes

    something more impressive
    an army of raindrops
    feeding deer & lilies

    feeding the way we kiss
    under this tree that’s fed
    as the army rushes

    past us over pebbles
    & tearing at the earth
    wanting to fall in love


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    About Robert Lee Brewer

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    110 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 210

    1. shinnokami03 says:

      A little late, but- whatever.

      Though I seem not to care,
      What you think means the world to me.
      And when the world’s just too much to bear,
      Forever for you here I will be.

    2. JRSimmang says:

      Day 5

      He didn’t sleep last night. He was driven
      by heat and his dreams caused his body
      to ache and

      twist. It’s probably better this way. No one wants
      to sleep with a man who cannot seem to separate
      the sheets from

      his indecipherable memories. He awoke that morning
      to an incandescent sheen on his windows and a
      knock on the

      door. It was a Monday. He put on his clothes thinking
      that today would be the final day to say good bye, but
      he wasn’t

      sure he was ready to release her body heat to the
      curtains and windows. He wasn’t sure he was ready
      to get rid

      of the last little drops of sweat and her lingering
      perfume still impermeating his bed linens. He pulled
      on his pants

      and found a letter on the stoop. It was penned in
      illumination. It was penned in loops.
      It was in

      the hand of a woman.

    3. SharoninDallas says:


      He calls, he cares, his stories he shares,
      He always makes me laugh.
      He puts me first; he puts me last;
      His love is never a question.
      All the love, the comfort, the drive, the integrity,
      The security my life has had;
      For this I give my thanks, my praise, my tribute, my love,
      To my always valentine,
      To my dad.

    4. sashagladb says:

      ~Oh, Valentine!~ 2/14/13

      We’re in the middle of the coldest winter month, oh Valentine!
      Trees dull and nude, and birds don’t sing their song.
      Days are not long, and that is fine,
      Because if even sun is on, it only gives its shine.

      So why it is when You walk-in
      I feel as if it is beginning of the spring, oh Valentine?

      You look at me – and heart gets bright
      You touch- and things look beautiful again, and I feel warm inside.
      And when you speak – your voice is like a song that birds can’t sing.
      So talk to me, oh Valentine,
      That we don’t let just go away our spring.

      I’ll cherish you like very rare precious gem
      So sparkle in your eye would only get more charming and aglow with time.
      Rely on me, I want you have your peace within,
      And see you shine,
      Because that is the only way I find the peace with self, oh Valentine!

      You know, I think I’m blessed that I can feel as if it is beginning of the spring when You walk-in.
      Please, be my Valentine right now,
      And every single day.

    5. JRSimmang says:

      On the Fourth Day

      He’s feeling like he should shave. It’s been
      since that night and it is way past 5 o’clock.
      His eyes are

      red and crusted over, presumably from crying,
      though he promised himself a long time ago
      that he would

      no longer allow his eyes to water. He thinks
      a lot about his mother right now, her kind,
      warm embrace

      and comforting words had soothed him before.
      They could do the same thing now. He needed to
      hear he was

      a good man with a good and patient heart so
      that he could learn to live on when the one part
      of him that

      pines still will become just another part of him.
      He wishes he could see her again. To remember her face.
      He went back

      to the bar the night before only to find the
      same beefeater that found him first.
      He didn’t

      feel much like being reacquainted, so he
      sat and watched as other couples camped
      and flirted.

      Helena. Helena, my love.

    6. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:

      a shelter valentine
      by juanita lewison-snyder

      a year ago on a day like this
      i offered you my heart,
      and through the bars
      all shy in part
      you offered back your nose.

      fast forward years
      a life well spent
      now ready for the next chapter
      a heaven sent furr-kid to rent
      this canine valentine of mine.

      © 2013 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    7. How about some poetry love…?


      Won’t mind at all if you take your time
      or if it is a quickie;
      memorize it or read it off the page…
      I’m really not that picky.

      Throw in a little bit of word play
      some prose and scattered rhymes…
      I just really need to have one
      before I lose my mind

    8. JRSimmang says:

      Three days from then

      he is back to the bottom of the hill,
      reminding himself of Sisyphus as he
      pushes his

      Ford out of his driveway and into the
      street. He was in the mall when he got
      under the

      notes of her perfume. He had trouble
      recognizing it at first. It was almost painful
      digging through

      the back of his mind, unearthing something
      that should have been buried and left

      He found out is was Chanel No. 5. It’s a common
      fragrance, he says. But, I don’t have a girlfriend.
      The lady

      with the perfume bottle blushed, and he thinks
      he could ask her back to his place later,
      but his mouth

      wouldn’t move and he stood there stupidly.
      What was it about Helena? Was it the brunette
      hair she left

      behind on the pillow? Was it the way she cradled
      his head after the sex they shared? Was it the
      way she sung

      “Fly me to the Moon” in the shower after they
      both got sweaty and out of breath? Or was it
      that he was

      finally feeling something. He pushed his Ford onto the
      street, got in his car, and drove to dinner with friends.
      He knew that

      tonight his heart will be broken.

    9. Valentine 2013

      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-two 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.

    10. Amy says:

      So softly, he stroked each key
      The same lugubrious way
      he played me

      Smooth as jazz, he took my heart
      in his hands and gracefully
      tore it apart

    11. JRSimmang says:

      Two Days Later

      and it’s all coming back to him now.
      He thinks he remembers her name
      a shallow

      pond, or something like that, where
      the water is just deep enough to drown
      but not deep

      enough to worry yourself with ever waking
      up. Does she remember his? After all, it
      was the day

      of love, and they just so happened to be
      in the same place at the same time.
      The thirteenth,

      not a Friday, but may as well have been,
      was not a great day for him. He was on the

      end of a Dear John note, washed in perfume
      and stinking of infidelity. Plus, his name
      wasn’t John.

      Relationships, he thinks to himself, are
      no picnic. There is no red and white checkered
      sheet. No wine

      hidden in a cute wicker basket that
      touches the cheese and bread just so much.
      But, was this

      a relationship in the first place? He looked
      down into his coffee sitting on the red and
      white checkered

      plastic table cloth of the diner and breathed a
      deep sigh. It was just a night of revelry and me
      feeling sorry

      for myself, he thinks. I don’t even remember
      her name. It was Helena. Helena Roche.
      And she was


    12. Amy says:

      I realize that this is extremely dark and depressing for Valentine’s day, but I had a particularly volatile relationship on my mind and this is what came out. I apologize for darkening what should otherwise be a beautiful and lovely poetry prompt!

      We are the damaged ones;
      broken and corroded and incomplete.
      We are missing that crucial part of ourselves
      that protects and preserves the spirit.
      Our spirit is huddled, naked and
      dying on the floor.
      We unknowingly seek each other out,
      like halves grasping at a whole.
      In his eyes, I see the phantom
      mirrored in myself.
      At the core, we are the same.
      The steady drumming in my chest
      manifests my aching need.
      We will devour each other
      until there is nothing left but

      • Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:

        If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my existence here, is to NEVER apologize for that which pours forth from within (be it words, images, ideas, etc.) no matter how sad or dark the subject matter. It is what it is, ugly insignificant rock or polished gem. They still both matter in the end.

        There is beauty contained here in your poem. I caught a glimpse of it. Great concept, wonderful imagery. Bravo, Amy!

    13. WallFlower21 says:

      Valentines Day. Sooooo Cliche. I’m happy being single, but, like most women I long for a man to hold in my arms. I MAN, gentelman, not a BOY. Just F.Y.I. Until then, i have my cat and Ben & Jerry. Oh and The Notebook lols. :) JK Hope you all had fun!

    14. JRSimmang says:

      The Day After

      love is no longer mentioned, while the black
      coffee swishes and swashes in the bottom
      of his mug.

      The pure white sheets that once contained her
      heat were now cold as their color.
      She was gone.

      They met in a library. She was pre-med.
      Both of them intended to be gone before the
      other got there,

      but the best laid plans of mice and men
      were usually paved on the road to hell
      and they met.

      First, it was wistful, pleasantries
      exchanged like the book sleeves
      on their paper-

      backs soon on the sheets
      and mixing into a collage of flesh.
      They breathed each

      other nights, they wouldn’t breathe
      at all. There wasn’t any time.
      He knew, though,

      all along the windows would open
      and she would fly out like they
      always do.

      Her day came today; he breath stale
      on his tongue as he took his first sip
      of coffee.

      Happy fuckin’ Valentine’s Day, he said
      through bootblack teeth and rubber stamp
      tongue. She’s gone.

    15. DanielAri says:

      Be my cosignatory

      Sixty dollars would swoop several dozen
      red roses into your arms, Valentine,
      fill the turkey platter with marzipan,
      stud the shelf with some gem from Chinatown
      or buy a three-hour meal at Kan Zaman.

      Sixty bucks (plus the babysitting fine)
      could fund a night out on the busiest
      couples night of the year. (Don’t order wine.)
      Instead, I spent that money toward a less
      obviously romantic horizon.

      After the financial crisis, we’re blessed
      with fiscal strength, and I’ve a real yen
      to gaze far down our shared road and invest
      sixty dollars twice a month. Someday when
      it’s just you and me again, buddy mine,

      we’ll crack open the egg and laugh and then
      still be together, rich in love. Amen.

    16. Jane Shlensky says:

      Gang, I wrote this today when I got home from distributing my bag of poems from the project. Although I did know some of those who selected a poem from my bag, it was fun to watch the faces of those I did not know, who went from suspicious to willing to delighted. In one waiting room and nursing home, they read them aloud to one another as if they were fortunes from fortune cookies. If you were part of the 14 Words of Love project, I thought you’d like to know those little poems made some people smile.

      14 Words Poem Project

      In parking lots, on ‘blab of pave,’
      I gave
      small poems to no one I knew.
      A few
      looked at me as if I were strange;
      a change
      lit up their faces in exchange.
      They read words from a poet’s heart
      and smiled, struck by a cupid’s dart.
      I gave a few a change.

    17. JRSimmang says:

      If the rose be truly red,
      then it would
      with the blood of the
      unfortunate passer by.
      Its thorns, tiny lancets,
      twist and turn and bleed out
      the heart.
      It’s never solitary, this.
      Where you find one, you find
      each equally capable of splitting
      your fragile flesh.

      If violets truly be blue,
      then they are made of ice,
      fractured and shattering.
      They seep in through the
      for every deep enchantment
      brings your heart that much
      closer to stopping.

      If sugar be sweet,
      then your teeth will rot
      straight out your head.
      Your pearly whites will
      gather on the
      ground, soaking in the
      pure, pitiful sounds of your wailing.

      And you.
      You wretched, horrible,
      rose bed.
      I must water you daily,
      prune you nightly,
      and try to not get stung by your needle.
      You are like the violet,
      frozen and blue.
      You rot my teeth to the gum.

      I love you.

    18. JWLaviguer says:

      She Played With My Heart

      She played me
      like a child plays kick the can
      She beat me into submission
      Made me love her

      The heart wants what the heart wants
      they told me
      And they were right
      But my brain new better

      I should have listened
      Hindsight is 20/20
      And now my heart

      Such as it is
      Lies black and motionless
      At the bottom of an abyss

      Scarred and ravaged
      By demons from the past

      The walls I built
      To keep them out
      Are crumbling now

      Try as I may
      to fill the cracks
      I can’t keep up

      I see a spark
      of light shine through
      But I scream
      and hide.

    19. Misky says:

      Play Me A Tune

      I’m sat here,
      steady as a rock, rocking
      in my chair, cherishing
      the sound of you sound asleep, repeating
      humming snores fluted through your nose, knowing
      that you’ll always sound like that, that
      manly Roman nose of yours, your
      slightly bent just a bit off-straight, and damn straight,
      I love that bit of your nose, damned straight I do. Do
      you take this man as your wedded …? I do.
      And I listen to you, your
      humming a fluted lullaby of sleep.
      And no question, yes, I do.


    20. In my element, I tend to get wordy, so bear with me…


      He stood on the front porch with morning as a new promise.
      The mist of dew’s bated breath hung above the grass
      as sips of his molten brew stimulated his heart.

      This was the part that took the most out of him,
      for he knew the feeling that was vacant
      could not be replenished or filled easily.

      Looking out, he saw the tendrils of light lifting
      over the distant ridge, a bridge between dreams
      and heartbreak – and he aches a little with each

      rise of his chest. He was a mess, and he knew it.
      If he could eschew these thoughts he would,
      but he also knew it would do no good.

      The brilliance of the emerging sun possessed him
      as much as her bright light held his passion.
      It would eventually come crashing down around him

      and yet, the memory of that flame fortified
      the fire that burned dimly in his heart.
      It was a start.

      The birds were awakening, and there was no mistaking
      their song. It was a strong prelude on this multi-hued
      morn. It was born of love and hope, and he could cope

      with whatever the day wrought. It ought to be good.
      He would sip again and savor the flavor of lips
      once pressed against this same cup, an interruption

      most welcomed and desired. Again it stoked the fire.
      A deep breath filled his lungs and he held it in,
      remembering the scent of her as the same fresh

      and exhilarating sniff. It was as if she was standing there
      against his scarred shoulder, drawing her strength
      from his worn and tired physique. But his psyche

      needed mending because it was sending these signals
      of glad sadness. An unbalanced madness festered
      in love and disdain, an old refrain they had reconciled

      years earlier. And in it, he just got more assured.
      It was pure, these feelings, melancholy as they were,
      for it was her who saved him. It was her whim that

      resurrected him; it protected him in ways he thought
      no one ever could or would. But she did.
      She hid it well, much the same as the rabbits that pocked

      the field across the way when they came out to play.
      Their furry tenderness blended in well to stave off this hell
      that festered and pestered his heart. She loved their

      timidity and guarded adventurism, they explored
      the way her heart had searched for its mate.
      Guarded and tentative, a preventative to heartache

      and breakage. She had staked everything by offering
      her smiles and womanly wiles to his dark and brooding
      moods. She became the sunshine that bathed his face

      and lifted his spirits, and her voice as he’d hear it
      in the trill of the sparrows at play. It was her day.
      Valentine’s Day. A day when distant hearts reconnect

      and reflect on lasting connections offered in breaths and sighs,
      sunlit skies. Birds heard in the songs that lived within.
      That silly grin when the bunnies leapt and danced,

      and she had pranced through his life unabashed
      and confident. She knew what it meant to be loved.
      Cup nearly drained and a faint sound approaching

      encroaching on this solitude, but not intruding.
      He heard the door’s creaking yawn and his eyes were drawn
      on the vision that graced him. Her face was angelic,

      her hair thick and disheveled and a devilish look in her eye.
      She offered another shot from the bottom of the pot;
      a new cup with a bright red heart right below where

      his lips kissed. In the morning mist they were complete.
      She had re-awakened to his new day. He had nothing left to say
      but a deep “good morning” and he watched her yawning arms

      stretch to hug the world. This girl never strayed. She stayed.
      Reminders notwithstanding, she had been quietly demanding
      his attention, not to mention his love, for above all else, he did.

      He loved her more each day. And today was her day: Valentine’s Day.

    21. Like Jonah

      Like Jonah, I was okay
      Going my own way
      I was dating a good man
      And I had a sound plan
      I was east. God took me west
      My plan was fine, but He wanted what’s best.
      You are the whale that swallowed me.

    22. PressOn says:


      up high
      in the sky,
      so that I can spy
      young lovers below in the rye
      and send arrows of courageous fortune as they try.
      Then, some will laugh and some will cry
      as, flashing on by
      in the sky
      up high,

    23. Limited internet. Let’s see if I can do this on the phone:


      What if I confessed
      that I give you the same card
      over and over
      every Valentine’s Day,
      the one you open,
      read, and leave lying
      on the dresser
      until I sweep it (back)
      into the drawer for next year?

      Can I help it
      that once I found
      the perfect card,
      I want to tuck it
      back into its envelope
      ready for you to slide it
      back out, reading
      as if for the first time
      the sentiments of my love,
      words coined and marketed
      by strangers, corporate types,
      Packaged in pink or red
      and shipped to the drug store
      where I read it
      and thought at once of you?
      Would you prefer the truth,
      To know I bought a half dozen
      cards or more since New Year,
      each one a fresh new way
      to say I live you? It’s true.
      But the day rolls around,
      I find the one I gave you
      last year, and the year before,
      and the one before that,
      and knew you would not

      recognize it as recycled

      but as the t
      to say I love you?

      on the dresser

    24. happy valentine’s day
      oh, don’t you forget

      or you’ll be riding solo
      instead of singing a duet

      feel the social pressure
      of consumerism’s love roulette

      buying all those gifts
      and adding to your debt

      just so you can avoid
      making a certain someone upset

      candy so sweet
      it makes the stomach upset

      flowers so pretty
      that will soon die if left unkempt

      cards full of words
      reminiscing of how you first met

      ha! society’s subtle pickpocket
      call it what it is: theft

      they say when and how
      love should be expressed

      on such a superficial holiday
      making it more like a contest

      a culture obsessed
      feeling compressed
      to show their best
      cajoled to impress

      and yet… rendered sightless

      because we fail to realize that VALENTINE
      is really spelled: AN EVIL NET

    25. alentine Poem

      She named her baby
      Valentine. Heart-shaped
      face, auburn curls,
      enhanced emerald eyes.
      When her little girl was older,
      she would tell her about that satin
      box tied with bow of silk, creamy milk
      chocolates in brown bonnet wrappers,
      waiting for her to open, as soon as
      her baby was born–on the morn
      of February 14th.

      Anti-Valentine Poem

      If you believe in cupid,
      you must be stupid.
      A baby with a bow and arrow?
      Lucky not to shoot a sparrow.
      Aiming straight just for the heart,
      knowing lovers soon will part.
      Bah, humbug, is what I say,
      no such thing as Valentine’s Day.


      Twenty-plus decorated shoe boxes
      Each with a slit in the lid
      Each holding twenty-plus paper valentines.
      She lifts her lid, and searches for the one
      From HIM.
      She finds it.
      Porky Pig holds a heart that says, “B-b-b-be mine.”
      She smiles. Not because Porky Pig holds a heart,
      But because right under his name,
      HE added a heart of his own.

    27. Ber says:

      Valentine kisses

      When all the flowers
      the petels you are to give
      have wilted away
      love wont go through your fingers like a sieve

      Wishing wanting more
      than chocolates , cards and much more
      when on this valentines day
      love comes knocking on your door

      Pick yourself up
      look at the hand
      that is wanting you to hold
      treasure the memories
      new and old

      Kisses so soft
      cuddles so near
      courage of love
      lighting up your night

      Listen carefully
      love like never before
      knowing your valentine
      knocked on your door
      leaving their feeling
      with you, for ever more

    28. PoM says:

      There’s a Tail of old that is not widely known

      Tis the story of a love never never reaped nor sowed

      Not everyone knows Of this tale of old

      How Valentine’s Day had been sowed

      Death pain and heartache

      Two hearts they did reap

      read more here


    29. elishevasmom says:

      Be My Valentine

      Valentine’s Day.
      It always seemed a
      cruel mockery.

      A day, no a holiday,
      a whole season even,
      dedicated to love.

      All that advertising
      money invested in
      wooing the consumer,

      seducing the hard-earned
      dollars out of every
      wallet to buy the perfect

      gift for the perfect person.
      And what kind of societal
      misfit are you if you don’t

      have the perfect person to
      receive your guilt-ed box of
      chocolates, and your grocery

      store roses? And what kind
      lonely lass must you be if
      you can’t be doted upon

      by anyone? Surely this is
      just another marketing
      ploy, designed to con

      yet another diamond
      (worth three months salary,
      mind you) to beget yet

      another union based on ‘love’
      and ‘romance’—whose life
      expectancy is no longer

      than the stretch limo
      trailing tin cans
      to the airport.

      How many years went by,
      where I spent ‘that special day’
      alone, and lonely—feeling

      oh so imperfect? And how
      many more when I would
      morph into someone else’s

      ideal someone, rather
      than to be alone—again?
      It was just all so unfair.

      And then one day, I opened
      my eyes, and realized that
      perfection was but an illusion.

      There is no perfect gift,
      and there is no
      perfect someone.

      Me, myself and I have
      finally become quite smitten
      with each other.

      And we don’t have to get
      each other anything.
      We just get it.

      Ellen Knight 2.13.13

    30. Marianv says:

      Time and Again

      Slightly uneven red hearts
      Cut with blunt-edged scissors
      From red construction paper

      It’s the middle of February
      Once again and time has
      Begun to repeat itself

      Sometimes the hearts are pasted
      On paper doilies, or decorated
      With stickers appropriate to the season.

      The message is always the same. A
      Simple word, “:Love” printed in
      capital letters, followed by a name.

      First graders are apt to decorate
      With added bits of sentiment
      Those whose abilities to write

      Might add a dedication as in
      “To Mom” or “To Dad” or if the
      supply of hearts is still plentiful,

      Smaller hearts might decorate the
      background of the large heart and, most
      important, the signature of the child.

      These tend to accumulate over
      The years, stored away with the
      Important papers that life necessitates

      Certificates of birth and marriage and
      Diplomas from various institutions,
      At first delighting the now grown child

      Later tears may fall, of joy or sorrow
      The edges grown brittle, a hint of must
      A private sentiment, accumulating with
      the years, who can throw them away?

    31. jenreyneri says:

      A valentine haiku

      Starry eyed for you
      Forgiveness brings hidden joys
      Won’t you please be mine?

    32. Jane Shlensky says:


      She says she’d like to live alone
      Now that she’s had her husband’s love.
      She said his heart was like a stone,
      His fist harder than clubs of bone.

      She said she’d loved him in her way
      And he had loved her well in his
      So that she’s done with love today,
      He’s dead and she can have her say.

      She looks at cards and shakes her head,
      Such hoopla—cupids, hearts, and flowers.
      She’s seen dark ways that love is fed
      And shudders at the splash of red.

      There is a man who makes her smile
      Perhaps he’d love her if she’d dare
      But now she’s free of love and bile
      And trusting will take her a while.

    33. Yolee says:


      The sun’s juicy light spilled into my
      parent’s new apartment. I watched Papi
      teach my sister how to dance a bolero
      to: Quizas, Quizas, Quizas.

      Toe position and subtle hip turns
      added eloquence missing from my sister’s
      early efforts. Lately, weakness, via health
      issues, repossesses Papi’s body as if it owes
      installments for having lived 80 plus years.

      At times his legs are cirrocumulus clouds,
      indicating poor weather is on the way.
      But today he bit the apple
      brought by teachable daughters.

      My heart surrendered the burden
      that it wouldn’t be long before I lost
      this great man whose footprint
      created my world.

      I climbed up a looking post I hadn’t
      notice before, and detected flying
      lessons in the wings of voluminous

      days. Papi has stages in need of
      his children’s sight; hope is
      in need of his presence to carry
      on this beautiful dance.

    34. Domino says:

      Montague and Capulet

      and mine
      twined like the limbs of
      a twisted tree, battered by the
      elements, torn by the wind and rain, frozen then cooked,
      it is unsheltered in the world; exposed to the sun and the sky and the stormy sea.
      We, too, are unsheltered, except by each other, judged and despised by our families.
      Like the tree, we’re torn by words, tears, snubbed, despised.
      But we twist hearts together, thus,
      and twine, in the night
      limbs, yours

      Diana Terrill Clark

    35. De Jackson says:

      Closing Arguments

      Yours till the goose bumps
      Yours till the tree stumps,

      Yours till the ice ages
      Yours till the road rages,

      Yours till a banana splits
      Yours till the cherry pits,

      Yours till the kitchen sinks
      Yours till the back 40 winks,

      Yours till time flies
      Yours till the tie dies,

      Yours till the map creases
      and doubt ceases to be,

      Yours till Niagra Falls
      into this stupid sea,



    36. De Jackson says:

      (an Ovillejo)

      I laud the stars above
      and love
      to wish upon them, too.
      Won’t you
      come bid the hands of time
      be mine?
      Beneath this salted sky,
      it’s simpler than it seems;
      Every girl’s got her dreams.
      And, Love: won’t you be mine?

      Co-prompted by, and also shared over at, Poetic Bloomings:

    37. priyajane says:

      Three little words

      Three little words, I love you
      Sunset skies with crimson hues
      Three little words ,I love you
      Twinkling stars, soulful guitars
      Three little words,I love you
      Smiling flowers, Monsoon showers
      Three little words, I love you
      Butterfly wings , simple rings
      Three little words,I love you
      Waters fall, autumn drawl
      Three little words I love you
      Babes in arms, snowflake charms
      The dead of night, breaking light
      Three little words, I love you
      The list goes on and on and on—–

      PriyA Jane


      Allemande left with the old
      left hand, she clings to the remembered
      steps, dos-y-do your corner
      as a lazy fiddle catches the beat,
      the pattern, circling
      of the square – dancers in waves, a sea
      of spiral skirts and stomping boots,
      the call, the beat, even
      the filament in a lightbulb overhead
      glints and dazzles, spits
      and flickers by turns, and couples
      unpaired will chain on down
      the line, she’ll be remembering –
      oh Johnny!

    39. Karlie says:

      There’s an invisible rose on the counter
      In a vase that holds up an invisible valentine.
      There are nonexistent chocolates on the table
      And your invisible hand is clasped in mine
      When I close my eyes I all but feel you,
      As you whisper your love into my ear.
      But when I open them again I’m alone
      And there’s no one else here.
      If I concentrate I can hear your footsteps,
      But when I turn there’s only silence there.
      So I return to my invisible comfort
      Because you might come back, you can never tell
      I’ll go back to my invisible valentine,
      And a red, red rose that I can almost smell.

    40. deringer1 says:

      my heart is chocolate, nothing more.

      I feel the beats, sometimes uneven ,
      knowing there is something stirring
      there in my chest that feels like stone.

      but why pretend ?
      the love expressed in hearts and flowers
      is long gone and scarce remembered.

      so my chocolate heart loves my family,
      it loves my friends,
      it loves my neighbors,
      it loves music and laughter and
      even occasionally hope.

    41. PowerUnit says:

      The long lines of love
      scars on horizon, the past
      our ships sink into the sun
      dragging those nets of useless valentines
      we won’t be able to sell
      will have to throw back
      into the sea of love.

    42. Lisa PK says:

      No Longer Mine

      Six years old and smiling proud
      You read my Batman Valentine to me aloud
      Blonde flat top and innocent eyes
      Thank you hugs and kissy replies.

      Ten years later and six-foot-three
      You wave me off, towering over me.
      “I love you mom but I’ve got to fly.
      Candy, flowers, stuffed bear to buy.”
      I watch you leave trying not to cry,
      I dust off and read my old Batman Valentine.

    43. PressOn says:


      I remember it like it happened yesterday.

      My brother and I, both divorced,
      were sitting on the front porch,
      slapping mosquitoes on a July night,
      telling each other
      what went wrong with the other’s marriage.

      “Love is letting go,” he said.


      “Love is commitment,” I said.


      “Love is an open palm, face up,” he said.


      “Love is walking hand in hand,” I said.


      Then the bug light went on overhead.
      Our mother stood at the screen door.

      “Love is paying attention,” she said.


    44. lorascott08 says:

      My angel, hero, friend.

      I searched the whole world
      And never knew
      The love that I found in you.
      You inspired me to grow into
      The person I was always meant to be,
      You help me find a happiness
      That was deep within me.
      You take all the pain I feel away
      With just the thought of your smile,
      I asked myself why
      I couldn’t figure it out
      Until now
      That your happiness is worth more than my pain,
      You touched my life and I’ll never be the same.
      Thats why I love you
      My hero,
      My angel,
      My friend.

    45. Better Off Dead

      When I was three and fifty my lover wed
      tis price of bachelordom my mother said
      tis better single blessedness understood
      to die upon the pyre of bachelorhood
      I pleaded fleshly yearning and lechery
      never oath taken for misogyny
      O lady dressed in passions lustful red
      Jerry’s advice, ‘twould be better off dead

    46. Teever says:

      Lust to Love

      Stilted emotionally, romantically
      As a shy, chubby youth

      Growing into a man
      Mistaking lust for love

      Involved, entangled with only a few
      But in the wrong way

      Marriage ending in painful divorce
      She didn’t love me, how could she

      Involved with a woman
      Great at sex, with a plan and nothing else

      Taking a married woman to bed
      Mistaking her lonely touch for the love I needed

      Finally meeting my heart
      Discovering the secret and depth

      Knowing my wife of twenty years
      Each day feeling some freshness

      Love not devoid of lust
      But intimate with it, entwined with caring

    47. PKP says:

      School Valentine

      I remember those days of Valentines
      in school
      tiny paper cards
      drawn from a hat
      on teachers’ desk
      as apart from love
      as anything could be
      and yet set each small
      heart pounding
      each small hand trembling
      as we waited our turn
      to be called and pick
      our love
      signed Yours Truly
      in large
      block letters

    48. PKP says:

      My Sweet Baboo

      I had a big card years ago
      A Peanuts card to my Sweet Baboo
      I used it year after year on a stick
      in the center of the table
      out in the garden
      waving from your pillow
      all sorts of places did it appear
      I had a big Sweet Baboo card
      through twenty five years or more
      until it simply vanished one year
      I see it still as February draws near
      In my heart
      In plain sight
      Smiling on planted stick

    49. PKP says:

      Robert – truly terrific poem –

      Happy Valentine’s Day to all … will be back later…

    50. For the Love of Money

      He asked if there was anything
      that money couldn’t buy,
      to which I shouted, “LOVE!”
      He begged to differ as I

      remembered who I loved back then,
      his ego bustled with pride;
      our future set before us
      in my mind, I’d be his bride

      but making lots of money
      meant more to him than me.
      I tried hard to convince him
      without love he wouldn’t be

      content and yet his answer was,
      “Love beats what’s in first place,”
      which to him was that damn money,
      but to me love won the race.

      And now my son thinks money
      can buy love and happiness;
      if only he’d accept my truth,
      realize love is more is having less.


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