On Day 20, I asked you to write a Love poem. And the sparks started flying immediately. There's no better way to start a week than with a little love, so without further ado.
It would be better to think
you were made for me
a custom order
handcrafted to please
those hands that have held babies
and tarped roofs
were just praciting
for that day in the yard
when you reached out
to steady me
and keep me from falling
Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com
After the Whole Day
Let me feed you
cheeses on a plate.
Let me roll for you
raviolis of gorgonzola,
swirled in a cream sauce
with walnuts, tarragon.
See how the water simmers.
See how the windows steam.
Let me serve you a salad--
frisee and pear,
delicate curls of pecorino,
a whisper of truffle oil.
I have in my kitchen
scallops to sear,
chicken to roast,
and a medley of roots
tossed with oregano, balsamic,
and then a little lemon tart.
When you come home
with the sound of the saw in your ears
and mahogany dust in your hair,
let me pour you a glass of Champagne,
let me take your hands
and lead you to the table you made.
Let me feed you, fill you.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
Tentative touches cannot explain
how much you've actually
Long, light strokes down
a make-up smeared cheek
try to tell you that
Finger tips pressing lasciviously
into firm thighs attempt
to get you to realize
that I do want you.
It was a mistake to try and
send you out of my life -
to try and hide the fact
that I do, love you.
It's too late for me to
try and take that back;
to un-tell you that I can't
have you, have these
But I can try to win back
your favor, your desire
with the slightest whisper
of a kiss on your painted mouth,
promising much more than
words ever could.
Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu
One Incarnation of Love
cleans the litter-box,
cackles, wakes me up with
of a world pregnant
with entropy, a blue rose with warts.
Good love is a mentholated powder
on the prickly heat of this world.
Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
I Miss My True Love
Once again, dear, you’re on the road.
We’re separated by miles and highways,
But linked by cell.
Several times a day, we’ll talk,
But the other half of the bed tonight
Will stay cool, empty, and neat.
I should be used to kissing you goodbye
But I’m not.
I want you to come home, kiss me good-night,
And lie beside me till I hear the reassurance
Of your warm breathing,
The rhythm of your sleep,
The sure, sweet, safe knowledge
That you are here
And always will be.
Karen |kphillipsoAT NOSPAMaol dot com
The Man in the Moon knows.
He stays up past dawn
To watch us.
The morning doves
Nest near our window
Bow in our direction,
Accepting the warmth.
While the world
Is aware of
We are oblivious
To all but
Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
How to Write a Love Poem
Choose an iambic vessel for your pleasure
An octave and sestet for good measure
A dash of onomatopoeia will suffice,
Boom Boom,’s too much, but pit-a-pat is nice.
Ask for my heart. Surely I’ll recognize
Synecdoche and give the rest as prize.
Love, dove; strife, life—use no rhymes so cliché;
Choose simplest words for what you have to say.
Give love its legs, you must personify
A living thing, but do not let it die.
Don’t mix your metaphors, but be direct
Use similes as well that may reflect
A view of love by what it most resembles
And spice it up with literary symbols.
But don’t dare use the least hyperbole
If you want to get within a million miles of me.
Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
Tell me Saturday,
Monday, Wednesday afternoon;
Tell me riverside,
Mountain, desert canyon, sea.
Lover, tell me – and soon, soon.
ck |kephartceAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
Sweet apple blossoms
and succulent plums
sit tired and spent beside us
on a now stained picnic
blanket. And you lace
flowering white in my hair
as the pulpy red hearts
disappear across the grass.
And we wrap ourselves in sheets
of light and hold each other
firmly by the core.
And the sun sinks into universal dawns
as you whisper those
plum somethings in my
Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
The volume could be lower.
Silence would be best.
Tonight the History channel
vies with ESPN. World War II
echoes around me as I try
to write a love poem, today’s
Serious tones announce German attacks.
Next voices rise with excitement:
the 76ers have won a NBA game. Innings pass;
76,000 men are taken prisoners.
I think love is here
in this rented room,
in the words I do not speak,
in the poem I don’t write.
Beth Camp |bluebethleyAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
I’d Like To Take You To Dinner
At the Rockin’ Comet Diner
the waitresses wear t-shirts
that say, “Nothin’ could be finer,
than this Carolina diner,”
and we sit at a small chipped table
crowded with condiments
and a dented napkin holder.
You order liver and onions,
I get fried green tomatoes and fried okra
because this a Southern diner, after all
and Southern food is all about fried,
but we skip dessert,
which might have been banana pudding,
partly because we’ve eaten enough
and partly because we can’t wait
to get home.
Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com
Bluejays riot in the campsite:
s'more debris, hot chocolate powder
and apple peels overlooked in last
night's rush to bed are their morning
Eventually we will
have to open the zipper,
get up and clean up
Let's just lay here for now
remembering our own discovery
Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
I wore the sunburn on the back of my neck
like a badge. Earned from an hour spent
in a paddle boat, on that lake. That lake.
The bacteria makes appear it green, the sign said.
A glacier compelled by invisible forces,
carving into the soft pre-history earth,
made it deep. And the sunfish swimming
just below my floating body, made me scream.
You laughed pulling me to you.
I said i hated you, for not telling me it was there.
Your face found the curve between my neck and shoulder.
My feigned fury dissolved into the water.
Days like that, never last forever.
Crystal Cameron |crystalclouded731AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
geese bring the
back with them
their V across
the sky ripping
winter in pieces
with them comes
rising of sap
blood courses faster
there are those
who would waste
but in your company
they seem all too
short I watch you
more through the
honey light and
feel my heart swell
and open like
the buds of
wave behind you
in our window
halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com
I wake to the curve
of a familiar hip,
draped with a swath
of modest sheet…
nakedness reveals all
and sometimes that is too much,
in the morning light
this baring of body and soul.
And filtered through the
blinds, horizontal punctuation marks
of last night’s encounter
are reminders of spent love.
the sheet slips away
and in the first rays of
I know why I am here.
anne |atkrakAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
Lust and Exhaustion are lovers,
they stay up all night, every night
it’s like being young again, only
they are not. Lust drives to work
in the early morning light, moon
sharing the sky with the rising sun,
too tired to see straight, thinking
half of what I’m feeling isn’t love,
it’s sheer exhaustion: The gritty eyes,
the illusion of floating off the ground,
the champagne bubbles in the chest.
Back in her apartment, Exhaustion
rolls over in her sleep, smiling.
Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com