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:
- Write a valentine poem.
- Write an anti-love poem.
Here’s my attempt at a Valentine Poem:
“rain”
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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*****
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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.
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.
MY ALWAYS VALENTINE
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.
~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.
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.
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
How about some poetry love…?
Poemgasm
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.
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
undisturbed.
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.
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.
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
Not once in love with Amy.
I should note: “Amy” reminds me of the old song. I do not mean to make light of the poem, which is poignant and beautiful, or what may have caused it.
Not sure I know what you mean by the first part but yes I know the song. My dad used to sing it to me when I was younger
Thanks for the comment.
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
receiving
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
gorgeous.
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
deliverance.
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!
Thank you! Excellent advice.
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!
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.
I absolutely love this poem. I finished reading it and immediately read it twice more! The way you play with sounds of words is incredible and it is very clean. Great work!
Wow, LOVE this! My favorite kind of poetry are those that tell a story, bittersweet or not. Wonderful imagery, some great memorable lines, bravo!
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.
Wonderful poem, Daniel.
I too love your take on this prompt. Good for you, Daniel, well done!
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.
Jane, I always enjoy reading your work. You have a way of making me smile.
I just love this, Jane. So delighted you posted your experience. I feel I can live it vicariously. SO much power to you and JOdi Barnes and all…
Thanks, JR and Daniel. It was a great poetic feel-good day. Maybe next year we can do satellite versions all over the place. Jodi had one great idea.
If the rose be truly red,
then it would
drip
drip
drip
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
hundreds,
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
nose,
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.
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.
You.
I love you.
Very clever!
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.
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.
~Misky
In my element, I tend to get wordy, so bear with me…
LOVE SUCH AS THIS
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.
*sigh
That’s praise of the highest order JR. I either them them in tears or breathless. That’s how I know I hit the mark! Thank you.
In your element for certain.
Speechless …
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.
Oooh … VERY creatively well done!
Agreed. Love this.
CUPID
I
fly
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,
fly
I.
Limited internet. Let’s see if I can do this on the phone:
Recycled
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?
the
on the dresser
The phone quit letting me see bottom lines, so starting with
recognize it as recycled
but as the truth.
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
HA! LOVE IT!
Yes! Well written.
Posted valentine poems this week and last week to my blog here: (hope the links work – if not my appologies)
http://rustymidnightramblins.wordpress.com/2013/02/09/scarf/
and here:
http://rustymidnightramblins.wordpress.com/2013/02/02/valentine-for-my-daughters/
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.
SECOND GRADE CRUSH
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.
<3 Marie!
Aww! Thanks for the love, De! Returned 10-fold!
I would change my last line to:
HE drew a heart with his hand.
Big Smile!
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
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
http://proseofmellifluous.wordpress.com/
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
Perfect ending, Ellen!
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?
A valentine haiku
Starry eyed for you
Forgiveness brings hidden joys
Won’t you please be mine?
So sweet!
Hearts
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.
Oh, Jane. Stunning. And so sad.
`and shudders at the splash of red’ – So vivid. Trusting does not come easy.
Thanks, De and Sara. I stole this from a lady in my exercise bunch who was explaining why Valentine’s Day was hokum to her.
Love
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.
Oh, Yolee … this mists my eyes …
Thank you for saying so, marie E. I appreciate it.
Montague and Capulet
Hearts
yours
and mine
interlocked
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
interlocked
limbs, yours
and
mine.
Diana Terrill Clark
Gorgeous Fib, Diana…and done so well in the Bard’s voice.
Fibonacci sonnet… nice!
Beautiful, Diana!
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,
Me
.
Sweet
Nice wordplay!
Struck
(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:
http://poeticbloomings.com/2013/02/13/in-form-poet-wednesday-ovillejo/
LOVEly, De.
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
AT THE SENIOR CENTER
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!
Lovely poem, Taylor.
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.
That is beautiful, kind of sad, but beautiful.
Thanks – that’s exactly what I was aiming for. I’m not much of a poet but every now and then the muse will strike.
Reads as lyrically as a song
I tend to sing poetry instead of read it – even when I’m composing. Guess that bleeds through to the paper, huh?
This is achingly sad, but wonderful.
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.
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.
Well done.
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.
Oh my …
So sweet – so aching – so loving …..
MARRIAGE ENCOUNTER
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.
Slap.
“Love is commitment,” I said.
Slap.
“Love is an open palm, face up,” he said.
Slap.
“Love is walking hand in hand,” I said.
Slap.
Then the bug light went on overhead.
Our mother stood at the screen door.
“Love is paying attention,” she said.
Click.
Love it.
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.
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
I enjoyed reading this, it reminds me of Poe, my favorite.
Great read, Mystic. I agree with Lisa — very Poe-like.
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
Ah – a true Valentine – lovely
How wonderful that you discovered true love! Great poem.
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
I love this, raising grade school memories of my young insecure self, looking through the valentines that others were made to give, and I was made to receive. Lying to myself that they were true gifts to me and providing a smile in the lie, that was worth it.
Thank you Teever
I see you chose the same topic as I … grade school paper valentines. Funny how those memories plant so firmly in our minds.
I remember those days exactly as you wrote them. You took me back a long ways.
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
Hiding
In plain sight
Smiling on planted stick
Aww! How sad that it vanished! Great tradition, Pearl!
Robert – truly terrific poem –
Happy Valentine’s Day to all … will be back later…
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.
*
Terrific poem Laurie – brimming with all sorts of love and wisdom
Beautiful sentiment…those who think love is money more or less echo the sentiments satyrically put forth by Rand Newman in the song “It’s Money that I Love,” and particularly the verse:
They say that’s money
Can’t buy love in this world
But it’ll get you a half-pound of cocaine
And a sixteen-year old girl
And a great big long limousine
On a hot September night
Now that may not be love
But it is all right
Lennon and McCartney’s “Can’t Buy Me Love” always comes to my mind during such sentiments.
Laurie, your poem brought memories home, some past and some recent.
“realize love is more is having less.” YES.
Thanks for your kind words!