Category Archives: Love poem

NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 16: What I Do with Love Letters

 

What I Do with Love Letters
(Forbidden Love)

In them, I talk about his eyes.
What they say to me across the room.
His foot against my foot
under the table.
The rush of air as he walks by.
His body’s honest odor.
I can’t pull away,
he can’t look away.
And yet we do what is necessary.

When I write what I really want to say,
I stuff the pages in my shoes.
Limp over them.
Dance over them, too.
Let other gentle men
dance me over
songs of him.

 
I’ve folded him
a paper mouth
to house his tongue.
I want my words on his palate
where he can taste them
salty
fragrant
cheeks
gums
tongue.

I want his tongue to press
my words
against
my cheek,
tattoo them on my face
where I can see them in the mirror.

Instead, I fold them into origami castles,
set them on the sand,
hope the wind and seagulls free them
before beach squirrels
shred them
into their full cheeks
and carry them
to hidden burrows
in the hillside.

The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to write a letter in the form of a poem.  This poem is about love letters.

 

Racing Man

Version 2

Racing Man

I’ve parked you in my dreams
where you sit sputtering,
engine racing,
ready to be off
over the next hill
as always, reaching to release the parking brake,
adjusting the seat back,
never noticing the rear-vision mirror
is slightly off-kilter.

The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you.

Open Hand

jdbphoto2015

Open Hand

Wings held lightly without crushing
survive to join the world’s wild rushing,
while love held by a tight-clenched fist
quells half our reason to exist.

Some laud passions most rapacious—
grasping, volatile, tenacious;
but this is not the love I feel.
I do not seek to swoon or reel.

The tenacity of a skin tight glove
might stay my soaring to heights above.
I need your love like an open hand.
Not for me the wedding band.

The bond I seek from you, my dear,
is not the gauntlet that I fear
but rather, fingers whose sensations
are left free to life’s elations.

Butterflies kept in a jar
lose that beauty seen from afar.
That grace of movement caught on air
is what makes their beauty rare.

I love it when your arms enfold,
but if you love me, loose your hold.
The measure of my tenacity
is that I’ll come back to thee.

jdbphoto

The prompt word today was tenacious.

Purple Passion

IMG_2717

 

Purple Passion

My days of purple passion regrettably are over—
all those desktop gropings and rollings in the clover.
His need to perform publicly an act that should have been
romantically private? I was reluctant to back then.
But now that passion seems to be on permanent vacation.
We old gals get excitement by our over-lunch relation
of bygone tales of passion, in fact it is a blast
trading juicy tidbits as we share a light repast.
It seems that we get pleasure in sharing just a few
public recitations of what we were loath to do.

.

The prompt word today was purple.

When in Love

“Love Charms” mixed media assemblage, Judy Dykstra-Brown

When in Love

Life’s puzzles all seem solved when love makes you replete.
It  fills in all your caverns, making you complete.
No matter what the the time frame: a lifetime or a minute,
love is not an abstract when you’re firmly in it.

The prompt today was abstract.

The Reluctant Gardener

IMG_0802

The Reluctant Gardener

I note the nuance of your kissing
and intuit that I’ll soon be missing
even the last tiny spark
of what we once had in the dark
that, exposed to light of day,
has gradually seeped away.

The occult pleasure of new romance
should, when given half a chance,
bloom and flourish in the light
and with another, surely might.
But something’s absent in your heart
that forbids true love a start.

Some emptiness or darker need
is prone to killing commitment’s seed.
You dig new hole after new hole
with germination no final goal.
Whatever hopes you might have planted,
today you have clearly recanted.

 

The prompt today was nuance.

 

Desire

Version 2

Desire

All those nights of passion, those years spent in desire,
we were tightrope walkers, balanced on a wire.
We never knew from day-to-day which of us might fall.
Never knew for certain if we’d both be there at all.

Desire in the meadows under shelter of tall grass—
in our youth we never knew that it could pass.
We had it firmly tethered. It could not slip away.
It curled in loosened coils around us as we lay.

Desire in the morning or in the afternoon,
each time we fell into it, was over all too soon.
Then life leaked in to wash the passion from our day.
We balanced, raw and vulnerable, wishing it could stay.

Desire in the darkness was easier to hold.
Something in the shadows made us wild and bold.
But when the morning beckoned, we left each other for
all the business of the day that lurked outside our door.

Heartbeats built the passion that footsteps cruelly bore
away so pulses of the night became the stuff of lore
as our desires migrated into memories
just beyond our fingertips, too distant now to seize.

Note: If sung to the tune of Suzanne Vega’s “Gypsy,,” as per okcforgottenman’s suggestion, sing the following two-line chorus after every verse: (Anyone want to think up an original tune for this?)

Oh, tomorrow, wrapped up in today.
we never know the dreams that we will throw away.

 

The prompt today was desire.