Tag Archives: first love

First Love


First Love

That frisson of excitement that I once knew so well—
that doubling of my pulse rate that rang me like a bell.
Back when there was no contest over which would win
when impulse clashed with custom. Back when passion was no sin.
The sum of all that feeling sent us crashing into life—
before you were a husband, before I was a wife.

Remember how exciting those first love wanderings were?
Those first stirrings of passion that made us stretch and purr
like felines on that blanket stretched out on the grass?
Our love was a religion and each touch a holy mass.
Our loving was eternal up until the time we parted
and each became a memory of when loving first started.

Prompts today are sum, double, frisson and contest.

Courtships Gone Amiss

Courtships Gone Amiss

How the young men do persist
in their endeavors towards a tryst
and how the young girls do resist.
The young men dream and make a list
of girls most likely to be kissed,
but the outcomes all consist
of more entreaties to desist—
of “No’s” indubitably hissed.

As their crude demands are dissed,
the young men rage. They make a fist.
Some feel defeated, others pissed
at opportunities they’ve missed.
They simply do not get the gist
of what the dreams of girls consist.
A girl wants flowers, moonlight, mist,
a prom corsage around her wrist.

Wooing comes first, the girls insist.
They want their romance with a twist!



First Passion

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First Passion

Do you remember
those nights we were transported
by the music we made?
It was a symphony
that resonates through my life
even now.
Reverberating, deep and full
in my memory.






Ending Chapters

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Ending Chapters

When you came into my life, you entered so serenely.
How could I have known that you would exit so obscenely?
In our twenties, back when we were all consumed by lechery,
still, you were the only one who spiced it up with treachery.
Before your sweet elixir turned into bitter pill,
oh my dear, when love was new, what a delicious thrill.
I succumbed to all your kisses, swooned at your good looks.
Such a wild departure from chalk dust and from books.
That is what we all believed those single years were for.
Whatever sweet nights yielded, we always wanted more.
But then rude sanity stepped in to alter all our gladness.
A crazy sort of love might be revealed as simple madness.
So many novice lovers, guided by our lust—
all our romantic love stories have faded into dust.


The prompt words were serenely and treacherous. Here are the links:


Hot Virginity

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Hot Virginity

I must have said no a hundred thousand times
as we enacted first-love’s mimes.
Parked breath-heavy in the summer night,
how we would tongue and rub and bite
at those cloth boundaries as, at love’s height,
he asked if we might,
whereas I, preferring passion’s flight,
turned on the light.


Fandango’s prompt today was memory.

First Love’s Sting





First Love’s Sting 

How deep the piercing, how sharp the sting
once young love starts to lose its bling.
Hearts start to stutter that used to sing.
You aren’t his princess, he’s not your king.
Your broken heart, trapped in a sling,
cannot follow when he takes wing,
taking with him everything.

No veil, no vows, no rice, no ring.
What passed for love was just a fling.
The love you thought would always cling
ripped cruelly with his exiting.
Your song of starlight, love and spring,
alas, was just a passing thing.
You’re left with “. . . . jada jing jing jing.”

No symphony, but just a ditty.
So goes first love, dear.  Such a pity.


The prompt yesterday was sting, but since the link still doesn’t work, let’s just say

sometimes, love doesn’t turn out to be as glorious as we might have wished.

First Lust


 jdbphotos (Click on any photo to enlarge all)

First Lust

When we were young, before love rusted,
how we pined and how we lusted.
We lived on love. So sure. Nonplussed.
As though we held a deed of trust
on those we kissed. We arched, they thrust,
our hearts pounding as though percussed.

We came home rumpled, dizzy, mussed—
our heads swirling, slightly concussed.
Our mothers warned. Our fathers fussed,
seeking to turn our dreams to dust.
Our hearts reeling in shamed disgust,
our faces flamed as they discussed.

And although we thought we must
pretend to listen, inside we cussed,
knowing their words to be unjust.
Within each throbbing teenage bust
beat a heart free of distrust,
bursting with love’s wanderlust.

Back there at our very starts,
as we were learning to use our hearts,
back when we thought they might combust,
our hearts were tender, without crust.
We gave them fully with no mistrust.
We thought the world of love was just.



The prompt word today was lust.

First Love and the School Reunion

Then and Now

First Love

Zing! went our heartstrings. Zang! went our souls.
Eyes filled with wonder, hearts cupped like bowls
ready to fill  with passion and love.
Putting each other on like a glove.

First kisses miracles we’d never known.
No longer single all on our own.
Someone to cuddle, someone to spoon.
Hand holds and lip locks over too soon.

Misunderstandings, squabbles and fights.
Heartbreak and lonely Saturday nights.
Then a new glance from cars “U”ing  main.
Flirting and wooing all over again.

More hugs and kisses parked on a hill.
How to forget them? We never will.
At school reunions, we relive those lives,
husbands beside us, or boyfriends or wives.

Talking of other things: study halls, games,
but always remembering carving those names
in desktops and memory—first loves forever—
tendrils that bind us that we cannot sever.

We’ll soar ahead to the rest of our lives,
collecting new memories—bees in our hives.
But no honey finer than that we made first.
No sweeter lips and no stronger thirst.

Stored in our hearts, remembered but hidden,
hoarded like treasures sealed in a midden,
our lives are made richer by both now and then.
Past memories opening over again

spill out old secrets, then seal them away
to be unwrapped on some future day
when old schoolmates meet for two days’ reminiscing
of school pranks and ballgames and homework. And kissing.


The prompt word today was “Zing.”

The Combiners (Entire Poem)

At Irene’s request, I am publishing the poem that I published the ending to yesterday in its entirety today.  Audrey and Betty–you may not want to read this one!

Combine (1)

The Combiners

They used to roll in mile-long parades
down the two-lane highway that led to our town–
big trucks carrying bigger combines,
like mothers still carrying their much-too-large sons.

Once we followed a string of twenty combines
for fifty miles—
Passing them all an impossibility,
as much for their sheer numbers
as for the almost constant tourist traffic
in the oncoming lane.
When the caravan pulled off the road at last,
sixty cars squealed by, accelerating.
From opened windows, fists were raised,
and not in solidarity.

They ringed the football field,
parking far out against the fence
like floats after a homecoming parade.
In an inner ring, camping trailers, cars and pickups
With license plates from Kansas or from Oklahoma,
drew into a not-much-smaller circle,
like wagons protecting themselves
from a too-easy invasion of natives.

The next morning, the combines
and most of the cars and trucks
pulled out,
leaving the trailers like war brides behind them
as men and machines moved out to the land
to bring in the harvest
before the hail or rain hit.

These machine monsters
Were not the air-conditioned luxury cruisers
of today, but the dusty, scratched, hot,
wheat chaff-blanketed, insect-filled,
open-to-the-one-hundred-degree air
combines of the fifties.

Each summer in July,
when these droves of men and boys
came northwest
from Kansas and Oklahoma,
we were told by our mothers to
stay away from the school football field
for the weeks of the harvest,
to stay away from the boys
in the downtown cafes
and the movie theaters
and the weekend dances.
Especially, to stay away from boys
in pickups or in cars
with out-of-state license plates
as they “U’d” main on Saturday night.
To stay away from their soft southern drawling voices
and their sun-baked work-hardened hands
and the tanned sinews of their arms.
Away from their breath
and their eyes,
their slow smiles
and their syrup voices.

These same boys we came to know
as shy farm boys
or college students
earning tuition with a summer job,
were dangerous in the minds of our mothers,
who either remembered
magnetic strangers of their own
or knew the dangers in the way of small towns:
by watching the lives of others.

Our fathers’ memories
of teenage yearnings
or present urges, fulfilled or unfulfilled,
swelled their minds with possibilities as well;
but fathers didn’t talk to daughters about such things.
The mothers were their buffers and their adjutants,
and so the fathers watched and mothers warned
the day the combiners came to town, plague or gift,
to camp in their Airstreams in the high school football field.

What better gift could be brought to a teenaged girl
In a prairie town of 700 people?
It was a treeless, riverless, lakeless town
sixty miles from nowhere.
A town where most of the boys went home
right after football practice
or basketball practice
or track.
Where on weekends they shot rats at the city dump.
Where in the summers, they worked
on their dads’ farms
And barely came to town at all.
A town where my particular age group of boys–
five of them in a class of fifteen–
were all late bloomers when it came to girls
and who even when they did bloom in their senior year,
didn’t date us,
but dated, instead,
freshman girls who made them feel secure.
What better gift, then, could be brought to us
than Oklahoma boys, soft-speaking, tanned and dangerous?

There were three restaurants in our town–
two for locals, one
for tourists and special occasions–
And in all three,
the majority of waitresses
were high school girls.
It was here that we came to know their
soft-drawl voices as they ordered,
sly-shy smiles when we filled their tea glasses,
the bump of their tanned knuckles against our wrists
as they took the ketchup bottle.
Here, our mothers could not insulate us from
the clean smell of their after-work showers
and the scent of wheat chaff lingering under it,
their tanned arms and their tanned faces,
their foreignness and their taboo charm.

The dances in Vivian, 40 miles away,
started at 10, when the shows let out,
and ended at 1:30.
There were kids from all the high schools
for 60 miles around.
The drinking dads of some of my school friends went there,
and college kids,
guys from Pierre–the biggest town we knew–
as well as from Presho and Kennebec and Chamberlain.
These dances in the town gym were famous.
Only sodapop or coffee were sold at the concession stand,
but drinking went on in cars
and in the bar down the street,
before, during and after.

The summer I was sixteen,
sneaking a smoke in the parking lot before the dance,
we noticed the pickups with the out-of-state license plates.
This was a first for us–
an extension of the neutral ground of restaurants.
Later, inside, we saw them dancing with the Vivian girls.
Each of us felt like we owned a particular combiner
that we’d noticed on the street or,
more likely, in some cafe,
so that their dancing with Vivian girls
seemed to us an infidelity
that we might or might not forgive them for.

I saw him first on the bleachers
on the other side of the floor.
As dancers came together and parted,
I saw him and then didn’t see him.
After the music stopped, I craned my neck
around the legs that stood in front of me,
trying to see him across the cleared dance floor.

Then the voice at the top of the legs
asked me to dance, and I looked up–at him.
Feeling uncertain, wicked and wild,
I answered yes.

I’d served him once or twice
at Restaurant 16–
that highway-fronting restaurant
as exotic as its name.
I knew he was working the Weston place
with an outfit my dad had never used.
He liked his steak well-done,
French dressing, no tomatoes.
Butterscotch sundaes made him cough.
Over the water pitcher and order pad,
we had traded a look or two.
I knew he wore Old Spice
and drank Cokes with breakfast,
but I didn’t know his name.

When we got to the dance floor,
he took my hand,
put his other hand on my damp waist.
It was a slow dance and the night was hot.
The dance was work.
I was awkward–too inhibited to get as intimate
as following in dancing requires.
Over the music, we tried to shout our names,
tried to find a mutual rhythm,
finally giving up both endeavors
to dance the slow song, untouching,
moving our arms in fast song 60’s style
to the slow song rhythms.

When the music stopped,
he walked me back again
to the bleacher
he had plucked me from,
reinserted me into the correct space in the line of girls,
smiled, and walked away.

My friends closed around me
like a sensitive plant
to hear the news.
I watched his back,
blue short-sleeved shirt,
his pressed Levis
and his cowboy boots.
I watched the Oklahoma swing of his hips–
danger on the hoof.
He wouldn’t ask me to dance again,
yet, his sun-blackened arms,so finely muscled,
had held me for a minute or two.
His bleached blue eyes
had seen something of worth in me.
He had asked my name, touched my waist,
and walked me off the dance floor.
And, since this was as spicy
as any of our stories would likely be
all summer long,
I turned to my friends to tell the tale.

I definitely think this suits today’s prompt:  https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/take-a-chance-on-me/