Love Unwrapped

There is vulnerability
in unconditional love.
Sensual giving,
baring our souls.
We commune
in tonight’s passion
and tomorrow’s mundane.
We are,
as love is.

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Anmol (HA) is guest hosting at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to explore desire and sexuality in poetry – and to write about desire and identity. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time…come join us!

Fashion Forward

Hats . . .
so many in a lifetime
exchanged with curves in road.
Strapped on through squalls,
gently worn on balmy days
stored on shelf when out of style.

Mother-hat,
adjustable as needed
blessed to wear.
Daugher-sister hats
occasions departed,
retired too soon.

Yourlove-hat
once perky, so with-the-times
never veiled.
Labelled vintage now
slightly creased with age,
worn with gentle smile.

Yourlove always,
shining in my mirror.

 

Thank You

You are harborrific.
When squalls appear,
dark clouds that threaten hope
creating an eclipse hard to swallow,
you are my comfort place.

I love our passion.
But mostly . . .

I love lying beside you.
Our hand-touching-hand
breath-slowing-to-sleep
end-of-day soothing, calming
togetherness time.

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I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, I’m asking folks to consider the word harbor. Use harbor or a form of the word in your quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). I’m looking for harborlicious poems — taking a bite of poetic license with the word is allowed — as long as we see the word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Moon Dipping

Soaking in a creek,
she lingered in the cool moonlight
basking in luminescent shadows.
Clothes on rocks beside her
she imagined star glitter upon her brow,
pretended the soft breeze was her lover
and succumbed to the night.

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Written for Misky’s Twiglet # 89: “soaking in a creek”
A twiglet is a word or short phrase meant to motivate.

Garden’s Delight

He waited in the garden.
Their daily early tryst,
always morning glory.

Impatiens,
burning desire
bursting his bachelor buttons.

Dainty yellow lady slippers
softened her step
coming closer, closer still.

Beautiful bosom
draped in ivy,
touched by morning dew.

Primrose to many,
but he knew better.

Those swinging rosehips,
passion flower in disguise.

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Written for Misky’s twiglet # 88, “ivy draped.”  There are seven flowers mentioned in this poem, in addition to ivy. Can you find the all? A twiglet is a short phrase or word that is aimed to prompt.

Forsaken

‘Tis a bleeding heart she kneels to touch
twixt garden replete with anemones.

Tears fall, drenching red-lobed blossoms,
whilst silent sobs take leave from half-bent frame.

Loneliness stalks her vulnerability
as sun begins to fade and violet shades the sky.

Fragile moss roses shrink within themselves
having lost the rays of day.

Anguish struck, she sags at the sound
as wrought iron gate clangs shut.

Lover no more, their friendship spent,
mounted, he urges steed to faster speed.

Digs, indeed embeds, his silver spurs
into rippling sweating flanks.

He rushes, nay, he flees from her,
she ripe with unborn child

his seed within her womb.
Hapless garden waiting but to bloom.

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Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah hosts today, asking us to consider the language of flowers….a popular craze within the 19th century when writing was how people communicated over distance and time. Within a list she provides, Garden Anemones are equated with “forsaken.”  Trying my hand at a Victorian tone here. 

After Many Anniversaries

I have no need for mirrors
or overly affective words.
Aging is reality.
I need not be reminded
of it stealing time
elasticity and
dew-fresh skin.

But you, my love,
wrap me as if in gold,
caress my heart.
You hold my hand
and walk with me,
as if we are young love
now as then.

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Wrapping up our dVerse 7th anniversary week, Frank asks us to write a septet. It can be a single 7-line stanza or a poem with two or more 7-line stanzas. Image is one of my favorite Gustav Klimt works, The Kiss (from Wikipedia Commons). 

Scattergory Me . . .

. . . solitudinous people person
purposely pollyannish
collector of dear days
one man woman
circle of love rippled wide.

Color me
a waving turning sunflower
old-fashioned holly hock
dancing daffodil
never lily of the valley down.

Find me next season
on your darkest nights.
I shall be the newest star
east of that famous north one
or west . . .

you’ll find me
because you’ll understand,
even in death
my geography skills
will still be severely lacking

. . . but I promise,
I’ll be there.

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Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Amaya reminds us that last Thursday was the 199th anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth. She asks us to write a poem somewhat in the spirit of Whitman’s Song of Myself….something personal as in an ad to someone who knows us well…to meet us perhaps, at a later date. I should add, after rereading my poem here, I am healthy, well, happy and expect to live for many many more years! 

Love Despoiled

Oh, Henry! You’ve caught me
be-twix and be-tween.
Passion whet by champagne,
and Kit Kat Club ambience.
Desire kindled by kindness.
Your patience to consummate
pledge your troth, to wed
and only then to bed.

Until my evening gown mishap.
Bared breast revealed,
milky way to pale mounds
meant to share in nuptial bliss.
When moonlight shafts
soften look of aging skin,
light passion’s fire,
scorch through satin linens.

But shocked I am.
Your snickers, chuckles,
leering eyes, pupils wide.
Your lust apparent, unleashed.
Tongue swiftly swipes your lips
sweat beads drip down furrowed brow.
You, most definitely,
are not my Mr. Good Bar.

Fifth Avenue class and demeanor
slipped away as if a mask.
I see you now, the real you.
As far out of possibilities
as aliens from planet Mars.
Bar or not, I sand beside this stool,
proud woman, intelligent,
genteel and steeled.

Beware sir, I am not
a pay day or pay by night
loose female, giving on demand.
I am not that kind.
I thought you were different.
And so I leave you sir,
clutching cloth to breast
virture intact.

Self respect intact,
yesterday, today,
and through many morrows.
Until some partner shall appear,
unconditional love apparent.
And we shall reveal to one another
our feelings, wishes, and regrets.
Our every view into our very souls.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, and we’re brand name noodling! I’ve given folks three categories: candy bars, cereals, and perfumes. I’ve listed at least sixteen products in each category. Folks are to choose ONE category, and write a poem that includes at least TWO of the product names within that category. . . using them as just words in the poem. 

I’ve chosen to used the candy bar list: Oh, Henry!, Chuckles, Kit-Kat, Snickers, Milky Way, Mr. Goodbar, Mars Bar, 5th Avenue, Pay Day, Mounds, Twix, Charleston Chew, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Krackle, and 3 Muskateers. I used the first 11 in this poem.

AND HERE’s MY POST ON THE CEREAL LIST!

Midnight Lovers

Lips pressed to lips
hips to hips divinely so,
curtains flung wide.

Clouds pressed to moon,
beams flicker upon their bed.
Passion illuminated,
bodies melding move
like strobe light scene.

Muddled love,
pressed thru paroxysm
finally splays itself.
Breathing deeply,
hands clasped,
they sleep.

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It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. De is hosting and asks us to include the word “muddle” in our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). From the kitchen.com “Many warm weather cocktails us fresh ingredients such as herbs and fruit, and often muddling is reuired. To muddle means to press the ingredients agains the side of the glass. Muddling helps to release the flavors of the fresh ingredients so they bind with the alcohol.”