I am . . .

labeled Taurus by sun,
emerald green by hue.
Fire and earth,
my elements.
1947,
year of the pig.

All this I am told.
All this I read . . . and ignore.
You are my mirror.
In you, my reflection
has no labels,
no boundaries.

You release me,
you always have.
I suspect
you always will.
Stalwart, loving,
supportive, accepting.

Together,
two individuals
side by side,
in sync.
Two harmonious melodies
with unique time signatures.

Two strong vines,
you and I, intertwined.
We blossom sans labels,
sans categorizing systems.
We soar in harmony,
Zodiac be damned.

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Amaya is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider cosmology, the various systems that define us by elements, astrology, etc. Image is from a family album of geneology I am creating. That is my writing…and this is actually a page from my father’s desk calendar, ripped out the day I was born; laminated, and carried by him in his wallet until the day he died. He had another one from the day my brother was born. That small block printing “LILLIAN” below the calendar, is his handwriting. A draftsman, he always wrote in block print.

 

You are my touchstone . . .

You were my honey mine,
sipping bubblicious.
Feeling passions quake
in hot and youthful ardor.

You proposed with golden band
rich in love, but not in funds.
Hearts expanded, two to four,
those we called our wonder years.

Till suddenly we caught our breath,
their childhood gone, somehow over.
Watch we did as they left home,
amazed were we, as two again.

Seasons passed and reappeared
our path ahead, much shorter now.
But kisses still doth kindle joy
for you and I, our love defined.

Love divine, a decoupage
years layered upon years.
Passion flows through comfort,
your skin next to mine
love within familiar folds.

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Sarah hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She is thinking about all the computer games that occupy so much time of some people. She asks us to choose three games from among those in a list she provides; and use those three names in our poem. I selected the games Honey Mine, Quake, and Overwatch – the latter split between two lines in stanza 3. Photo is taken at Pilgrims First Landing Park in Provincetown, MA. Most folks don’t know the pilgrims first landed in Provincetown but did not find it to their liking and went on to Plymouth. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time: come join us! 

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.