Archive | Love

A Love Poem

Come my love and take my hand. We are
each other’s paths to ourselves.
Alike in our long endured loneliness;

you a business man of disciplined
seriousness and I an artist and teacher
spinning dreams and rainbows.

The darkness of the soul has passed.
Longing, sacred and ritualistic,
mingles with wild moments of giddy joyfulness.

Because we are still growing and changing,
our love has undefined edges
and hinges yet clearly lights the way.

We now have something meaningful
to share in this newness together, and
find the attraction is in the surprise.

Come my love, take my hand and sing,
fall, winter, spring and summer –
our forever is now.

– Elizabeth Bayless Johnstone

Reunion

From the golden grounds beyond earth’s bounds
My love returned to me.
We didn’t speak as I laid my cheek
On his shoulder tenderly,
But the long lost dearness of his sweet nearness
Wrought a wondrous alchemy,
And the pent-up flood coursed through my blood
In a torrent of ecstasy.

As the ice jam’s break on the frozen lake
Sets the surging waters free,
Love in barrenness, joy in emptiness
Over spilled in me.
As molten gold fills an empty mould,
So my hollowness was filled,
And the frozen ocean of love’s emotion
Was no longer stilled.

Though sweet our meeting, dreams are fleeting,
And winter must needs return.
To be loved forever, to be parted never,
Such heaven I oft-times yearn.

P Rosemary Brown

Speak Low as You Speak Love

On that hill in Indiana
when the old car stalled and Papa, resigned,
climbed out to discover why – while we children
tumbled about impatient and clamorous;
on that hill, did I begin to register love’s complexity,
glimpse its sometime divisive loyalties?

When he was out the car, Mama murmured so low
(I may have been the only one to hear)
“He looks so tired – ”
as though she’d noticed only then our ‘now’,
after weeks of looking back to Belgium
and the ties of home – “so tired.”

Was it then I first recognized adult anxiety;
sensed dimly the pangs of her fear;
knew sorrow in the lines of his body
as he worked to fix one more failed thing –
my war-shaped father; mostly merry,
until the next “Great War” loomed dead ahead.

And here we were in Indiana,
far from war-threatened shores;
Papa hopeful, Mama looking back in tears
to the receding security of the familiar.
Did I learn then that the unspoken
informs more searingly than words?

I was newly eight.

Years later, living out long-widowed years alone,
save for children’s visits from afar,
did Mama ever recall that moment on the hill?

I never spoke of it.

– Gabrielle Traxler

Prom Night to Golden Anniversary

Soft strains of Stardust drifted through spring air,
You’d brought a rose for twining in my hair
At intermission. Fireflies winked and danced
Along the pathway where we walked – entranced.
Only the moon observed our twilight tryst,
His gentle smile approved when first we kissed.
You felt the magic too – the certainty –
That love enfolded us – our destiny.
It seems like only yesterday – but no –
It happened half a century ago!

– Madolyn Berry

Lamb of God

In memory of Agnes Sunderland

Watching the news from Israel, I think of you,
smoking yourself to an early death, cigarettes
doing what the Nazis couldn’t.

Our first meeting in a classroom:
you walked in and sat beside me,
elegantly dressed, a bright scarf flamboyantly
twisting around your neck.

It was hot: the rest of us wore shorts and sleeveless shirts,
fanning ourselves with the papers in front of us.
All that hot autumn you kept your jacket on,
nipping out now and then for a puff,
returning to argue once more
with passionate intolerance against
the injustices of our time.

Not until years later,
strolling through the fields close to the farm,
did you roll up your sleeve and show me
the number branded on your arm.
“A present from Auschwitz,” you said.

Even twenty five years after your death,
still in my head I hear your throaty laugh.

– Oonagh Berry

Under an Opal Moon

Under an opal moon,
The music of a guitar,
A bowl of oranges, and
The soft stillness
Of the garden.
In the shadows
The old alchemist
Turns leaden thoughts
Into drops of gold,
And your disappearance
Becomes a harbour
For silent ships
And calm thoughts,
Of long journeys
Through the seas
Of the mind, in
A white ship, steered
By the stars.
Your hair
Blowing in the wind.

– Stephen Threlkeld

Come Kiss me, Says Adam to Eve

Traipse with me, says Eve to Adam.
They traipse and they kiss under the maple tree.

Come dip with me, says Adam to Eve
She dips and she coddles and they nudge
And they dive under the water narcissus.

I’m going to the moon, says Eve to Adam.
I’ll come with you, says Adam to Eve.
Not if I don’t want you to, says she.

Come sleep with me, says Adam to Eve.
I can’t hear you-ou-o, she shouts from the moon.
I’m he-e-re over the rainbow for a wh-i-i-le, says she.

Come dance and traipse with me, says Eve to Adam.
Why now? says he from his shade under the apple tree.
You didn’t think of me when prancing in space, says he.

They jump and they frolic to a tuneless sea
The water is too rough, they don’t dive in
They hear the call of the beluga from a distant shore.

They traipse & they kiss to the music of a silent sea.

– Soraya Erian

Concealment

We hide deep emotion,
secrete vulnerability.
Access to our soul
must not be allowed.

We disguise devotion;
laugh it away as nonsense.
Do not confuse it
with true steadfastness.

We camouflage all friendship
as obliging alliance;
frightened to stripmine
the veneer of self.

And when it comes to LOVE,
we lock it in the remote
corners of our heart,
feigning its presence.

Lest our mask be removed.

– Albert Busendorfer

Didi

Didi, you sweet ol’ thing
To step right up at meeting
And kiss me warmly on the neck
Breaking down my resistance
To your silent charm.

That first kiss held a promise.
I liked you too.
You’re shorter than I am
And I’m not tall
But I’ve never cared about brawn.

Bare feet and shaggy hair all grey
And that dangly thing
You wear around your neck
Appeals to the Bohemian in me
Tell me you’re not too old for love!

I liked your spontaneity.
I didn’t grow up with hugs and kisses.
I’m a little shy with men,
Even been called a prude.
But you’re sure to understand.

Your love is so pure
And unconditional.
Teach me to love like you.
You can show me how, you know,
Because
You’re a dog.

– Elizabeth Quan

The Wind’s Shadow

Thank you George MacDonald

From the Back of the Wind
to the Front of the Day
From the Heart Beat of Pain
to the steady Always
is a long, lonely journey.
Yet,
then,
still,
Love claims us
commands us
demands that we hear.
Demands
You are Loved
By those imperfect, near,
By the Perfect, far.
Rejoice!
For You Are.

– Sandra Seaton Michel

The stakes are high

The stakes are high,
and it is not money we seek.
It is a side arm of love,
of which we so desperately speak.

– John Amsterdam

Empty Spaces

I learned to love empty spaces
quiet times in my heart
old wounds healed
love lives there

silence between the notes
quiet times in my heart
filled with shining darkness
love lives there

dawn’s hush before birdsong
quiet times in my heart
dew moistens the earth
love lives there

sunlight weaves the curtains
quiet times in my heart
dark clouds bring change
love lives there

exhaling after a good cry
quiet times in my heart
laughter bubbles up
love lives there

evening breezes caress me
quiet times in my heart
birdsong tucks in the day
love lives there

sunset dances with my spirit
quiet times in my heart
Morpheus waits in the wings
love lives there

– Pauline Winkle

Mary’s Smile

I had entered the dining room from the hall.
The tables were lined with carefully coiffed and sculpted hair,
Fresh from the salon, mostly bright white,
with a sprinkling of artificial reds.
Underneath, the minds were dulled.
Some chairs had arms and wheels.
Absent the voices and activities of the staff,
The room would have been quiet.
A very patient aide coaxed an occasional small spoon of food,
Or sip of Ensure, into Mary’s mouth.

From a distance she saw me,
And suddenly her face lit up the room.

– Elmer Billman

Old Valentine

To Beloved Shirley, My Wife of 64 Years

While winter’s winds refrigerate my frame
My eyes imbibe your spirit’s warming glow
So even if a swirling blizzard came
I’d feel no chill from falling flakes of snow.

The sun, far south and somewhat wan and cool
Draws back its rays in which I love to bask
But still your spirit’s like a tropic pool
Refreshment is its pleasure-giving task.

The trees stretch branches bare into the cold
Tracing webbings lacy in the sky
In Spring new leaves and blossoms will unfold
Nurtured by your spirit reaching high.

Your spirit is my flag freshly unfurled.
Old Valentine! How new you make my world!

– Irving Leos

I would like to gather some kindling wood

I would like to gather some kindling wood
Sprightly, orangey, its dried pearly poignant
Sap clinging to my hands
Make a neat pile in a wood clearing
Light it and throw in your old clothes
The torn jeans, shrunken shirts, stained sweaters
And watch them go up in flames
With a pyromaniac’s delight
Then I would dress you in a shirt
Not white
But in the moon shade of a pale rose
Its pristine folds sprinkled with evening dew
Gradually turning crimson by the setting sun

– Fredericka Barker

One and One are One

Body heat
sears my skin
melds us fast –
me to him
into night
lover’s flight
till we peel
limb by limb
he from me
me from him
each to reach
best we may
separate selves
born with day.

– Sandy Wicker

Illusion

“It’s never too early
for the fish to bite.”
With that bit of philosophy,
he had pecked my cheek,
gathered up pole and tackle box,
and headed into gray dawn
to the far end of the dock.

I am content to remain
on the cabin porch,
warm mug in hand,
sipping coffee
and gazing out
where he now sits, pole in hand,
so intent he is motionless.

Maybe he, too, is thinking
of his upcoming surgery.
Minor, they say,
“They” who will not experience
the incision.

That’s why we came here –
to enjoy time together,
do things that will be put on hold
until recovery is complete.

Absorbed,
I fail to notice the sunrise,
its reflection a blinding glare
on the rippling water.

Suddenly,
this man I am watching,
his pole, chair, and all,
are nothing more than silhouette –
black, paper thin.

Coffee splashes
as I abandon mug
hurry to check
if the fish are biting.

– Betty J Van Ochten

Thirst

The thirst you awakened in me
From long time slumber
Now cries for quenching.
Small sips regularly given
Would perhaps suffice;
In fact, I believe I’d flourish.
But the fragrance of joy would fill the air,
From big blossoms of lavender or blue
Or even your favorite hue,
If you would fill my cup.

– Ruth E Chappell