What I Talk About When I Talk About Love

Write what you know, all the experts say.
But my level of knowledge, let alone understanding,
of the subject at hand is about as low as
one can feel when you don’t feel any love.
Those fancy lovers (and lovers of letters)
who believe they know all the ins and outs
of that “o” and “e”, all the angles of
that “L” and “V,” only know what they know.
Ya know?

Me? What I know of love could best be described,
though I’d never deign to proclaim “defined,”
as a mushy melange of obsession, possession,
with a strong dash of protection, chased by a swig
of rejection stirred with a sprig of depression.
And yet I write all these poems in which you
feel we are sharing a sense of that thing
I’ve never understood, but maybe felt once
or twice. I don’t know. I’ll leave that up to you,
my Love.

On Day 21 of the April Poem-a-Day promenade, I’ve been charged with writing a “love” poem or an “anti-love” poem. So be it. Here they are, all in one piece.

A Misformed Sonnet Personal of Interpersonal Sonic Dysfunction

I’m sure this line of thought is not the norm,
But I’ll never stop dreaming about your form.

Okay, it’s true, I’ve held other ones close.
That was just about trial and error,
just proving you’re the one for me, God knows.
See what we have in us…nothing’s rarer.

I love how your bottom’s a bit wider
than your top, which is quite ample enough.
And though your waist is small, you’re a fighter.
The wrong finger on you, they’ll hear how tough.

If you’d listen, I’d say you’re my only,
my Hummingbird, my goddess, my North Star.
Held my hand through the times I was lonely.
Wish you were a woman, not a guitar.

Day 14’s prompt for this 30-step regime of daily poetry was for a “form or anti-form” poem. Now, if you’ve been around here for awhile, you know that I glommed onto the Shakespearean sonnet form when I lost (or lose) the capacity to write straight from my head. And, if you’ve been around longer, you’ll remember how I started writing poetry by penning haiku and senryu. So I go to that structural hug or challenge from a poetic form when I need to. Even if it makes me cringe a little. Now, just because I’m me, I decided to twist the prompt into a pretzel by turning the sonnet form upside down and writing about a form that isn’t what it seems. Or maybe you guessed.

The Tender Trap

She fogged the crosshairs of my mind.
the first time that I sighted her.
I confessed to my journal, blue-lined,
“All but she’s an unlighted blur.”

Yes, I chased her, though never stalked;
even I knew that was creepy.
Finally she stopped and we talked,
then hunter became prey, completely.

I’m told this happens ev’ry Spring
when testosterone runs like sap.
Guy’s lose their minds, hear angels sing.
Little do they know it’s a trap.

Mmmm, pheromones…was that a clang
rolling up my spine like a ghost?
Or was it an alarm bell rang,
warning “Sorry, brother. You’re toast”

Too late, she snared me something fierce.
And though it didn’t hurt at all.
Remember the words of Ambrose Bierce:
Their arms? It’s into their hands you fall.

On Day 6 of National Poetry Writing Month, a “trap” poem. Please forgive me, ladies.  The pretty words wouldn’t come today. At least not yet they haven’t.

A Touch of Love

It’s always been my secret,
now others must learn its ways.
Start using words like “egret,”
in conversation on the page.

I began this a decade back,
while I sat alone and lonely.
Imagination an empty sack,
I thought of you and said, “If only…”

Pulled apart by distance and time,
I couldn’t feel you if I tried.
So I called to you, not in rhyme,
but poetically I kind of lied.

Made-up stories, observations
of a somewhat intimate nature,
took the place of conversations,
all in my own nomenclature.

My words became more than my own,
since they touched others in some way.
But now it seems I’m not alone,
since we all have to keep away.

I suggest if you crave a touch,
and social distancing won’t let you,
write an ode, sonnet or some such
and see how close that’ll get you.

We’re in a new world, living apart,
wearing the mask and rubber glove.
But if you wish to reach a heart,
a poem can be a touch of love.

Day 1 of a stab at my annual Poetry Month poem-a-day quest.

Love In the Time of Corona

So…what if this time it’s really the end?
The time to say adios, good-bye, adieu.
If it is, then what better time to send
one more poem, my friend, to say thank you?

Isn’t it strange how many questions I ask
when it wasn’t answers I really needed?
See? Now there’s two more I add to the task
of figuring you out. Never succeeded.

You whispered at me so many secrets,
then pushed me away when I’d lean too close.
Now, I’ve caught so many of your regrets,
and never knew why it was me you chose.

So here’s the end. Not too close, should I sneeze.
Never mind, we were always each other’s disease.

Sorry for the extra beat at the end. Sometimes such things don’t have a suitable explanation. They just have to be. Let’s just hope it’s like an extra heartbeat. Be well, stay vigilant, and know I’m always thinking of you as we each wait out whatever lies ahead. 

Always ~ Your Poet

I suppose I could try reaching out,
to inquire how you are.
I wonder about that too often,
more than from time to time.
But when I gather the courage
to extend my hand, I find my arms
grown shorter and my courage smaller
than they feel here in the dark.
But what if I could touch you?
Probably I’d feel your shoulder
twist away from this something
unexpected, unusual, unwanted.
So I send this soft bit of me with
unlimited reach, a near-anonymous
touch from my darkness to yours.
Hi, how are you? Thinking of you.
Always ~ Your Poet

The Virus

A sneeze from behind makes people cringe and turn
to see what culprit’s spreading the disease.
They’ve yet to call at night for dead to burn,
but just wait ’til we’ve more fatalities.

We ‘Mericans think we’re super powered
to fend off almost any aggressor.
But lately our record with wee foes has soured,
or haven’t you noticed that, Professor?

Now comes the smallest we’ve faced in a while,
and folks worry about how serious.
Heed your doctors, they won’t jive you with guile;
just don’t listen to pols imperious.

Wash hands, cover coughs, it’s not just the flu.
So prepare, but don’t panic. I care ‘bout you.