If I were God
I would make new stars
to light your way
and name new constellations after you.
If I were God
I would set a full, bright moon
high in the sky
so you could bathe your luminous self
in clear, soft moonlight.
If I were God
I would dream of being just human
so I could nestle in your arms
while we name the stars
and trace the paths of the constellations.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
When you read through my poems
you may think
Why so many love-poems?
Is there nothing else going on in the world?
Why have you not written anything
more profound
more trenchant
more aware of the human condition
or at least interesting enough
to warrant re-reading through the ages?
Thousands of years later people still read Sappho.
Wouldn't you like something like that?
Well, you know what they say:
Write what you know.
Love
is what I know.
All of my poems are love-poems.
Even my nature poems
even my austere poems about cold, clear snow
are love poems
for if the topic
the subject
the inspiration
doesn't have a spark of passion
I won't be able to write about it.
Besides,
love-poems were good enough
for Sappho!
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
Snowflakes fall, heavy and thick,
silently kissing everything;
Like curious winged insects
they pause and flutter at my window.
The view from my window is you
looking back at me,
your cheeks like ripe apple-bites
red with cold, red like your bright scarf.
Like timid lovers
snowflakes kiss your eyes, your hair.
Would that I could, like the snow,
gently kiss you.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
Thinking of you
I imagine
the Sun creeping over the horizon
peeking in your window
and gently waking you
his long, warm fingers caressing your face
and delicately blushing your lips
I wish that I
like the Sun
could reach across the sky
to kiss you
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
We, after years,
run into each other in the deli
you with your children,
I with none,
exchanging pleasantries
and introductions
and effusive promises to keep in touch.
You tell me about your burgeoning family,
but I do not hear you --
your voice is a static of statistics:
ages, birthdates, soccer victories, grade point averages...
As you talk
all I can think about
is the pale blush of your *******
and the little row of sweet kisses
I left between them
so long ago.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC