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 May 2018 Inqhawq
onlylovepoetry
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace

what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart  contents?

hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic

mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips

with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?

later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity

from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat

her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;

I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally

rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,

sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,

which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies


5/29/17 i
12:43pm
 Jun 2016 Inqhawq
mk
 Jun 2016 Inqhawq
mk
she was like the stars
long dead: but her light still shined galaxies away.
 Jun 2016 Inqhawq
Robert Ronnow
In a strong marriage, a long marriage
much cannot be said, should not be said.
The spots on one's skin will be wisely ignored.
Differences of opinion are tolerated, not debated.

Your memories may disappoint your partner
as not those she has selected, refracted.
Over dinner for two at the Mill on the Floss
it could be dangerous to compare wills, losses.

Or it might result in belly laughs, Shakespearean
revelations, the night he got us lost in the woods
or she peed her pants at a party. The marriage was Faustian,
in a good way, like going to a job in the Garden of Eden.

Having survived 25 years, knowing 50's impossible,
what else do we know? Raised 2 boys, painted 3 houses.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--for Peg on our 25th
 Jan 2016 Inqhawq
SøułSurvivør
off the roof  
like
rain  
from  
the
gutters
eaves
filling    
with
blue  
berry
ink
i    
taste    
the    
sweetness
on
the
warm  
tongue
of    
pages
before    
they

blow

away            
with                  
my                            
                      
breath                                  
.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/16/2016
 Jan 2016 Inqhawq
Lonnie Nichole
I skipped breakfast this morning.
My stomach is growling,
but I will not feed it.
There are ten fingers, two eyes, and one mouth that can satisfy this hunger.
There is only one form of starvation when you are near me.
I got busy on purpose and fasted you all week so that tonight I could ravish you.

Tip the teapot over my mug,
and spill your heart out into my hands.
I will keep the bits and pieces warm while you look for glue.
Stoicism.
I turned the heater up and put earmuffs on my head, because I am still undecided.
"I love you."
I think I love you too,
but I am not sure.

When my mug is empty,
fabric dances off of your skin and onto the carpet.
I am not sorry that you could not find the glue.
The floor likes your clothes a lot more than I do.
I ask to keep the earmuffs on and you only smile at me.
"I love you."
I choose to not hear it this time.
I am hungry, and I just want to be fed.
The Sensual Series
 Jan 2016 Inqhawq
Nightingale74
I try to find the words I want to say,
But they just won't come.
I want the things I feel, to be the things I write.
But the words won't come.

When I write a poem,
The words in my heart must be translated
Into a language
That can be both seen and heard.

But sometimes the translator gets stuck,
In trying to read
My deepest, truest emotions
Amongst the jumble of my thoughts.

And so now I'm stuck
With a plethora of locked-up feelings,
Yearning to be said.
And this is what they call, the writer's block.
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