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He speaks words
that melts my heart
like the fire burning in a Christmas furnace
which releases hope in every spark.

He speaks words
that dance together
on the music of his heartbeat,
on the stage of mt heart.
So with every word he speaks,
I come alive.

He speaks words that spark joy
like the firecrackers on a black windy night.
like the daffodils, Wordsworth talked about.
So every time he speaks
my heart does not skip a beat
But rather doubles it.

He speaks words
that I have never heard
Like the retro songs, no one recalls
And are yer loved by all.
So nostalgia makes me sing his words.

He speaks words
that I like to hear
as a morning song or night tale.
So when he speaks I sink in his stories
of how he wants us to be.

He speaks words
that kiss each other
with love in the consonants
and passion in every vowel
Just like how he kissed me
when I told him I love him.

He speaks words
that belongs to me
Every sentence he speaks
I call mine,
like every inch of his body.

He speaks words
that have poems written on them.
Written but never read.
So every word he speaks
I keep in my heart
like I do to him.
 Nov 2019 Lou Romano
The rabbit
 Nov 2019 Lou Romano
The lazy autumn afternoon,
No one is here, I should talk to whom?

Sitting beneath the tree,
leaves and flowers falling free.

A girl walks in and sat on the grass,
flowy white shirt and floral pink top.

Oh my, those kind Eyes,
her hair flows when the wind blows and rise.

A White rabbit comes and she pets his head,
he too starts playing around like it is his own a bed.

I Look at the girl she is so pretty,
full of love innocence and inner beauty.

She keeps playing,
and the rabbit is swaying.

I look at her from far,
with the door ajar.

I want to go to her and start talking,
suddenly the rabbit starts hopping.

And she runs behind, to catch him,
jumping and then gone in a blim.

Only for her to stay and watch him go.

I stay there watching them all go, the way I have watched everything to go and never come back to me.
 Nov 2019 Lou Romano
Whit Howland
We must
capture it all
before it disappears

these frothing waves
rumbling and rolling
onto shore

the clouds
that stamp and snort
and groan like restless bulls

the sun
despite the jeers and sneers
punches through the veil of nimbus puffs

and the wind
that billows sails
and drives the hulls of many tiny boats

so much raw power
so much clay and paint
and yet so little time

© Whit Howland 2019
A word illustration with a straight forward message.
 Nov 2019 Lou Romano
I must admit:
I am unwilling to give
even a hint of consideration
to the thought of being anything,
anyone other than that brilliant,
briefly lit comet,
hurtling toward home.

It matters not
where I land,
or who takes pictures from the ground.

This is only a trip.
This is just a ride.
So fleeting, so fiery,
that you wouldn't want to pause to wonder
what you look like up there,
or else you might miss
the very things that make
your fires unforgettable
and your blast burn true.

— The End —