i do not love you
words are not in abundance
i am not drawn to you
like birds migrating to
warmer heavens
i felt something brief,
my breath was caught
by love's noose,
but stranger things happen,
i do not love you,
because to love you
would be to become you,
to capsize like a boat,
submerging into red seas,
i do not love in small measures,
to do so would be worse
than blasphemy,
i feel for you,
but i do not love you,
i do not search for your
face in crowds,
i do not love in honesty,
only lies pounding
hoofs on loves ground.
i cannot love you,
because the taste of it is
strange in my mouth,
an unwanted flavour,
like sand and dust,
in the midst of something
that should be sweet.
i do not love you,
or i cannot love at all.

She echoes God's love,
Her blue orbs and golden hair,
Snatches away his breath.
But he could only admire,
As she was an angel,
And he a human.

i am starting to realize
that the more i write about you
the less and less i feel for you
drying you out, over and over
with each word and letter
and maybe this is my sense
of finding closure
because you would never give me any
and i feel my fingers
are done spilling over for you
perhaps not as frequently, but never again
and you can stop haunting me and making me feel bad
i think at last, you've become a stranger to me
and i could not be more happy at the thought
of you no longer plaguing my writing
(i learned to let you go
on my own)

I was born twice
On the same date of the same month
With just a gap of forty years
First accidentally and then chose to

Twelfth in the count,
Not a meticulous plan; it just happened
"More the merrier, give wind its wings"
Said the rain soaked August night

When I was born first
I could not choose the date or time
Neither what to bring on or take away
It just happened, with a resounding cry

First, I was born into a house
As a son, with a mom and a papa
As a brother with sisters and brothers
Everyone felt happy and shared sweets

Then, without a death or a reincarnation
I took another birth after those forty years
I chose the same date to birth,
Control+Alt+Delete, the keys functioned

Then, I was born out of the house
Without a mom and a dad
Without a brother or a sister
Without joy or even a cry

Is there anything more wonderful
Then being part of the poet’s corner?
Lucky am I to be a poetry lover!
A romance novelist used poetry to ponder
A story that changes and transforms
One’s heart.  Is there anything more wonderful?
Joining a poetry site, I blundered
My way to writing a poem, oh what torture!
But lucky am I to be a poetry lover.
Many offered their support, allowing me to discover
My path and slowly my writing became stronger.
Is there anything more wonderful?
So many inspired awe and wonder,
Giving me strength to claim my own corner,
Justifying my becoming a poetry lover.
To those who offered encouragement so tender
I offer my thanks and give honor.
Is there anything more wonderful
Than becoming a poetry lover?*

Kelly Rose
December 29, 2015

New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain made her
     a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in
     them and her hands were tough for work and there
     was passion for life in her womb.
She and her man crossed the ocean and the years that
     marked their faces saw them haggling with landlords
     and grocers while six children played on the stones
     and prowled in the garbage cans.
One child coughed its lungs away, two more have adenoids
     and can neither talk nor run like their mother,
     one is in jail, two have jobs in a box factory
And as they fold the pasteboard, they wonder what the
     wishing is and the wistful glory in them that flutters
     faintly when the glimmer of spring comes on
     the air or the green of summer turns brown:
They do not know it is the new-mown hay smell calling
     and the wind of the plain praying for them to come
     back and take hold of life again with tough hands
     and with passion.