Despite proposals along the way,
I never married again,
One was a transvestite, gay,
He did have better lingerie,
I turned him away,
I never saw him again,
I wear menswear, you see,
I would have been Bridezilla in fleece,
I guess that would have been a release,
Married in fleece, beyond belief...........

Can you really believe this?
Italian melons of steel got her kiss,
She latched on to the newsagent man,
Of Chinese culture, he was her fan,
They planned their weddings back to back,
Both bride and groom to wear basic black,
In multicultural Melbourne, anything's possible,
Buddhas as bombonieres, indeed quite probable,
Yes, melons of steel finally got her blip!
Can you really believe all this!!!!

The mists that part,
  By Bride's Day light,
Are mists between the worlds,
They open wide,
  The gates of night,
And allow things to pass both ways,
What died before,
  Comes forth once more,
The serpent's wings are spread,
On Hallow's Eve,
  That sacrifice,
Begins the year again,
Forth from the well,
  Between the worlds,
Scaled form returns once more,
A new year dawns,
  In dark moon light,
And all begins once more,
Upon her forge,
  New year is wrought,
By hammer and by flame,
The raven's call,
  The hope of all,
As she forges the year again,
Now the births,
  In springtime snows,
In cold and solemn moons,
Keeper of Ways,
  Builder of Paths,
Takes now the regency,
Misrule is done,
  That tide is turned,
Bride's Time has come again,
The Trouble Moon,
  It parts and passes,
The Lost Moon begins again.
And awakened now,
  The serpent old,
Begins a journey home,
As they open wide,
  The gates of night,
And allow things to pass both ways,
For the mists that part,
  By Bride's Day light,
Are mists between the worlds.
~Mists Between the Worlds, a Candlemas poem by Lorekeeper, February 3, 2017

Roses of pure enchantment rest in the hands of the bride.
The red of the petals matching the crimson lips,
where tongues and lies collide.
Where there is an eclipse of hearts and darkness has fallen,
each thorn will pierce true.
Hands so pale, hair so black;
a sickening beauty she tries to prove.
The trees surround her mystic display,
the air choking like a noose.
When the sunlight returns the shadows will creep,
my beauty there shall be no truce.
Her eyes the color of jade,
such as a black cat on Halloween.
The soul that lay behind them,
so lovely yet tainted, unclean.
Her body that of an hourglass,
but what happens when time runs out?
Each grain of sand, each faded memory;
will fall to the bottom no doubt.
Yet here you stand just inches away,
from the women that will cause your death.
No matter the place, when the bond is sealed,
my friend you’ll have nothing left.
Say your vows and exchange the kiss,
barely able to breathe.
She slips the poison into your glass,
you still think it’s meant to be.

She is a true blue living legend
displaying  many colors of love
there is no doubt about it,if only
you know where to look at.
But wait,in the way she expresses it
everything  would get reversed!
if one concludes she is demure,
think twice before deciding.
She did invent a new tongue
entirely of monosyllables!
write it in high  hieroglyphics
none could ever aspire to decipher.
Don't forget to take this fact in to account
in bed, she is a whirlwind
unlike  most Indian brides,
who wear shyness as an armour
tradition prescribes for brides.

Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 
sacrificially.

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.

As the brook babbles sweetly o'er the hedges
there is but one voice I hear.
It hums and sings, calling out solely
     for His Treasure and Bride
He has scattered love notes all around
Placing them on stems and sticks
Leaving them in the sky's warmth
And in its cool kiss.
He knows His Treasure and Bride.
Nothing escapes His watchful sight:
No thought, no feeling, no prayer.
He calls his most beloved by these two names.
One incomplete without the other.

He declares its value before all other kings.
There are no stones or metals more precious,
Rubies are not as rich, sapphires are not as scarce
Gold holds no comparison in His eyes.
As the King of kings, He takes the choicest of all that is valued.
So He calls the one He loves His Treasure.
He boasts in His Treasure.
Pure unlike anything else.
The voice that gives the Treasure its worth also declares its authority.

Yes, a worthy treasure, but more so a lovely Bride.
His beloved owns both titles.
If left as just a treasure, then it would be like all others.
He says his Treasure is more than an object.
Not a trophy gained from His most difficult battle.
One does not die for an object or possession.
He makes His treasure His Bride.
Their lives into one, a full union.
Worth beyond all other treasures and love surpassing anything else.
His Bride and Treasure.
Both are needed to see the one He loves through His eyes.
If only Bride, there may be question
As to His delight or devotion.
Yes, He could lay down His life,
But oh where is the joy?

Bride and Treasure.
Intimacy and delight.
Sacrifice and zeal.
His words etched into time.
Never to be moved.
Never to be doubted.
His love will last all of His days.

As His whispers waft in the breeze
His Love hears and knows that He beckons.
Purely to be, to exist, to commune
And in every moment, He reminds
Of how He found His Treasure and sold all He had
     to make her His Bride.

In a house
Near the loch
Awaits a bride
For her wedding day.
Soon her groom
Will take her hand.

Extending his hand,
At his father’s house,
Out reaches the groom
Toward the loch
Saying, “in a handful days
I will have my bride.”

Meanwhile the bride,
With her gentle hand,
Writes the day
On invitations in her house;
Sending thoughts across the loch
Toward her groom.

Simultaneously the groom
Thinks of his bride,
Receiving her thoughts from the loch.
His promise on her hand,
Hers is in his father’s house,
But he won't see it until the day.

In just a few short days
With his friends the groom
Will leave his father’s house
And await the bride
To take her hand
At the ceremony near the loch.

And in the city of the loch
Their lives most historic day
Will be when they take each other’s hands
And the groom
Will have his bride
And will make a home of their house.

But until then… Toward the loch the groom,
Awaiting the appointed day of his bride,
With lovesickness stretches his hand toward her house.

It's supposed to be joyful tune,
why then it sounds so sad?
No happiness in it,
more like a funeral march.

Look at the bride,
she is so upset, so down.
Oh my God! She's crying!
Does anyone here know why?

Look at her husband-to-be,
his eyes and his whole face, so dim,
something is wrong
with him.

Something beautiful  should begin
with tying the knot.
But there's nothing to start,
more likely to stop.  

The bride was about to make
a great escape, run away.
But her man was faster than her.
And the vicar was faster then her man.

It's supposed to be joyful tune,
why then it sounds so sad?
No happiness in it,
more like a funeral march.