I am thy bride; my husband, Lord, thou art;
And I doe crave the nuptuall embrace
Wherein wee'l intermingle face to face
And whereby hart exchanged is for hart:
Ravish thou, Lord, thy bride; I come apart
With eagernesse, and seeke to grasp apace
The grandest prize for which I ranne the race,
Running from there whereat I first did start.
Lord, thou art one; and also thou art three;
And when thou shalt thy bride embrace, then two
Shall be one fleshe, and every rendezvous
Thereafter be betwixt but thee and thee;
For I shall be no more when all that's of
My selfe is love in love with God, who's love.

Shall the sun not rise and fall on the morrow?
From dusk to dawn then recur?
But not is it praised, holy giver of life,
Almighty sovereign? Doth not shine like the eyes
Of thine lover, nor clasp thou mind like the smile.
And yet still the sun be deserving of such title?
Rather I, the embrace of the eighth then to ever be
Held by its rays, and would thy not? Hark! The delight
One feels at the simple touch of one's lips against thy lovers’
Outweighs with incomparable relish thou suns rays.
But in mind, the sun will rise and fall on the morrow.

Take that candle
from the step of the door,
for too much light is there
in these bed chambers
to which
your affection
I all but owe.
Would it be
so wrong to love
you in the dark?
Here,
there is nothing but soul to love.
When the face
and the body
are but planet to all
and I am left to love
double crossed sticks in the ground
what else will I adore?

So,
remove that metal plate
from the step of the door.
Let it melt away!
Take it's harsh light to tomorrow!
Leave me with today
in which
I shall love you more
with every inch of darkness
that buries this room
and lets my affection
sprout from within.

What makes a good poem?
Is it the rhythm? The structure? The carefully placed similes like dog treats and the restricted use of rhetorical questions?
Oh.
If that's the case,
I think I failed the test.
Oh please! Don't leave! Let me try this again!

(A cough to clear the throat)
Ha-HEM.

When one writes iambic pentameter
Doth that make his good prose the worthier then?

...No?

If I write a witty couplet in a rhyme
Does that make this utter **** more worth your time?

Have I got the tempo right?
I need an exclamatory tone!
Rhyming feels better somehow
But it doesn't make trombone.

My jittery jilted stream-of-consciousness different-line-length punctuation-less word-***** onto a page-
Pause for breath-
Can never match the likes of Donne or Keats;
But I've bled my soul and fire onto this page
And surely, that is worth more than conceits?

I walk the city, the city clean
Where the sun is brighter on this side,
I keep my head straight no to be seen,
Though all my guilt can I cannot hide.

When the dove sings below me I can hear,
When the child suffers I do understand,
Where my conscience bundles up its fear
Before the child does raise her hand.

I carry no hope or miracle for the child
But I probably should spare the change,
To leave her in this city wild,
Would a dollar or pennies ease her pain?

With head straight forward I continue a march,
Pockets jingle past the innocent poor,
Walking past my burning heart,
I wonder if Heaven for her will open a door.

If yet I have not all thy love
For loving is never enough
I must do more than pray
Both increased by gratitude

And the desire to love more
If yet I have not all thy love
I thought, dream it, enjoy it
I cannot deny, I share it

Fiercely and without restraint
If yet I have not all they love
I who am so little wise, so humble
So simple, deare perhaps I

Shall never have thee all
My stature was made small by
Nature, my wit outbid by
More generous fates, my time

More short and partial to trials
If yet I have not all they love
Be it said that love’s riddles were
Unpublishable to me, triumphs

As if out of reach, treasures
Undeserved, comforts unmet
If yet I have not all they love
Do not bargain but say farewell

Deare, well I know, I shall never
Have all of thee, never know thy
Full heart, love doth every day admit
The worthy choice of my lost destiny.

Idyllic love poems wander the hills
with a pining goat herd playing his pipe
and singing mournful song
echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge
beneath waterfalls
where alabaster-skinned Naiads
lithe and languorous
bathed in crystal brooks.

Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless  
wearing corsets and crinolines
desperate
and untouched
*******
strands of hair

   John Donne’s love poems
are wet
  with wit.