who
would cry
being loved,
when even such tinkling
comes of the loving?


Grasses” by Alfred Kreymborg

<•>
we all make lots of love
in the same way as billions of others

grunting huffing noises of neural tissues torn and reborn

but the notes and noises we make, keep, unique no one else’s

the bored and the low thinkers saying “honey, you just wrong,”

the tinkling sounds are the silent mitosis of cells splitting
and then rejoicing rejoining, definable only as unique

so we both weeping, side by side, only we together can
hear the sounds of our life becoming and being,
no one else quite can be so specific
you could be there and still not hear the heat of our love making


who
would cry
being loved,
by the creative silences we have just written?

we would.  we do.  we are the noisiest lovers ever.  tinkling laughter. creating.

____________
http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail19.com/t/ViewEmail/y/8D7DB5963FD3CE00/98E58011B0AFF2EF20B193FBA00ED1DB
Darcy 16h
Yellow lit talks
Beside a borrowed car
Empty parking lot
Underneath the stars

Three feet apart
We mindlessly converse
About nothing and everything
Prolix and terse

You render me breathless
My ghost lungs deflate
You exhale the stars
And I respirate

I am so tense
With minutes too swift
Too late; you’re gone
My hands must have slipped
I tried to kiss all the boo boos never kissed before.
I tried to pick up clues on how to help.
I tried to love even when pushed away.
I said I'm sorry for the past being what it was.
For things I've never done.
So what does a mother do?

I'm sorry a million times.
No matter how sorry I am I can not fix it.
No matter how badly I want to.
I can't reverse the clock.
I can't change what happened.
If I could I would.
So what does a mother do?

I can't force talking.
Or expedite the healing process.
I can't read minds
Or always find the right words.
I can't help but feel helpless.
So what does a mother do?

In this moment I am simply human.
I can listen.
Imperfect but loving and hurting and praying.
So what does a mother do?

I am supposed to know what to do.
Mothers know best they say.
They never shared the rules with me.

A whisper inside says to do what I know how.
Love this child.
I do.
Always and forever.
I will.
Flowers fade
infatuation dies.
When tribulations come,
will you stand by my side?
I smell summer on your person
Tan is your toffee colored skin
Chlorine the scent of your hair
Bright skies and warm nights
A promise for tomorrow
I hear summer in your smile
Soft loving and a bit of longing
Touch me gently and let me know
I am real and make me feel infinite
Water splashing in my face
You feel real to me and you feel right
I hear summer in your voice
The laughter in my eyes
Sparkles brighter than the stars
You, you have a way
Of making me feel
Like I could be summer to you too
a yellow rose winds to the skies,
blossoming, letting soft petals fall to
the cidery earth, blushing in
the caverns of the sweet-flowering day,

inspired like the greek
sun-god helios but
drawn out of rhododendron
and apple, drawn out of love.

a thousand years of summer,
the wolf, the thin mouth of sky,
a diamond bumble bee, the
gifts of a stolen sun,

shaken out like a rattle snake,
the broken angles of death,
the lost side of each word,
with all its intentions and promises -

fallen to the floor, like an apple,
or a blind mole loving
the soil, the dry earth,
the faded parchment sun,

or a rock of ice, in a tangy glass,
where the summer sun
grows roots and shoots,
shadow domes and leafy golden skies.
Glenn Currier Aug 11
The hair on the back of my hand
glistens in the lamp at night
it tells me I am a man
I am a creature
a thing created.
I did not create myself
even though I act as if I did.  

You made this body
and you keep it alive.
When I look at my hand
sometimes it reminds me of Jesus
who was also a man.

I yearn to feel his touch
his arms around my shoulders.
How often I need his hand
on the small of my back
giving me a gentle shove.

When I picture that hand
in my mind’s eye
I see the hair
the veins that bring the blood
from his heart,
a heart so full
so big it reaches to heaven.

It also reaches into my heart
when I think of his first noticing
and then stooping down
to touch the person on the side of the road
the person nobody else would go near.
I am touched to tears.  

That was the hand of Jesus
reaching down as it does now
to this sinner.
This is another of my spiritual-awakening-moments. I find myself on this site with poets/creators many or perhaps most of whom don't relate to the godstuff and yet I feel at home here standing in this garden and all of its fabulous and rich fruits - creations by these lovely creatures. With gratitude to all of you and to David Chadwell for his web piece entitled: “How low will Jesus stoop?”
Liyah Bella Aug 10
my friend group makes me feel like i am apart of something
it makes me for once feel important to a group of people
i never want them to abandon me
i want to feel infinite forever
Dess Ander Aug 9
Love is like a weed.
It overcomes concrete-like obstacles.
I am in Love.
With no fear
to be torn apart,
ferociously.

to be left alone,
completely.

to be broken up,
eventually.

B'coz the one
whom I love
passionately,
is none but Me.
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