Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The Smell of Honey,  Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry


my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt

The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,  
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,

one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate

you see!

give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry

but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option

love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,

this is not a lovely poem…
- * -
“Words are beautiful, but emotion is divine” (patty m)

~these are the divine words of a beautiful soul, patty m~

this Missouri grandmother writes and I am willfully, duty-bound,
to comply for she commissions a poem with every insightful pithy and
ever one of her dear hugs, of which these is no limit and each one a treasure of a gratitude that flows contra-directionally, surpassing given-grace and lawful gravity, for all of her words flow simultaneously north and south, heavenwards, and earth planted, east / west, magnetic poles attracting divinity wherever it can be found
and all I can do is proffer

just one more only love poem, which is the blessing and the curse the lord blessed me with, love is  beautiful and it is divinely originated in each of our humble hearts, plucked from trees and fed to us wherever fruit of the fields grows, shaped like sweet and **** berries…not all that is divine, of necessity to be beautiful, words, them too, a mixed blessing, vulnerable and subject by the abuse of human weakness and fragility…but this much I assure myself with confidence,
and you too,
her words, well,

limitless, her every poem is hand woven, unhid, in the fooling
plain earthenware that the potter’s wheel created,
all gifts to each of us;

But my fragility mandates I speak slow and hesitantly of things beautiful that contain the white glow sparkler light of divinity, for I have attracted and deserved many failures, far greater than the rarer success, so my knowledge yet oft suspect, is mostly merely well imagined but know this:
her skill,
her expertise
her intimate comprehension
within the beautiful and divine expressions of her kind appreciation she deigns to share…words like a mighty, beautiful like a powerful Missouri river, driven by all specie of love…but none more powerful, more divine than that of a loving womanly grandmother

this, yes, only a love poem to be sure,
for the beautiful,
The Divine Miss (Patty) M.
(be-tween and be-twixt)


the most precious but precarious item
in our possess, value far above rubies,
this love overflows, but it drowns me
from within, for it has no home for
pleasured sharing and goes wasted, excreted
in tears and exhalations without destination

condition incurable, and the doctor advises,
projects, a life span rangebound from

imperative that this love be
disbursed, pressure relieved,
fluid and gases shared,
send it forth,  
Doc behests,
you’re a decent human,
tell your tales,
follow your motto,
write those love poems,
always leave them laughing,
and give them love in smiles
bringing joyous relief to your clogged arteries,
all this the bare minimum,
for you must moreover grasp and clasp
your body to another, for this
the best transfer transfusion
of all your needed love needs

go be needed, be great, be lessened,
be all three
and never walk alone,
with just hope in your heart,
for the heart, automatically refills,
and this the best, medical opinion…
for all those with too many love poems
requiring expulsion and extrusion
how do you paint water, or clouds?

I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love, and streams of water,
never stilled, always running in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds, admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting, like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes or their spoken words
could capture their shiny white foamy essence

But of love, that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently to its burial sight in a quiet pond.

Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies: the
exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water, who could paint that, who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I cannot. Thankfully better men and women have treatised  their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just  like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study and stare at these flows, hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.

Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne , rocketing us upwards while feet never budging, but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.

jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.

inspired by the police of Oxford, Lewis and Hathaway
I did not know
that first poem
of this day would be
a love poem meant for thee

you coffee fed, snack too,
talking chattingly with a
woman bff, in the sunny parlor,
friend, sisterly, you smother with affection

you are a model, a star for the UN,
you care, and take care of the sad ones,
who knew but lack, the now passion of
a steady lover, you step in, a pledged step-sister

on top of the boon of companionship,
you two play and entertain and chatter~banter,
like only two women can, for hours, without end,
an amicable amazing miracle, to a man who cannot same

for a man, it is different, we love our brothers,
but silence is welcome, understood, appreciated,
we could fish contentedly side by side, guffaw, share
a philosophical nugget, a good story, a back slapping

and I down the hall hear you both, and wonder how,
just how, you two go on endlessly and never run our
of affection, and mutual attention to each others needs,
and here I am writing a love poem, kind kid,  but different,

but not really, for my heartbeats exude love
for the person you are…a truer friend no human
could ever admire more….
The Whether

you will like, love or hate this poem
it will be written, needs writing,
asks no permission from the author,
gives no quarter, it is the

whether of either or,
for ‘tis not in our hands, not in this domain,
for it’s ripped from my elemental being,
like it or not, was took and taken!

Even I, am without choice, this one of
singular changing moments in our lives,

when she speaks and:

the happenstance dominates, the errant word,

bullet kills, grimace or grin is its very own revel-nation,

when where truth smashes,

drips and a froze-moment is preserved without

artifice, mnemonic or devise, for it is both perma-

burnt and burnished with ochres, browning yellows,

when you spoke plainly words that sundered irretrievably,

un-remediable, destructing 

my first first principle,

a mathematical construct of

conceptional  constantcy

“I can no longer love you.”
July 2023
I am afflicted with a 24/7 romantic nature (olp)

genetic or prophetic, the consciousness seeks out
the tiny things, the soft stroking, the single flower,
the necklace iridescent, a new love poem,
(if such were possible!)

the overflowing heart dam is spilling over in relief,
now, merely tolerable fulsome, we go about the day
ever alert for the next new way to, say it again
but differently, a happily exhausting task, this 24/7
employment contract that grants no vacation days,
so if your eyes should foresee my eyes a-glistening,
my lips moving silently recording a new conceptualization,
do not disturb
if you please, for this contract offers
no excuses, especially for
Acts of Nature!


“Unpredictable and verifiable acts of nature (such as catastrophic fire, flood, tornado, earthquake, or other acts of nature of similar intensity) or other unpredictable and verifiable circumstances beyond the control of the unit member which precludes (or includes!) the unit member from reporting to duty.”
I often cry when writing my love poems

this secret, yet-not-so-secret, for the words become
blurry birthed by the amniotic fluid of encasing tears,
and when I write, wearing my emotions on my sleeves,
for wiping my cheeks, nose leaking, because I write of
sorrow supreme, that has no solution, pain repetition-dulled,
yet, provoking each time for the words bubble up, of-course,
it is love, in its thousands of reincarnations, coming to haunt,
the lost, the unfound, thinking of
my parents,
my children,
my lovers,
come, gone and
those who stay…

I bemuse myself thinking, each tear a lost poem, removed
by sleeve or tissue, wiped away, lost, irretrievable forever…
but these yellowed memories forever and ever refreshed
by sea spray and wind, my face absorbs their unique nutrients,
and love and pain rebirthed as if it was the happenstance of
today, and the poem water tank just goes on and on being refilled…
Investment Principles:
Staying the course,
your owned love
will not fail you

Staying the course means going against your own emotions at times.

when weeping is easier than squaring the jaw, gritting teeth

Staying the course means thinking and acting for the long term even when it doesn’t feel right in the short-term.

lost loving, when the other walks away, and being brave is
the only path, brace, and excise that stooped shoulder, stand straight!

Staying the course means preparing not predicting.

predict only that hope is eternal, perpetual and maybe, just,
around the corner

Stay the course means doing nothing when that’s what your plan calls for.
steady the breathing,
ok, now! wipe the tears,
be resolved that once tasted,
love, is human, though inimitable,
and your sunrises will return inevitable
and the return on investment unbelievable
actual wise principle of investing
mumbles, rumbles, grumbles &  groans*

permeate the bedroom still,
woman tosses, turns and exclaims
mumbles, groans, all twisted into
a single minutes-long rumbling

torn I am, let it pass, or stroke the hair,
caress the shoulder, or risk awakening her
to continue her alert discontent, or salve her,
thereby saving her from herself, for me, us

do you know forever?
do you know perpetuity!
this diurnal/nocturnal border line battling
dilemma, comes early morn, ever faithfully*

and I dreading her dreaming:

court the new day’s chance-ry,^
plead my case, make new laws to protect
the infants, lunatics and the restless

and those would be their Knight Errant Protectors!


^ The Court of Chancery was a court of equity in England and Wales that followed a set of loose rules to avoid a slow pace of change and possible harshness (or "inequity") of the common law. The Chancery had jurisdiction over all matters of equity, including trusts, land law, the estates of lunatics and the guardianship of infants.

A knight-errant is a figure of medieval chivalric romance literature. The adjective errant (meaning "wandering, roving") indicates how the knight-errant would wander the land in search of adventures to prove his chivalric virtues, either in knightly duels (pas d'armes) or in some other pursuit of courtly love.
Next page