Tag: Love

Heart’s Jewel

Child
delightful youth
my heart’s jewel
light-bearer
hope

antics haphazard
laughter contagious
spreading joy
sparking imagination

I pray that your spirit
remains vibrant, and
that reality dawns gently

(This poem first appeared in November 2018, as A Child Glows. I submit an edited and re-titled version here for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: jewels. Image my own.)

Tender Hearts Fall

Here’s a boy, tender
and raw, heart exposed
awkward innocence
blocking intention

Here’s a man, fiery
eyes, hands coarse,
face leather, smoky
words coaxing affection

Here’s a girl, book smart
heart uncertain, romance
a fluttery desire, caught
between the two, torn

The boy averts his eyes
fears she’ll see the raging
in his loins, read obsession
in his longing, reject him

The man takes her hand,
softly traces the outline
of her face, slow, seductive
draws her into his mystery

She is a two-headed lamb
ponders the breadth of
the boy’s shoulders, knows
his future is a srtaight line

Hormones raging at man’s
touch, the way his eyes
devour her, the magical
nuances in his voice

Two paths, she thinks
two diverging outcomes;
the boy holds himself erect
feels his fate is decided

The man lays his head
in her lap, thick waves
of black thrilling her –
a dead-end street

Is it pride that makes
the boy look away, she
wonders, or am I not
good enough, tainted?

She turns to the older
man, smiles, pull him
to her and surrenders,
darkness a familiar place.

(Decided to resurrect this old poem for Eugi’s Weekly Prompt: romance. Image my own.)

Not All Wins Are Monetary

Gambled late in life –
one more spin on love’s wheel –
we got lucky

You’ll need protection,
ego said,
and led me down paths
soaked with yesterday’s tears-
annoyances nipping at progress

But I am strong-willed
better than that,
I said, choosing to follow
a different route

The roulette wheel spins
and here I sit, alone
counting my wins

No amount of bargaining
can alter current misfortune
Pray my husband
finds his way back.

(Image my own)


This Is How It Happens

Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me

Of course, he does
I am schooled in compassion
seldom flinch at raw pain

I attend to the wounds
listen; reassure
but I am weary

My own sorrow unattended
loss and betrayal an inner bleed
know I have only so much to give

But he is not alone,
there is another
a mere child…

Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me

Of course he does
and I will sign on to stay…
schooled in the art of compassion.

(The stories that come to us in the dreamtime, often celebrate anniversaries. Years ago, I was in a cycle of abusive relationships, culminating with the one represented in the poem. We met on New Year’s Eve. My son, then early teens, remarked to me that I always chose relationships that asked a lot of me but seldom gave in return. While I laughed it off in the moment, his words remained with me, especially as this man also betrayed me with another. It was the turning point I needed to do some real soul-searching.)

Image my own.

Love In Aisle Nine

Lust ignores warning signals
fancies itself a savvy consumer
commits minor infractions with
confidence, sidestepping anxiety.

Loneliness, nearsighted, shops
without discernment, fails to
recognize that all life is transient
and patience is the key to harmony.

Love – the main attraction – is not
a lone chauffeur, nor a self-serving
commander, feeding off helplessly
dis-abled hearts bordering insanity

nor is it initiated by determination
a product of drive – brokenness
barreling through hurt’s congestion
misinterpreting openings. The path

to intimacy requires compliance,
obeys service, calms egos, a slow
non-consumer-based passage –
no bargains in the commitment dept.

(Love in Aisle Nine first appeared here in December, 2017. Image is my own.)

No Idea!

Girls are lucky: just need to find the right man –
looked after for life.
Advice from a teenaged brother.

Right! I yell back, fifty years later.
It was all a vacation –
raising the children on my own
looking for God in the midst of chaos
partners with wandering eyes
or absent…always absent…
still waiting for that “looking after”

And how did you make out, Brother Dear?
Oh, that’s right… married
… woman with a good job
willing to let you putter in the background

Guess we were both misled.

(Image my own.)