Five love poems--for Spring

As Winter recedes, but Spring is not yet evident enough for us to take a deep breath, I decided in this "time between times" to post five poems I have written over a period of thirty years or so. Some are published; some are not. The reader can decide what connects them. I am not saying. So, this post is not about Ellicott City Historic District--exactly--but since I live here, it seemed right to say, do, post:







Ex Libris

I think for us
even these few words
chip away at time.

How much more we say
when we read
between the lines.

Unendurable sound,
you coward!
May you shrivel into me.

When we meet again
I’ll give you
this awkward armload of books.

1970, revised 2010, published
Wendy Webb’s TIPS, UK

Picnic


You pushed out from shore in one thrust,
The day was dressed in mist,
My sandwiches were soft as skin.

Midway, the sun broke through,
Things glistened,
We ate again.

At day’s end, the water steamed.
A bird came, begging for crusts.
You threw them in.

Actually, we can’t begin
To thank you enough
For that brief lunch.

It was light and quite well served
For what it was:

Cheap novella,
Heart’s diet,
Lover’s lie.

Published in Quill & Parchment
February 2009


Forgiving (A Sonnet)

I know the land where silence writhes, abused,
when words refuse to bend, and crumpling, die,
so deeply in our hearts we seem bemused
that anger twists our love and makes us cry.

There is a point forgiving will not go,
our rage swells up to nudge out what we need,
and legs agree on evening the score,
in syncopated time they slow, then speed.

At times I even think that you are right,
my shattered heart is wounded all the more,
like shards of glass that penetrate the night,
words leave me bloodied, face-down on the floor.

Quick now! Stop this drama--realize
how pain is gathered gently in our eyes.

1970; Rev. 3.10


Ebb

Storm-spent,
the sea yawns,
and stretching into
horizontal calm,
proceeds to rest.

Nestled in tidal pools,
a residue of brine
is caught
in tender resolution.

Looking down, gulls discern
a gentle heaving; I feel
your cadenced breathing now,
beside me.

c. 1966



They are Words

Are they words I hear,
or am I wrong?
Are they words that glide
like lover's hands
across my skin,
or am I wrong?

Are they words I hear
that seek me out
then find me
hiding shy from you
at dawn,
or am I wrong?

They are words I know,
but how could words
feel like a song
that gripped me hard
and held me long?

Yes, they are words I hear
they are only words,
or am I wrong?

c. 1970



Nothing Real is Owned

It’s true for me that everything I own
Will gather into grief and tear and stain.
My flat, compacted time, a course that’s run—
With sureness such as this, who could complain?

Small rivulets of tears create a flow
So swift it moves desire a mile away.
And everything that’s sweet I came to know
Is sucked to bottom, quietly to stay.

But needing cripples fear and I come back
To feel desire’s yearning in excess,
As love ignites, moves up, slips through the crack
Like some internal power that’s born to bless.

If I must name ten things I’ll really miss,
My list would start and end with your sweet kiss.

Sonnet accepted for publication in
Wendy Webb’s online poetry journal,
ETips, UK, March ‘10