A Week of Love Poems – Day 5

Song of Songs / There I Will Abide

I
And there I will abide
Abide seems to be a word
filled with soft meaning
and deep intent
I will abide
belong, rest, take comfort, dwell,
I will abide
withstand, endure, await, sojourn
accepting without hesitation
I will abide

II
My love is my abode
His limbs pillars of fragrant cedar
To shield me in my rest
His arms are oaks of sinew and might
Silver is on his head
Burnished and gleaming
Sapphire his eyes
More beautiful than the morning sky
His heart of precious stones
More valuable than the kings stores
He calls my name
And I am safe
My love is my love
And there I will abide

A Week of Love Poems – Day 4

November Sunset

The Choice

Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when our days became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of middle years
leaves satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Until the day comes that my hand is not recognizable to you
And my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.

A Week of Love Poems – Day 3

Tempus Fuget

Translating the ancient language of our long marriage-
Our vocabulary of years, memory and choices:
Love as verb
Cor ad cor loquitur…Heart speaks to heart
Love as noun
Amor vencet omnia…Love conquers all
But in the diagramming of that sentence is the lie-
Time, not love, is the conqueror
And our end is closer than our beginning.
Eheu fugaces labuntur anni
Alas the fleeting years slip by
In ictu oculi
In the blink of an eye….
Tempus fuget
time flies.

Speak now of spring

winter waterfall

Will the notification of sun
be the early morning birdsong
or the sound of your breathing
as you lie warm in your dreams?
Speak now of spring
and let all that went before
be lost in myth and shadow.
Winters ice has no hold on us, my love,
speak now of spring
and I will be yours.
Each word tattooed across your face,
writ in years and wind.
Grace and wildness are in your touch
and your hands speak of your travels.
Leave no more, my dear one,
and stay with me til spring returns.
Rest your head and love me
for I am yours again.
Speak now of spring.

April Garden

My Husbands Old Nightshirt

Spider silk soft
Breath light
Fabric baring threads
Of caress and comfort
Colors not
But night and light
Black white none
Easy to have
Kept as sleep
In the heart
Nodding to waking
Shed to skin
At the dawning

*** not the most romantic of titles for a cubist love poem – smiles – a little something for the dVerse prompt

heron wings

Blue Heron by Gary Dorland

Early morning fog obscures the eastern ridge,
holding the dawning sun at bay-
resting its gray blanket across the still waters,
soft as the color of heron wings.

Warm fog obscures the bath’s mirror-
holding the real world at bay.
Resting your face against my neck-
softly our hair entwines, the color of heron wings.

*** for imaginary garden with real toads 55 word prompt and poets united poetry pantry

oh those blue eyes

perched in the pale blue sky
the halfhearted moon gazes
down
from the stumblingdawn
but her eyes are not your eyes
(oh, those eyes, those blue eyes)

perched in the resinous cedar
tiny birds are charmed and
twinkle
above your head
beguiled by your eyes
(oh, those blue eyes)

perched in my willing heart
you neither
wax nor wane
but waltz wholehearted and true
will you dance with me with those dancing eyes
(oh, those eyes)

perched silver crowned
once winsomeyouth and
barefooted minstrel
that cunning boy
still winks at me
from those blue eyes

(oh those blue eyes)

melodrama in the morning

June dawn

you leave without a kiss
and the morning sky blushes
pink
at the slight-
as the spiteful south wind whispers
‘he’s left
he’s gone’
but not a word from the mourning doves
hushed by the evergreen cedars
shushing
the mournful song
as too imperfect
for the circumstance

*** A bit of drama in the early morning as a husband rushes off to work and a wife is left filling bird feeders in the backyard. Such drama, such heartbreak …. smiles K

metaphor

Is it too trite
to write that the river
is a metaphor
for our love?

And to use the old saying that
you never step into the same river twice?
Because it is

Just

Like

That.

Driving through the dark Ozarks night
following the hollows along the river,
a young couple in our headlights-
wet, walking hand in hand-
coming up from a midnight swim.

Suddenly, I am transported-
I am that girl-
shy, bold and holding your hand,
feeling your wet skin for the first time,
the rush of the river,
the rush of the new.

Then, I laugh, seeing myself
reflected in your laughing eyes
illuminated by the dashboard lights.
We drive towards home
splashing in the river.

circumnavigation

I remember
the night you pulled down the sky
sown with stars
into the field of deepest blue
you said my eyes were starry
filled with the colors
of moonless skies

we drifted

the rivers flow
circumnavigated our foreheads
and rushed the winds back into ringlets
at the nape of my neck

you were young and brave
and fought dragons
until we were left
with only nacreous shells and roses of stone

the desert bloomed with our love
the peace taken for granted
as long as the bees returned to the hive
and the new moon rose over the spring meadows
where we lay

*** First, please forgive my ineptness at linking things – I am hopeless!
But, I have taken inspiration from the beautiful works of C Nelson Kellar for this poem and I hope you will explore her artistry at http://cherylkellar.com .
In reading about Ms Kellar, I felt an immediate kinship, not only is she living just a few hundred miles south but I was struck by her description of herself – her sense of humor and love of color. Her artwork is filled with whimsy but has a depth of knowledge and understanding of form and light. I was moved by the charming portraits as well as the abstract paintings.
And in her bold exclamation “I am an artist!” she gives me courage to declare my artistry as well.
Please take the time to discover C Nelson Kellar’s paintings.
Thanks – K