Too much chocolate and intimacy,
our emotions crowd
this small room.
The overwrought day of love and hearts
founders with the consumption.
Thank God these feasts are few and far between
and the dull days
that drift from indifference
even in the thinnest context
for us to rest our heads upon.
Love will again become happily perfunctory
without the need for overloaded emotions
drying on our faces.
Too much is too much
and I willingly give back
all those candy hearts and paper doilies.
Give me the day to day
workmanship of your love,
the confection melted away
to the unsweetened morsel of us.
time will not stand still-
autumn has deepened
across the Ozarks ridge
and you are not here
you could be in Tuscany
for all I know
flirting with the grandmothers
with your beautiful blue eyes
and smiling at the children
playing in the piazza
as you drink espresso
and trade lies
with the young men
I can see the warm Italian sun
against your silver mane
so handsome and at ease
strolling up the cobblestone path
with golden sunflowers
and a good bottle of red
I walk my cloistered walk
alone in our empty room
I will trade our bed for the narrow cot
of a nun
and cast my longings into prayers
but you are not in Italy
you are working long days
in the high lonesome desert of west Texas
where the autumn stars are out
as you lie in your own monks cot
to say good night
This poem is a bucket.
This poem is a moonbeam.
This poem is my husband.
A container of vague reference and history,
its origins unknown but its utility humbly significant.
Whether wooden or metallic in form, it chooses
to be the holder or keeper of all possibilities,
whether rain or mop water or tender young things safely carried.
This poem is a bucket.
Petals of pale yellow dancing in the spring breeze,
moving with the changing weather and seasons.
Sturdy and perennial, its heart moves with the tides
of earth, rain and sun. It is hardworking and dependable,
though its many faces show its charm and golden light.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis.
Bringer of gifts, deeply rooted and bound
to the rich soil of our earth,
a partner in a garden of different minds,
growing in systematic wildness, each portrayed
in the best possible light
or shade depending on its habits.
He is the keeper of spades and implements,
ancient rituals of furrows and seed.
He is the blue eyed boy smiling with his weed filled bouquet.
This poem is my husband.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis brought home in a bucket by my husband.
*** A Boomerang Metaphor poem -a form created by Hannah Gosselin
whose instructions can be found on Hannah’s site, Metaphors and Smiles,
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-14
The Geology of Marriage
Our eons hidden under the topography
of the day to day,
years compressed into striations
of lives lived.
The igneous layer of crystallized need
eroded and reformed,
creating colorful promontories
etched by wind
into hieroglyphic memories
painted in exposed rock.
where old fossilized
hurts and frustrations
Bones of contention
waiting to be re-formed
to make dusty arguments
Digging to the metamorphic core
where we were created
by the fire of our first passion.
where we return
to be changed
and changed again.
It was the second spring in the old farmhouse,
you seeded the open meadow with red clover.
A common cover crop,
it did just that,
covering the slope
in luxurious rich deep green leaves,
topped by scarlet globes
of soft feathered blossoms.
Honeybees, intoxicated with
sweet perfume, staggered in the warm spring breeze,
humming their drunken songs
in sweet unison.
The bees song bewitched us-
a sirens song.
we walked across the meadow,
thigh high in clover,
waist deep in bees.
The hillside undulating,
shimmering with invisible wings.
The sound of a million bees
Their voices so deep,
it echoed in our bodies.
We held our hands out to feel the vortices of their wings.
We were carried in a wind
of wing song.
We were golden with pollen.
The honey was rich that year-
and filled with the song of a million bees.
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….
My love is like a red, red nose
That drips in the month of May.
(Well, now that is not attractive.)
My love is like a green garden hose.
(What the heck!)
My love is like a man that hoes
the long, hard row
(Good grief, where did that come from?)
My love is like a Reb that rows-
(Well, he is from North Carolina but he hates the water.)
(For Heavens sake!)
My love is like a man that arose
To hoe the garden, row by row,
Cultivating the greenest spring,
To wreath the head of his May Queen
With rose on rose on rose on rose.
*** a bit of nonsense to lighten the mood, with a nod and a wink to Burns!
blessed be the hours of early morning
when the light seeps slowly across the water
blessed be that light
that fills the windows full open to the morning
breeze and the scent of resurrected green
blessed be that breeze
which scatters the blown petals
of dogwood and redbud trees
carpeting the garden path with bright confetti
blessed be those feet
whose boots track spent pink petals
across the just swept kitchen floor
blessed be that love
that fills this kitchen with heavens color
and sacred morning light
Is it too trite
that the river
for our love?
And to use the old saying that
‘You never step into the same river twice’?
Because it is
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, holding your hand,
feeling your wet skin for the first time,
the rush of the river,
the rush of the newness.
Then, I laugh and see myself
reflected in your laughing eyes
illuminated by the dashboard lights.
We drive towards home,
splashing in the river.