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Write about love – love found, love lost. Love is the eternal subject of poetry; I have a suspicion it is the reason poetry was invented. <3


The Turning of the Tide by Charles Gibson 1900


Love doesn’t care
about outward appearance.
Love doesn’t know why it should.

Love doesn’t fear
what it doesn’t know.
What it knows is that love feels good.

Love doesn’t wait
for just the right time.
Love happens, will it or no.

Love doesn’t stop
and discuss who to love.
Love simply sets one alglow.

Love doesn’t come
to those with no heart.
And everyone has one, of course.

Love doesn’t cautiously
lurk in the background.
It batters and screams til it’s hoarse.

Love, real love,
doesn’t leave one alone.
It makes itself known, clear and bare.

But love, real love
can be silenced and stilled
by a heart that refuses to care.

Anger and pain and
reluctance to live,
and denial of needs we all bear.

Will make love despair,
will cause hearts to tear, and
will give pain without compare.


Hunger + Some other emotion = Poem. So, since I can never do things the easy way, I chose ALL of the emotions. We are left with a long day and so many possibilities.

Wikipedia Public Domain Image

Long Flight

A long flight, made longer by the pre-arrival time,
the flight delays, the gate change, the layovers.
Feeling almost hung-over at this point,
but oh, how the adrenaline is pumping.

What will I say? What should I do?
Do I plan the reunion in my mind,
or just let things flow naturally?

All of these hours
(that have followed days
and weeks and months of planning)
are for naught:
Who knows what will happen?
Will my beloved even be here?
Will we recognize one another?

Moving with the terminal traffic:
pilots and stewardesses speeding by,
another day, another airport;
families with children, each of them
unhappy, haggard;
businessmen in suits with loosened ties,
always on the phone with someone;
others like me, anxious, eager,
nervous, excited, frightened,

To Sleep…

…Perchance to Dream. Everyone dreams, even if they deny it. They just don’t remember. Dreaming is a function of our mind to sort things out and set us straight, if we pay attention, that is.


Lost in sleep, images begin.
Nonsensical at first, then gradually
a purpose is determined.

No matter how ridiculous it might seem once awake,
the drive to fill the ocean with a teaspoon,
or discover the missing letter in the alphabet,
or find the one piece of hay in the field that is magical,
is all consuming.

How many nights, laboring over
discovering the missing criminal, riding trains,
hiking through mountain ranges and city streets,
or struggling with the balloon that looks like the earth,
that is just too large to hold properly,
get it to its destination.

How many dreams, running through
never ending stairwells, searching for that one person
who is never there at the bottom of the stairs.
Or seeking desperately for the minnow
that could change the world,
only to find that “minnow” was a euphemism,
and what we’re really looking for is a child..

And what all this tells my waking mind
is that I am still searching for something.
But I don’t know what it is.


Real fear—not pretend fear while one is watching a “scary” movie, where the plot is all about jumping out at a person and making their adrenaline surge—real fear goes quickly to the core, fear that could easily overcome a person. That’s what we’re talking about here.

Fear - public domain



Not many things hold fear for me,
I’ve lost everything, had to start again from the bottom,
I’ve had to struggle, keep my chin up
feed my kids, work hard.

Not many things hold fear for me,
I’ve moved and lost contact with every friend I knew,
I’ve had to make new friends in a new place,
keep my head, try to trust.

Not many things hold fear for me,
I’ve lost my job to “downsizing”
I’ve had to hunt for work, praying I got it soon,
to pay those bills and not get behind.

Not many things hold fear for me,
I’ve been dumped by someone I trusted completely,
I’ve had to get through the pain, all while seeming calm
so nobody else got hurt, all while so alone.

Not many things hold fear for me,
and those that do are simple:
Death or harm or estrangement
from those I deeply care for.
And really, that’s all that can move me
to fear.



Real Magic

The spark of life in a tiny seed,
is in all creatures on the earth.
For those who seek true magic, indeed,
the spark of life in a tiny seed
abundant wizardry, once it’s freed.
of boundless and infinite worth.
The spark of life in a tiny seed
in every creature on the earth.

Guilty Secret

Don’t tell me you don’t need time alone sometimes. We all do. Sometimes a person has to strategize to get what they need without any grief.

Reality Contest

Guilty Secret

“What are you doing?”
he calls from downstairs.

“Watching Project Runway,”
I call, as I turn up the volume on the show.

I hear a groan as he mutters something
to himself, then he says, “Enjoy that.”

And I smile to myself.

In my house of boys and men, none will
disturb me if one of those silly shows is on.
You know the ones.
The dancing shows,
the hairstyle shows,
the makeup shows.

And while I am alone,
not really paying much attention to the TV,
I have cherished time to myself,
to read, to put on a facial masque,
to paint my toenails,
or text my friends.

It’s my secret.
And now, it’s yours too.


Another Chapter

Another Chapter

A tale of an impenitant bibliophile. If you love books as I do, you will understand. <3

Girl Reading by Franz Eybl, 1850

Girl Reading by Franz Eybl, 1850

Another Chapter

Age eleven and it’s far too late to be up.
Reading by the light of a half-dead flashlight,
but the words stream by.
I will stop at the end of this chapter!
Waking brings bleary eyes and creased face
from sleeping on the book.
Unrepentant, sleepy day at school follows.

Age sixteen and it’s far too late to be up.
Reading by the bedside lamp, quickly switched off
at the sound of feet on the stairs.
I will stop at the end of this chapter!
Waking is difficult, but satisfied hands
cling to the book all the way to the bus stop.

Age twenty-three and it’s far too late to be up.
Reading in the rocking chair to the dim night light,
pretending to wait for the baby to wake.
I will stop at the end of this chapter!
Waking with baby’s cries moments later it seems.
Unremorseful as ever, I tell him what happened
in the story while he slept.

Age thirty-five, and three children, various ages,
are up reading and it’s far too late to be up.
The telltale sound of lamps switched off
at the sound of feet on the stairs. I smile.
“It’s too late to be up, boys. Go to sleep!”
They will stop at the end of the chapter, surely.
And I’ve a book waiting for me.



Reading Jester


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