Category: Poetry

Like It Is

Anna Teresa Slater

Everyone always told me what love would look like.
How love would sashay in through a hollow in the trees.
Everyone made fairy sighs, declaiming how candy-yellow butterflies
would swarm or hover above my chair before swooping in.

How it might bid me hello like a warm pixie’s shudder.
How I’d be under a spell, floating in sparkly air, how I’ll just know
when love is there and they were right but why is it that no one
ever told me how to make love stay when it pointed the other way?

How not to stumble on the steps after the midnight hour.
No one told me that love could bite. Love needs to bare it all, ogre and claw.
I don’t mean to go on like this but love needs to uncover its flaws.
Let me have tea with the brewing witches beneath the flowers,

so that when love arrives again, whether love slays a giant or reverts to frog,
I will be queen of my tower, a master of hearts, vulnerable but armed.

Anna Teresa Slater

Hiraeth

Whitney Hansen

You were my husband for an evening,
when you pretended not to graze my arm at the dinner table.

Our first kiss did not happen when your friend left the room.

We whispered “I love you”s in the grocery store,
but they all came out as cost calculations per ounce.

We stood side by side at the kitchen’s altar,
but never clasped hands.
There were no “I do”s,
only “Should I put this in the freezer?”

Our first kiss did not happen
when I did not offer you a ride home.

Our first kiss did not happen.

Whitney Hansen

It’s so hard to remember when it’s wanted

Tori Eberle

I.
I try to notice things,
big things and small things.

The fading murals on industrial buildings
and the tone of your voice every time
you say my name.

II.
But I’m still scared and worried
about missing anything,
everything.

So, I cling to the muscles of your back
with my eyes searching for meaning
in the movements of
your breath

when you sigh because
I asked you something—
the same thing I always ask
because I want to remember
the shapes your mouth
makes around certain phrases

Forever.

Tori Eberle

Erophilia

Michael Estabrook

Love of Romance

First Date
Asking her
to go steady with me
on our very first date 50 years ago
is the greatest thing
I’ve ever done in my life

Pure Beauty
Looking up at me holding my hand tightly
telling me “Yes I’ll go steady with you
be your girl if you still want me.”

Time Travel
To go back in time fall in love all over again:
her hair, her walk, her kiss, her scent, her smile –
what could be better than that?

Stunning
Barely able to speak
in her presence: “Can’t believe
I’m standing here talking to you.”
Exactly how I’ve felt
every day of my life.

Silence
When she would fall asleep
her pretty head light upon my shoulder
I’d stay still as a stuffed otter
listening to the silence
all around me

Michael Estabrook

Inkwell

Jason Whitt

When the inkwell runs dry, from
the words I’ve written for you,
when the lines and the curves that
form the letters all begin to disappear,
look close my love, at
the indentations on the page,
for my pen still writes, even
though the inkwell ran dry.

Jason Whitt

Star II

H.E. Grahame

Above the sleepy city, the inky heavens were cloudless and infinite.
As a wintery breeze kissed their cheeks beneath the vast, star-freckled sky.

His words and movements were intoxicated
by too much excitement and gin
bouncing from foot to foot, arms swinging wildly,
dancing in the silvery moonlight.
He faltered just slightly as he looked at her over his shoulder
and grinned, spilling stars into the night.

scattering constellations across dark canvas.

Her brief time with him had taught her the
angles of his nose and freckled patterns peppering his cheeks,
his sleepy face at 4 a.m. and how his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
She watched as he effortlessly reassembled her broken pieces,
and understood, sowing hope into her life.

promising their forevers in sparkling bright paints.

Their twinkling city and whispered breeze orchestrated
a simple melody matching his sloppy waltz,
composing a love song, of sentimental verse
but never so mundane as romance and desire.
They knew their symphony was unique
and celebrated, breathing stardust into the air.

Above the sleepy city, their childlike laughter was timeless and infinite
As a wintery song changed their lives beneath the vast, star-speckled sky.

H.E. Grahame

Valentine Wishing

Rick Blum

Today’s the day for you, my love
When I answer all your wishes
I’ll say the words you long to hear
“It’s my turn to do the dishes”
I’ll shower you with long-stemmed roses
Prepare your favorite drinks
Then smother you with steamy kisses
After I scrub the sinks
I’ll rub your back until you sigh
Massage your heels and toes
I’ll run my fingers through your hair
And then I’ll wash the clothes
By the time it’s late and you’re in bed
You’ll be floating in a fog
Warm as toast on a freezing night
While I’m walking the dog
Today’s a day for you, my love
Say the words I long to hear
“Oh, my darling, I love you too
You’re good for another year”

Rick Blum

Coffee Courtship

Anne White

Coming together late in life,
we linger over coffee, savor time and talk,
two separate brews reminding us of our separate lives,
habits formed now spilling over into morning coffee shared.

His brew requires a daily ritual, sacred and intense:
Set the grinder growling, filled with satiny, fresh-roasted beans.
Add near-boiling water. Watch it drizzle gently down
the narrow neck of the glass carafe, as if by alchemy
transforming water into luscious amber satisfaction.

For me, he makes a cold press Witches’ Brew, steeped overnight,
no early morning fuss or muss, just heat and serve.
A feeble substitute for proper coffee, in his view,
but he indulges me because he knows it smooths my cranky edges,
whets my appetite for eggs and toast and tender talk.

Still, he coaxes me to join him in his quest
for pure, delectable perfection. “Just take a taste of mine,”
he urges, offering his favorite trophy mug, reminder
of a tennis tournament he won in 1982.

I bury my nose in the steaming mug, aromas rich with promise.
I take a sip and close my eyes to concentrate and appreciate.

He watches, waits, anticipates . . . and finally pops the question:
“How’s the coffee?” he wants to know. “Is it the best ever?”

I hesitate.
Shall I play with him or tell him what he wants to hear?

Anne White

Living Room Love Poem

Jessica Siobhan Frank

I love
how you make
me feel
wanted,

a sliver of attention
from your
spotlight eyes
beaming on to me,

the intensity of your gaze
flushes my cheeks
until I just can’t look anymore—

insecurities
left over from tiny
atrocities neglected
and collected and hardened
over time.

I wait for you to take it all back,
to say no thanks
but have a good day,
and you haven’t yet,
and this breath
is tight
in my chest—
I’m considering letting it go—

an exploratory exhaling
slow,
coaxed,
careful as you love me openly,

my lungs relieved
as you hold your arms out to me.

I settle into your safety,
the oasis of acceptance
in the pillow of your pectoral muscle,
my anxious hand
stilled
under your clavicle,

your free hand in my long hair,
champagne strands
like desperate tentacles
braided together by fear.

I am untangled by you.

You watch me surface
and soften
with each         deep    breath.

Jessica Siobhan Frank

the story of us

Breanne Weber

each word of yours
a grain of sand
falling on the scale pan opposite my heart
until i am me again
each word of mine
obsolete
to all except you
because you have a heart that’s compatible
each word of the world
telling us we shouldn’t have made it
reduced to nothing
because we proved them wrong
each word of our love song
ringing true
lulling us to sleep
as our limbs intertwine
together these words make the story of us
etched not on paper
but on the sky
read not by eyes
but by the moon every night

Breanne Weber