Love Poetry For Couple

When a child starts school, so too the parents: this is a truth Cloudmother can�t escape. Here are others � when a teacher favours a child, so too the parents; when a classmate befriends a child, so too the parents; when a label owns a child, so too the parents. The mother most of all. The handwriting lessons that failed to prepare her for life; the teachers who saw careers in

Chemotherapy by Mary McCallum who knew she was there hidden inside that thing that turns her girl upside down and inside out (poison, really, a small inefficient killing field) let loose in a body still young enough to smell of milk in the morning, one the mother must return to sit beside and stand over to stroke the soft cheek, catch the soft vomit, be steel to all that

tortoise: from the Greek, tartarchos; �god of the underworld� i. The Fall As I fell, I burned through shame and grief and disbelief and love � words that trail like smoke, like broken wings. Only rage was left � its silken tongue, its crystal shell. I fell through night and time into the morning of this world, and kept on falling. Once, I lived by passion�s flame, but I learned

The cat does a fine patriarchal stalk his paws all rosebuds and thorns, eyes a tender-censorious almost-blue as he plays pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake with the living room rug which bubbles and bumps like bread dough baking until I lift its edge to see a small, dark, anguished mouse race the thread of its tail up and down like a seamstress frantic to say least and mend soonest the deep

My love for you is like a red, red rose, It started as a seed but it�s grown and grown. Its roots reach deep down inside of my chest, And it grows even more with each passing breath. The delicate petals lay beautiful and pure, All the doubts that I�ve had you have since cured. For all the thorns that this proud rose bears, They are all softened by the thought of your care. Soon the rose grows old and withers and dies, But the love that helped grow it will last for all time.     Author: Sam Fedarb  

for Brian Five of us slept that night on the stone floor of an old cob hut, close by the Clarence River � our ears ringing still from the silence of high screes, our eyes still burning from hot snow, the bright shimmer of bugloss and briar rose on the parched valley flats. When I woke, cold, in that monochrome time before colour seeps in, I saw you sprawled quite motionless, eyes closed.