Love Poetry For Couple

As evening settles its dark wing on us we lie inside another night till even that night has nothing to say to us, till the crickets are quiet outside and bats are out, piercing night with their radar. Till there is no sound other than that of hooves as the devil goes by, on an evening stroll with his family. This happens night after night in these suburbs where evil likes to walk. I live in Qoaling. It is my home. One night the devil and his family didn't clop by as usual, but smashed our door down and trotted in, pierced Motlatsi�s lung with a horn, ransacked the whole house looking for Ben, and finally left without him. In the morning the smell of sulphur still hung everywhere in the air, inside the rooms. Anybody can raise hell, where's the one who can also raise the dead? �from " Waslap ", The Onslaught Press , 2015 Motlatsi and his grandmother, our mother Tebello

all saturday evenings should be like this, caressing your thigh while reading neruda with his odes to matilde's arms, breasts, hair--everything about her that made him a part of this bountiful earth-- lilies, onions, avocados--that fed his poetry the way rain washes the dumb cane with desire or banyans break through asphalt-- this is the nirvana that the buddha with his bald monks and tiresome sutras never knew or else he'd never have left his palace and longing bride-- the supple feel of your leg in my hands for which i'd spin the wheel of karma a thousand lifetimes, more Geoffrey Philp