Love Poetry For Couple

Now you are strong And we are but grapes aching with ripeness. Crush us! Squeeze from us all the brave life Contained in these full skins. But ours is a subtle strength Potent with centuries of yearning, Of being kegged and shut away In dark forgotten places. We shall endure To steal your senses In that lonely twilight Of your winter�s grief. https://www.flickr.com/people/192846511@N02/ https://www.pinterest.com/armybombver4net/ https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1027313364969404690/ https://imgur.com/user/armybombver4net/about https://imgur.com/gallery/SQ4GaRn https://imageshack.com/user/armybombver4net https://diigo.com/0kdkd7 https://500px.com/p/armybombver4?view=photos https://www.behance.net/armybombver4 https://pixabay.com/users/armybombver4-21365829/ https://soundcloud.com/armybombver4 https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-586kq-10232b1 https://anchor.fm/army-bomber4/episodes/The-Armybombver4-net-Season-1-Episode-1-e1007us https://www.buzzsprout.com/1771280/episodes/8...

Dear Ol' Dirty Bastard: I too like it raw, I don't especially care for Duke Ellington at a birthday party. I care less and less about the shapes of shapes because forms change and nothing is more durable than feeling. My uncle used the money I gave him to buy a few vials of what looked like candy after the party where my grandma sang in an outfit that was obviously made for a West African king. My motto is Never mistake what it is for what it looks like. My generosity, for example, is mostly a form of vanity. A bandanna is a useful handkerchief, but a handkerchief is a useless-ass bandanna. This only looks like a footnote in my report concerning the party. Trill stands for what is truly real though it may be hidden by the houses just over the hills between us, by the hands on the bars between us. That picture of my grandmother with my uncle when he was a baby is not trill. What it is is the feeling felt seeing garbagemen drift along the predawn avenues,...

I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place? We suffer them by the day Till we lose all measure of pace, And fixity in our joys, And acquire a listening air. They are that that talks of going But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor And my head sways to my shoulder Sometimes when I watch trees sway, From the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some day when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone. I cannot say enough about Robert Frost . I even had a vivid dream about him once, not too long ago, whereupon he refused to have a selfie taken of me and him. I learned, from him, pace as well as belonging, I learned that it's okay to speak your tongue, the way your folks do. No...

       

I see you everywhere except in dreams �Karl Shapiro Someday this poem will be a memory, like the ten dollars you got winning the spelling bee, like the sweet smell of the tobacco pouch in your grandfather's pocket, the grandfather you adored, how the gold string that tied it vanished like a coin drawn into a magician's sleeve amazing the child who watched, who was you, the child burned by illusions that turned into dreams, the child, awake now to the ruin of old age, but you cannot heal her, you cannot cry. You know no words of comfort. You pronounce her dead and move to a far country, sunless, without air. + Who she is: Joyce Ellen Davis at Canopic Jar + Where she blogs: Joyce Ellen Davis's 'following the little god'  and  Plodding Taurus + Her Amazon page: Joyce Ellen Davis's Amazon page Joyce Ellen Davis

When my father snores he sucks in the whole world and releases it in one pure breath. At night I�d come into his room where he would pass out on the bed� too drunk to change his clothes or put out his cigarette, which had burnt itself down to the embers. I pulled off his shoes and watched him sleep, smelling his sweet, stale breath fill the room in waves. He was so out of it I could put my finger into his mouth and pull it out before he inhaled. Once I let my finger linger a second too long and his tongue touched the flat of my tip. I thought of going in deeper, first a hand, then an arm; the tender cutlet of my body swallowed whole by my father. But I was barely enough to make him cough. He rolled over on his side, leaving a well in the space where his body had been. I crawled back into my own bed, as my father slept the peaceful sleep of ogres, feeling the house shake with his rhythmic tremors. January's blog: January Gill O'Neil's blog Amazon page: January Gill O'Nei...

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them �Supper.� At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy�s hand, or seemed to leap� He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy�s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all� Since ...

won't you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed. Lucille Clifton

At 4 a.m. the barn lights go on, and we feed the cows with a slight sense of urgency. It's a holiday morning and we're trying to get done, but even on Christmas, you still have to milk the cows. We start tractors, barn cleaners and manure spreaders up, praying that nothing breaks down. And then cow by cow, the milking machines slowly leap frog their way down the barn. (you can't speed up a one speed machine) Finally, with the morning chores done we head for the house, shake off the cold, get cleaned up, and change our clothes. The guests arrive, the wrapping paper flies, then it's time for our holiday dinner. In the afterglow of Kris Kringle, while everyone else begins to mix and mingle, my best present is a 20 minute nap in the recliner. Then the clock tells us, "get back to the barn." But on this afternoon family and friends tag along. Hot coffee and adult beverages flow, as do the stories and laughter. The cows get milked and the bull starts to fly. And whe...

A cold pillow holds my head as I listen for your words; there is no crucifix here, only your voice between the sheets. Turning toward your side of the bed, I bat my eyes at the empty space; �You need to get up,� I hear you say, the sound hanging sweetly in the air. My legs, unsteadily familiar, can�t contemplate the walk today, so I wait until your voice is gone, and only your breath remains to guide my feet to the floor. Phil Rice is a native of Tennessee who currently lives and writes in the shadows of Chicago. He serves as editor-in-chief for Canopic Publishing, and is also co-editor of Canopic Jar, a literary arts journal he founded in 1986. Everything Canopic can be found at this link . The venture is also on Facebook . "The mornings" is reprinted here with the poet's permission. Phil Rice

January Gill O'Neil

Nikki Giovanni was born today in Knoxville, Tennessee, in 1943. I went to school in Maryville, a few kilometres from Knoxville. Wikipedia says that "on April 17, 2007, at the Virginia Tech Convocation commemorating the April 16 Virginia Tech massacre, Giovanni closed the ceremony with a chant poem, intoning: We are sad today, and we will be sad for quite a while. We are not moving on. We are embracing our mourning. We are Virginia Tech... We are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imagination and the possibilities, we will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears, through all this sadness, we are the Hokies. We will prevail, we will prevail, we will prevail. We are Virginia Tech." " Giovanni's writing has been heavily inspired by African-American activists and artists. She has a tattoo with the words 'Thug life' to honor Tupac Shakur, whom she admired. Her book 'Love Poems' (1997) was written i...

Reading at Lamontville High School in Durban in 2016

The beauty of a child can become lost In the beauty of all those children. �Tj Pfau This is the story of Motlatsi In another Africa, perhaps in an alternate universe. Lives a beautiful dark child With skin like smooth chocolate. Each morning he rises from his bed And eats the mealie pap his grandmother Prepares as she does every day. Today is like all the other days. She stirs, The corn meal in the pot goes around, And bubbles and thickens. Afterward, His grandmother takes his small soft hand In her large hand, and together they scatter Corn to the chickens in the yard. This is the story of Motlatsi. In another Africa, perhaps in an alternate Universe, lives this beautiful dark child With skin like smooth chocolate. He chases the chickens in the yard on his Tricycle. The bell on the trike sings A warning: I am coming! Watch out! I come! A pin-tailed Whydah cries from the broad leaves And green thorns of the Kahretsana. This is another part of the story Of Motlatsi, in another Africa, i...

Every day I am born like this� No chingues. Nothing happens for the first time. Not the neon sign that says vacant, not the men nor the jackals who resemble them. I take my bones inscribed by those who came before, and learn to court myself under a violence of stars. I prefer to become demon, what their eyes cannot. Half of me is beautiful, half of me is a promise filled with the quietest places. Every day I pray like a dog in the mirror and relish the crux of my hurt. We know Lilith ate the bones of her enemies. We know a bitch learns to love her own ghost. from: https://goo.gl/g1exB5 Erika L. S�nchez