Love Poetry For Couple

Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. �Genesis 1:28 Her flaming hair in God's whole power, even as heat swells the atmosphere damp; he hums a jingle and continues to spin pedicel to fibre, four-leaf clovers, daisies, grinning. 'Six days,' he says aloud� this has took long enough already. They�re in a motel room with centrefolds on the walls (from filthy magazines), and behind her Adam waiting with the stump of himself in his hands like someone holding a tree-trunk with veins, the brine of Eve in him, even as she tosses her hair to turn him into a creature whose need is to mate with her now. In her head a new light shines on the flowing strands of her reddish tresses which are translucent like queues of fireflies bugs in a world she shares with a fruit, this man, a serpent, and no obdurate people to curse her when the pleasure begins to deform her glad face.

After you left In the space That empty rooms Unveil, I felt nuts. You had gone Early to work And I felt nuts, Between smokes Or after meals (I ate from tins), I spent that whole Day feeling nuts. Till you arrived And I went to open The door with My other hand.

     �for my brother, Khotsofalang Memory lifts its veil, everybody calls you, but no appearance. Once again I recall walking nights with you, touching walls toward a light of home�s distance lit for those still outside, till that night became another day. I remember ten childhood commandments, how absent loves have to be watered and fed with half the force of touch and light and tongue, and half with a winter of wild surmise. Today still the quiet night brings images of walking toward that hill of home, using darkness as a guide there. Then one morning you were gone, on one day that took you away, your stature, the quiet non-form of your build�for all was you� none of us knew what was coming despite what you embody today. What we had not realised was that there was no ram tied to our Abraham shrub. Thou shalt not awake after dying, thou shalt be willing to refuse refuge in the arms of their Lord. You left Lesotho the year of your eighteen years and we closed ou...

Souls are squeezed from moss-free rock, and men from souls. You (to whom I wish a turquoise sky That beguiles some who die Onto a cloud to lay their head) Are not made of chalk. So what if the boy takes this room The way he does, wearing your poise Like a model on a dais? We will have lived fast and strong You & I, from our past so long, Into this grave goodbye. Pindrop Press , 2012

They�ve covered miles of terrain between Selma and Montgomery, walking in an exodus from fire that burns us. It is like there will be no other chance for them to walk again, bear down on the doors of town hall positioned between phallic pillars, as the heat of the sun fails to deliver what suns are meant to share, behind the back of the march, now out of Alabama and onward unto Tennessee and beyond to the Carolinas�a whole world walks with them, bundled in wishes and demands they carry on their shoulders, till at last they climb the stairs and drop their concerns at the door. For dogs and boots have no way of stopping that kind of gift, the diversity in their one face, not hoses and not even knuckles or spit can change anything. And since that door is locked, they make a gate into the next century. The rest of the story is what would finally unfold. Canopic Publishing, 2016