Love Poetry For Couple

Like a reed boat that slipped its mooring Set drifting on the current Or the heaping up of ripened grain In the time of harvest He was farewelled Gone, in the fullness of his time But that final slipping away Still came like something unexpected Like an empty pier or a barren field Which once brimmed with purpose Bustled with life and vigour Now there was silence Except

with Alistair Te Ariki Campbell, Helen Jacobs & Mark Pirie, June 3 2001 we parked the car by the memorial to Taawao, the Ngapuhi missionary which greets you as you arrive on the final flat that horseshoes round the bay to the wharf & a collection of sheds & boatsheds -- it was full tide, a spring tide, the water foreshortening the hills by a myth or 2. we were too close yet close enough

If you should bury me, as I have requested with my hands clasped, bury me wearing this bird Normal 0 false false false EN-NZ JA X-NONE

28: Job. He wrote, �Why did I not perish at birth?� �Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul?� and I ask why He gave me breath and life. �But man dies and is laid low� �At least there is hope for a tree� 29: Tell me about light and life. The same light that hides That light seen but not touched and like punching under water leaves a thirst.

This story is about remembering and forgetting Not knowing where you are or if it's real But you can die with a martini in your hand * The girl in pink, skating towards you has an automatic weapon behind her back and this drug will take you to Jesus if Jesus is a chorus- line of short-skirt nurses * There is too much sun in California for shadows * There are

You know he is there, standing in a field, like all the others, but he is not like them. The children do not eat his leaves, or sugar coat his pulpy fruit. His trunk has not been stripped by women hoping to calm a fever. He cannot soothe you. He can only hold you after your last shred is torn away. You were told anyone can visit him, as long as they are respectful. You let

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

Thinking it�s the delivery pizza, he opens the door to The Votive Angel, arrayed in slogan-splattered silks, carrying her sword-sharp pen. Silently she strides past him, her silver boots crunching empty beer cans. �Apathetics,� she roars to the house at large, �Arise and vote.� The woman in the kitchen stirring soup looks up, �Who for, dear?� she inquires amiably. �Think,�

Our family was large; when we met we embraced six hundred times for a long while I was inseparable from my cousin but such is life you learn to let go of things not meant for you Marcel Proust wrote to Celine ten times in the hope of boeufs - carottes and while I�m dropping names there�s Vincenzo Campi�s painting where I lie in the arms of my brothers