Love Poetry For Couple

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...

�for Phil Rice, 29 August 2012 It is certain earth is now sloping away from its magnetic angle� Oh, I know how this type of thought can restrain hope, hope that... off the asphalt a bird may fly away... fly again through air, and rejoice in such ability to move, nobly move again. A man of your age back from his trip� but I mean a man, not the boy, the one who grew up in you, a sudden gasp on top of his girl� the quick spill� what they thought to be love stamped on their foreheads, nothing is less sure you can�t again fly� fly again really high off this asphalt into those skies. This poem was the second time my friendship with Phil had 'handed' me a poem. The first time was when ' Janice's poem ' got written. Most of the time when I write a poem it's to confront a gnawing, a knowing of something I've always been aware of, but needed to experience again. And as Walcott said, "If you know what you are going to write when you're writing a poem, it's...

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