Love Poetry For Couple

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from Fear. O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life - that in me hast rest, As I - Undying Life - have power in Thee! Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts, unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds Or idlest froth amid

Tonight a shooting star kissed my lips Its bright spark shone in my eyes reflecting love from the lover in me My face could not hide such vulnerability connecting affection through my writings to reality Tonight a shooting star kissed my lips Posted with permission from Daren Kamali Editor this week: Michelle Elvy Daren Kamali gets around. A poet of Fijian, Wallis/Futuna

Every face carries the strife it possesses, and people wear these like masks to hide the inside of their colour. You'll see them sometimes, when the dolour of life is heavy and unbearable, turn away into the confines of another street. Some wear them against the weather, like a hat, or a rubber coat, or a pair of old gumboots. I wear mine like the sun to burn the things that make me, the tough

Neil, you were six weeks dead when I was born, the last hours of 1982. Almost thirty years have gone by since then. Driving through Whanganui, I can't get my head around the streets. Parallel to the river, or perpendicular? The map in my mind is a map of the past, probably never accurate to begin with. The river has this kink in it, difficult to align to. I often drive around that bend, the

March, 1941. The coast is a scribble. Stars are stored in a wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than white here. Like algebra but colder. The hut�s walls are a ghetto of mice. Those I catch become whiskers of smoke in the firebox. I attend to the scratching radio. This is not my dream. July, 1942. The short days are long here. Morse code stutters in my aerial. Every door of the home

At first I thought it might be comforting, another body breathing in the dark smelling spiced, content to be awake reading in the little dome of light from your night stand that leaves my side rich in shapes and shadows. I am heavy on the mattress head cricked to one side to stare at the dry pages and harsh hands. You give me smiles and stroke my hair sometimes make honey drinks or tea bring