A couple of poems then

Well, here's the series so far (just two). I have been wanting to write love poetry for about four years now, but have always failed miserably. True, I have written these poems with a certain subject in mind, but that does not mean I am "in love". It means I know what the experience is now, and I have to words to communicate it (the harder of the two by far). I want to continue these. I want to hope they are immortal — that should this die, the poems will not, because they are universal enough, yet still deeply personal. I want them to convey a sense of knowing the poet, not the poet's lover. I want them to open an intimate door into how the poet feels, sees, tastes ...

Well, you tell me. they need tweaked, I'm sure. But these are only my first drafts. God, I'm being so serious today. I'm am way to easily affected by the weather. Yet, it's not sad ... Oh, nevermind. I can't say it right (write??).

These aren't titled yet, because they aren't finished

Attempt 1 at a Love Poem
Drowsy mornings follow, turn over in his arms
with me all smiles and eyes half closed. Warmer
than any pile of blankets, I curl up on him
like a cat in a sun spot and my skin prickles down
each notch of my spine when he responds by
pulling me in closer. I can feel his eyes watching
me sleep, feel his hand absently stroking my back,
face, brushing my hair away from my eyes. I am
awake and could turn my eyes —
all bright and full of mischief —
up to him before I pounce …

No broken moments this morning. No broken
peace. I will lay still, draped over him after a
slow creep to find myself there against his broad
frame. Our bodies will twist together soon enough
as I become restless and snake around for a tackle.
For now, I will be quiet and soak up the warmth
of our sleepy morning that will languish into afternoon.

Attempt 2 at a love poem
Steam rolls off my wet head the same way
it rolls off the trees, the lake, the gravel road
crunching under my feet. My Blazer sits open,
stale light burning a hole in the fading light
around this patch of woods. I can’t help but
laugh because he laughs at me — wet,
shaking, hopping from foot to foot, pretending
this will make me dry faster.

Just inside that cargo hold, I could be warming
my fingers and toes, burrowing under the horse
blankets, tussling to keep warm. I could be
listening to all this wet weather and not wallowing
in it instead. I could watch my breath blow heavy
in the air and fall like heavy, slow snowflakes.
I could look at him and laugh and lean in for
a kiss or hide behind my long, damp hair.

But here I am, outside, a fool. Cold, wet, and
jeering, I can’t think of another moment more
perfect than this right now, right here. I could be
inside that car, warm, dry, and removed from
the autumn that falls around me. But I prefer
to fall with it, and know that he will catch me.

A couple of poems then

Well, here's the series so far (just two). I have been wanting to write love poetry for about four years now, but have always failed miserably. True, I have written these poems with a certain subject in mind, but that does not mean I am "in love". It means I know what the experience is now, and I have to words to communicate it (the harder of the two by far). I want to continue these. I want to hope they are immortal — that should this die, the poems will not, because they are universal enough, yet still deeply personal. I want them to convey a sense of knowing the poet, not the poet's lover. I want them to open an intimate door into how the poet feels, sees, tastes ...

Well, you tell me. they need tweaked, I'm sure. But these are only my first drafts. God, I'm being so serious today. I'm am way to easily affected by the weather. Yet, it's not sad ... Oh, nevermind. I can't say it right (write??).

These aren't titled yet, because they aren't finished

Attempt 1 at a Love Poem
Drowsy mornings follow, turn over in his arms
with me all smiles and eyes half closed. Warmer
than any pile of blankets, I curl up on him
like a cat in a sun spot and my skin prickles down
each notch of my spine when he responds by
pulling me in closer. I can feel his eyes watching
me sleep, feel his hand absently stroking my back,
face, brushing my hair away from my eyes. I am
awake and could turn my eyes —
all bright and full of mischief —
up to him before I pounce …

No broken moments this morning. No broken
peace. I will lay still, draped over him after a
slow creep to find myself there against his broad
frame. Our bodies will twist together soon enough
as I become restless and snake around for a tackle.
For now, I will be quiet and soak up the warmth
of our sleepy morning that will languish into afternoon.

Attempt 2 at a love poem
Steam rolls off my wet head the same way
it rolls off the trees, the lake, the gravel road
crunching under my feet. My Blazer sits open,
stale light burning a hole in the fading light
around this patch of woods. I can’t help but
laugh because he laughs at me — wet,
shaking, hopping from foot to foot, pretending
this will make me dry faster.

Just inside that cargo hold, I could be warming
my fingers and toes, burrowing under the horse
blankets, tussling to keep warm. I could be
listening to all this wet weather and not wallowing
in it instead. I could watch my breath blow heavy
in the air and fall like heavy, slow snowflakes.
I could look at him and laugh and lean in for
a kiss or hide behind my long, damp hair.

But here I am, outside, a fool. Cold, wet, and
jeering, I can’t think of another moment more
perfect than this right now, right here. I could be
inside that car, warm, dry, and removed from
the autumn that falls around me. But I prefer
to fall with it, and know that he will catch me.