Archives for posts with tag: love poems

beatles-champagne
HALF YEAR BEING HALF A MAN
by Christopher P.P. White 

In the night’s most embarrassing moments—
I am flat out and full of booze.
The garden furniture is soaked and muddy,
Covered in dead leaves
And empty champagne glasses that haven’t been washed.
Formally full of bubbles—
Now full of rain water and austerity.

Luckily I lie in my warm bed,
With the girl that shared the night
And the laughs with me,
Looking back on half a year of nothing
And looking forward to half a year
And more
Of everything.

I’ve never proposed before
And thanks to her,
I’ll never have to again.
The Beatles were right:
All you need is love.

IMAGE: “The Beatles enjoy champagne” (1960s).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Christopher P. P. White is a poet that explores every facet of this mortal coil with a mind doused in cynicism and hope. He lives in Derby, England, with his wife and two daughters, with dreams of writing for a living because he can’t do anything else. He already has two poetry collections out there called The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life and Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness and hopes that you’ll hunt them down and read them until your full of joy and pain. Find him on Facebook and Twitter.

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MAY WITH FLOWERS 
by Thom Amundsen

A melancholy ordinary day
while traveling along a dusty way,
I thought of the month of May
how sweet to see your eyes today.
 
That’s when the flowers begin
a sojourn outward from within.
In May our hearts long to pin
us down with sweet romancin’
 
Remember those distant afternoons
we’d linger passing minutes in swoon
I might now in May recall a tune
making love underneath the moon
 
I would believe in you in May.
A saucy time when hips would sway,
dances while your eyes made me stay
in your arms – please don’t go away.
 
Let you hold me in your arms tonight
I want to comfort you too if I might
we can win the war of evil tonight —
May flowers bloom in morning sunlight
 
Spring is in the air, it’s May everywhere
so don’t despair, soft wispy eyes so fair.

IMAGE: “May Blossom” by Priska Wettstein. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Thomas Amundsen has been writing poetry nearly all his life, but recently attacked it with a feverish urgency, enjoying dabbling in many different variations of verse. He is a family man, teacher, director of theater, and an uncertain poet. Visit him at thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com.

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THE YOUNG MAY MOON
by Thomas Moore

The young May moon is beaming, love.
The glowworm’s lamp is gleaming, love.
How sweet to rove
Through Morna’s grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! The heavens look bright, my dear.
‘Tis never too late for delight, my dear.
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

IMAGE: “Falling for You” by Jerry McElroy. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Born in Dublin, Ireland, Thomas Moore (1779–1852) was a poet, singer, songwriter, and entertainer, best remembered for the lyrics of “The Minstrel Boy” and “The Last Rose of Summer.” He is the author of a biography of Lord Byron (1830), Irish Melodies (1808-1834), and Lalla Rookh (1817). In 1793, at age 14,  he contributed the first of his verses to a Dublin periodical, the Anthologia Hibernica. In June 1794, Moore became one of the first Catholics admitted to Trinity College, Dublin. His last work was the massive History of Ireland (1835-1846).

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IN THE MONTH OF MAY
by Robert Bly

In the month of May when all leaves open,

I see when I walk how well all things

lean on each other, how the bees work,

the fish make their living the first day.

Monarchs fly high; then I understand

I love you with what in me is unfinished.
 
I love you with what in me is still

changing, what has no head or arms

or legs, what has not found its body.

And why shouldn’t the miraculous,

caught on this earth, visit

the old man alone in his hut?
 
And why shouldn’t Gabriel, who loves honey,

be fed with our own radishes and walnuts?

And lovers, tough ones, how many there are

whose holy bodies are not yet born.

Along the roads, I see so many places

I would like us to spend the night.

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Painting: “Apple Blossoms I” by Georgia O’Keeffe (1930)