spring's here and my heart is nervous
at all these flowers pushing their
way up into the world through
winter's last hurrah.

its raining march rains
in cold wet drops
and i can dance
on the grass
and the buds on the bushes
are begging to open.

crisis

so much for love poems, Shams, seems I've got a crisis on my hands,
my lover, he doesn't love me anymore.
if that's not a crisis, I don't know what is?
like a tiny little berry in my goddess hands,
unintentionally,
i think i know what the end looks like
because i've seen it so many times.
It looks like this.
and I just refuse to open my eyes and see it.
wasn't i just saying how boring my life had become only
yesterday?

spring is

spring is
replete with people who return
from distant places of my past.
Some, I am so happy to see.

i dared think that i am
and closed my eyes
waiting for a blow
that never came.
i opened one eye,
then the other,
and you were still
there,
smiling at me
and smiling.

if i could make love to your ego

he said to me many years ago,
I'd be narcissus
I dreamed I said if I could
make love to your ego.

March Project: Love Poetry

This month, I've decided to try and write a love poem a day. So often, I write about tragic love, painful love, love gone horribly wrong. But, some of the best poetry is about love gone right and the meeting of minds, etc. I figure for March, with a bit of inspiration, some love poems are in order.

dearest, my dearest,
I only write anti-love poems,
but for you, I will make
an exception.

I mostly fear you will read
this and say
it did not measure up
to what you were
expecting,
and that I was not
the writer you hoped
I would be,
and for this,
you reject me.

the greater the
cracks in my
cement open up
to swallow the birds
from the sky.
There is no end to
this and so
no end to my
loss if you
decide
(for i will never decide).
I hope that
you love me more
even if the words never
touch the air in
a puff of winter breath,
and your hand never
finds mine,
mitten in mitten.

mornings

i am still dreaming
and my brain is
oozing out of my skull
at a point between my
eyes, and onto
the desk.
he left this behind
and all I can do is hold it
while I sleep
and breathe in
the scent of detergent
not my own.
can a sentiment last
a lifetime? i can
only whisper these
things to what scrap
i hold in my arms.
why have
i been so beaten down
that i am afraid
to stand taller than the pines?

Shams, there is in me a terrible badness,
a demon,
clawing its way through my skin,
and I have to fight or it will own me
for a time
and I will do terrible things,
things that will hurt people I love
because I can.
This demon cares nothing for you,
cares nothing for me,
cares for nothing,
but to rage and destroy
carefully built houses, kicking down
the beams,
setting fire to the timbers
and dancing in the smoldering remains
with his violin as he dances
and I cry.
My demon feeds on my fears and grows
strong when they increase,
making great feasts and smacking
the very bones with his lips
as fat and blood drips off them
onto his pot belly.
If I could starve him from the source,
choke him with my own hands
and hold him down with a will
and a certainty until he stops moving,
perhaps then he will give me some rest.