Love Poems

I used to love to write. I would write silly poems, love poems, break up letters for friends, what ever the occasion called for. I haven’t written a poem in over 9 months now and I have no inclination to even think about writing. I realllly wanted to write a book and I’ve started about 3 but I don’t want to even finish them. I’ve blown off writing my final assignment for my class for the last 3 weeks and now it’s due on Thursday, I haven’t even watched all of the movies. Nor do I even care if I pass the class. I just want it to be over with.

My blog will be dedicated to love poems this week not only but because ‘love is in need of love today’, as Stevie Wonder sings.

Do not mention the name of love,
O my simple-minded companion.
Strange is the path
When you offer your love.
Your body is crushed at the first step.

If you want to offer love
Be prepared to cut off your head
And sit on it.
Be like the moth,
Which circles the lamp and offers its body.
Be like the deer, which, on hearing the horn,
Offers its head to the hunter.
Be like the partridge,
Which swallows burning coals
In love of the moon.
Be like the fish
Which yields up its life
When separated from the sea.
Be like the bee,
Entrapped in the closing petals of the lotus.

Mira's lord is the courtly Giridhara.
She says: Offer your mind
To those lotus feet.  

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,
  With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw him she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
  And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
Oh! What shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,
  Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again.
'Twas the pride of my dairy, Oh, Barney McCleary,
  You're sent as a plague on the girls of Coleraine.

He sat down beside her and gently did chide her,
  That such a misfortune should give her such pain.
A kiss then he gave her, and before he did leave her,
  She vowed for such pleasure, she'd break it again. 
'Twas haymaking season, I can't tell the reason,
  Misfortune will never come single 'tis plain,
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
  The divil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Frankie and Johnnie were lovers,
O, my Gawd, how they could love,
They swore to be true to each other,
As true as the stars above;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie was a good woman,
As everybody knows,
Gave her man a hundred dollars,
To get him a suit of clothes;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie and Johnnie went walking,
Johnnie in his bran' new suit,
"Oh, my Gawd," said Frankie,
"But don't my Johnnie look cute?"
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie went down to Memphis,
Went on the morning train,
Paid a hundred dollars,
Got Johnnie a watch and chain;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie lived in a crib-house,
Crib-house with only two doors,
Gave her money to Johnnie,
He spent it on those parlour whores;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie went down to the corner,
Went for a bucket of beer,
She said, "Oh, Mr. Bar-tender,
Has my loving Johnnie been here?
    He is my man, and he's done me wrong."

"I won't make you no trouble,
I won't tell you no lie,
But I saw Johnnie an hour ago
With a girl named Nellie Bly;
    He is your man, and he's doing you wrong."

Frankie went to the hock-shop,
Bought her a big forty-four,
Aimed that gun at the ceiling,
Shot a big hole in the floor;
    "Now where's my man that's doing me wrong?"

Frankie went down to the hook-shop,
Looked in at a window so high,
There she saw her Johnnie,
Loving up Nellie Bly,
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie went up to the front door,
She rang the front-door bell,
Said, "Stand back, all you chippies,
Or I'll blow you all to hell;
    I want my man, who's done me wrong."

Frankie went into the hook-shop,
She didn't go there for fun,
'Cause underneath her kimona
She toted that forty-four gun;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie looked in at the keyhole,
And there before her eye,
She saw her Johnnie on the sofa,
A loving up Nellie Bly;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie threw back her kimona,
Took out the little forty-four,
Roota-toot-toot, three times she shoot,
Right through that hardwood door;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Johnnie grabbed off his Stetson,
Said, "Oh, Gawd, Frankie, don't shoot!"
But she pressed hard on the trigger,
And the gun went roota-toot-toot;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

"Roll me over easy,
Oh, roll me over slow,
Roll me over on my right side,
'Cause my left side hurts me so."
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

"Bring out your rubber-tyred buggy,
Bring out your rubber-tyred hack,
I'll take my man to the graveyard,
But I won't bring him back;
    He was my man, but he done me wrong."

They brought out the rubber-tyred hearses,
They brought out the rubber-tyred hack,
Thirteen men went to the graveyard,
But only twelve came back;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

"Bring 'round a hundred policemen,
Bring 'em around to-day,
And lock me in that jail-house,
Then throw the key away;
    I shot my man, 'cause he done me wrong.

"I've saved up a little money,
I'll save up a little more,
I'll send it all to his widow,
And say it's from the girl next door;
    He was my man, but he done me wrong."

Frankie went to the madame,
She fell down on her knees,
"Forgive me, Mrs. Halcome,
Forgive me, if you please;
    I've killed my man, 'cause he done me wrong."

"Forgive you, Frankie darling?
Forgive you I never can.
Forgive you, Frankie darling,
For shooting your only man?
    For he was your man, though he done you wrong."

Frankie went to the coffin,
Looked down at his face,
Said, "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me,
I'd like to take his place;
    He was my man, but he done me wrong."

A rubber-tyred buggy,
A rubber-tyred hack,
Took poor Frankie to the jail-house
But it didn't bring her back;
    He was her man, but he done her wrong.

Frankie sat in her prison,
Had no electric fan,
Told her little sister,
Never marry no sporting man;
    "I had a man, but he done me wrong."

The Sheriff took Frankie to the gallows,
Hung her until she died,
They hung her for killing Johnnie,
And the undertaker waited outside;
    She killed her man, 'cause he done her wrong. 

i just sent my address to three people i know that are getting married in the next couple of months (so they can send me announcements). it’s lucky i didn’t know that many engaged people when i had no job. one of their relationships started on the internet. don’t worry they dated a relatively long time face-to-face (in comparison to plenty of other people i know). one of the relationships started via some phone calls back and forth between two people who were rekindling a friendship that had never morphed into romance due to an age difference. in the intervening years they had gotten older and that stopped mattering. the other couple were high school sweethearts who had since moved on until they decided to give it another try.

Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze—or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
—As if that answered
anything. Ah, yes. Below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore—
Which shore?—
the sand clings to my lips—
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.