Newest Romance Poems (1,693)

Before you want to judge me or my life,
put on my shoes and walk my way through run
the streets, mountains and valleys, feel the grief experience
the pain and the joy. go through the years
I went, stumbling over every stone about which I
stumbled, get up again and go exactly
the same route on ....... just as I
was doing.
And THEN you can judge ...

My my what have we now?
What She's decided and how
What are we not if not a blast
Just another voice in our past
Why this happens I do not know
It is me that you need to show
Wanting to Love wanting to start
Stress myself to sleep isn't an art
Without you, I am lead astray
I want marriage how about May
Into Love I'm wanting more
Ease up Life its not a chore

The Poet & Her Muse

The poet stands before the muse.
She's talking of love.
But the muse isn't hungry for love.
He wants to devour her.
He eats her knees,
her toes,
her breasts,
her eyes
& spits out
her words.


What does the muse want?
Words?
Metaphors?

A poet's soul..
That is what the muse wants.

She is naked before him.
Prose written on her thighs.
When she walks, sonnets divide
into octaves & sestets.

Couplets fall into place
when her fingers nervously toy
with the quill.

But the words
don't clothe her.
No amount of meter
& rhyme
can save her now.

There's no rune
big enough to hide in.

No Thesaurus,
no OED.

The muse isn't dumb.
He wants her soul.

Once he might have taken her
smile in a neat couplet.

But now
he needs her blood.

He has eaten the poet.

She's gone now.
Nothing remains
but a page out of print.

She's past our helping.
Perhaps she's part of the muse.


~SAS

Tango of Two Hearts

I offer this dance a lark
of passion
& my desire
echoing depths
of your longing

lapping
singing
teasing

your tongue
against
pink velvet
your hands
exploration
of secrets shaded
within these garden walls

arching
praising
crying

out for pleasure
my hips seek you
my hands pulling your hair
caressing your face
divining rapture
under your
soulful kisses

embracing
touching
stroking


honey
on your lips I kiss
the taste of fire
from your mouth

sighing
crying
screaming

pleasures taken
from prerogative
offered by God
in your hands
& sung
from your lips
to my infinite
passion.


~SAS

She is like a Rose
A single Rose in a valley flourishing with flowers
Majestically surrounding the luscious Rose
That blossoms every morning with immense beauty
Shining gorgeously, always with passion
With the sun gleaming beautifully from the morning dew
Giving beauty to the valley,
As the Rose is bursting gloriously from the valley meadow
And showing its amazing beauty to the world.

Her Beauty shines
Like the sun that shines
Glowing over the earth
Showing everyone how great,
How amazing she is, and how lovely her beauty shines
The sun that glimmers off the sea
Reflecting its glorious light.
As it sinks beneath the sea
And awaits to start a new day
Just as she gets ready for the night
Looking as beautiful as ever
And sinks into a deep sleep
Awaiting for a new day
To share her beauty to the world once again

Her eyes, so gorgeous and beautiful,
Like the great vast ocean
That cover most of the earth
Bringing glory and beauty to the world,
So that from above, the earth gleams with loveliness
And everyone can see it,
As lovely as it is.
Just as her eyes are amazing and beautiful
As they peer into yours
Showing you the joys of the world
Holding great secrets that no one has known yet,
Like the earth's ocean holding many secrets
Deep within its depths way down below the surface.

As I turn to face Michael, I reach down and grab as much snow as my hand will hold. I run towards him both hands held high. My arms surround his head and the back of his neck is now a receptacle for my revenge. He tumbled backwards, taking me down with him, and we
land in a heap. He landed flat on his back with me sitting across him; gazing down. Michael then reached up and pulled me down to kiss him. Inches from contact I receive the full force of his snow filled right hand square on the nose. He then rolled me over and kissed my chilled face, pecking away the drops of snow. We slid into a full lingering passionate kiss which by rights should have melted every flake of snow in the garden.

Arm in arm we make our way back into the warmth of the house. Facing, still giggling, we begin to remove each other's damp snowy outer garments. Michael took my hand and lead
me in front of the fire where we face each other again and continue our ritual disrobing. I stand just in front of him wearing only a shirt and woolly socks which he found quaintly amusing. My face drops coyly, Michael placed his fingers gently under my chin and raise
my mouth to his. We kiss and become one, the world outside fading to nothing.

The wicked infant glint contained in green eyes of mine has changed now to one of true womanly passion. The flickering flames in the hearth, illuminating my hair. Michael wrapped in my arms. The night is now ours.

Epilogue

April 17, 1999

A post card sent to: Mr. Dwight Esterhouse

121 Moose Creek Road

Appleton Pa 16537

(Delivered on a rainy spring morning)

Read:

Mr. Esterhouse,

Thank you so much for helping me locate the inkwell and pens.

The wonderful marbles and their story!

With fond memories

xxxxxxxxxxxx

(here the signature had been smudged away by the rain soaked hands

of an honest man )

Postlogue:

Lying in bed, I look up at the jar full of marbles sitting on the mantle. I wipe the pearls of anticipation from my lips, will 6:45 ever come?

The rug in front of the fire felt soft and warm under my feet. Some Christmas seasonal bunk was on television with the sound down low; the voice of the announcer melting into the crackling logs in the inglenook. The only light to the room other than from the
comforting flicker from the hearth was from customary tree lights. The amber glow of a full moon was sneaking through the window between the spindly branches of our totem to the time.

My soft footsteps break progressively above the ambient sounds of the room. I stood in the doorway clad for serious action. Michael is suddenly made aware that there is an assault to be made on the snow which lay around about outside. He is compelled to
frantically search for thick sweaters, jackets, boots and gloves ready for the impending skirmish.

In next to no time we were on the open porch-way gazing up at the soft silhouettes of the snowflakes crossing the light of the moon. I dart out into the garden, and in a single movement, arm myself. Michael scrapes a handful of ammunition from the porch rail and compresses it to a perfect grenade. Launch. Hit! The smashed snowball resting in my hair catches gold and red fire from the light above. Michael commented my eyes had an almost infant mischievous glint.

Thwack. The snow stings my lips as I catch his projectile full in the face. The taste
of snow was like champagne. The delightful tingle left by its impact excites me into planned retaliation. Equipped with a snowball in each hand, I make a slow determined approach towards him. Michael hurls another barrage of winter's missiles; the first misses, the second glances off my shoulder, the third is miles off target. We are face to face giggling with childish glee.

I spot his next move. As his right arm rises to perform a forehand squish of snow on my nose I turn away. I now have more snow in my hair than there is on the ground! His second icy attack is more devious. With my back to him I should have known better. In a
split second his right hand reaches over my shoulder, opens my collar and the entire contents of his left hand is posted down the front of my shirt. My screams are mixed joy, horror and laughter

Our First Christmas

Lying in bed caught between slumber and silence, fresh white linen and oversized pillows. I remember today is Thursday. My new husband will be home for the next four days. I can't wait. I haven't seen Michael for almost two weeks. I've missed him so much.

I think of the last time we were together. I still can't believe it, still doubt it and still cherish it. We spent the day looking for antiques. In particular I was looking for an ink well for an old school desk he bought me for my birthday. Finally, we found one in a store that was just about to close. I charmed the old shop keeper into letting us take a quick look around. Michael whispered, “I love watching you flirt with old men, making them feel good about themselves. Reminding them of a time when the world was their oyster.” I found that ink well and sure enough he dug out a set of pens still in their original boxes from a school supply company in Flint Michigan dated Sept/41.

At the counter I noticed a mason jar with the lid nearly rusted on. It was full of black and white glass marbles. They were a little larger than usual. The shop keeper told us,“that they were used for casting votes in various social clubs like the Elks or the Masons and that members cast a white marble for yes and a black marble for no when considering prospective members. One too many black balls and you were out, hence the term black balled.” I loved the story and had to have the jar full of marbles, and of course he gave them to me for free.

I was so thrilled and as always Michael was always amazed at where I often found joy, In a jar of marbles, an ink well, a used coat. It sometimes seems like the world is my thrift shop, every piece has a story, a lover, a name, a home. I seem to find value in it
all.

The ride back to the city was too long. We decided to stop and visit some old friends, but first we stopped and picked up a bottle of Frangelica and some flowers. Michael started to tell me

That “yes I know, you have told me a hundred times,” it means 'the tears of angels’ and it was made by Franciscan Monks a thousand years ago. I still love the story.

We ended up at McMannus Bed and Breakfast. The Amish family, that built our potting shed at the cottage. I had brought some cloth for a quilt Sarah had been working on and of course Michael had stashed a flask of whiskey to give to Whilhem.

Dinner was great and as a rule bed came early we both loved reading by oil lantern. Michael knew I was excited to write in my journal with my new ink pens and decided to take a long bath and give me some extra time with my new found treasure. He read nearly 3
chapters of John Irving's 'A prayer for Owen Meeny.’ when he finished he expected to find me working away at the shaker desk.