Tag Archives: love poetry

Out Loud

Hearing myself speak
to a dear old friend
at the grocery store
about the one I loved
was a revelation—
and pulled out of me a few facts
I’d never heard out loud—
facts like:
I loved him because…
But this…
But that…
We didn’t…
We couldn’t…
and I watched pity
twist her face into a grimace
filled with an empathy
reserved for those
who should know better
than to put all one’s eggs
into one basket—
and because I had a dozen
in my cart as well as
frozen meatballs
and frozen fish,
I thought it best to part
before I let the truth
finish another sentence.
I said, He didn’t want me
to put my life on hold…
but the truth
was finished when the words
he didn’t want me
landed in my ears
and put a fresh sting
into my long dry eyes.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
5-1-18

“Two Women on the Hillside” by Franz Marc, 1906

 

Easter Sunday, 2017

I spent the morning
without Jesus
lingering like he used to
on the outskirts
of my sinful heart.
Now that I’ve cracked him
like an Easter egg
I can enjoy all the candy
of my imagination
without wondering
if he’s been peeking
into my private windows
as if some stone
had been rolled away.
And all the forgiveness
in the world
will not remove the
joy I feel for every sin
I’ve committed
in the name of love.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-19-17

 

 

Love Lies Bleeding 

My novice eye
thought
the small cluster
of Rue Anemone
was Hepatica
and I was mistaken
again
when I called
the Celandine Poppy
a Marsh Marigold–
but I was sure
the Yellow Trout Lily
was
a Yellow Trout Lily
and I was right
about
the Purple Cress–
and I knew
with certainty
those bulbous
Bleeding Hearts
were full
of emptiness–
but I’m still
not sure
if the botanist
who taught me
how to identify
Snow Trillium 
and Bloodroot 
can see
the similarities
between
Love Lies Bleeding
and the look on my face
when his lesson is over
and our time 
is up.

DeMaris

4-9-17

Your Name

I know one day
I’ll be buried
under these memories
instead of your body
draped so casually
over mine
because I’m running
out of excuses
for why I need
the entire Sunday
afternoon to do
what could be done
on any other day
in half the time—
and those lies I tell
are so flimsy
and weakened
by my love for you
that it’s just
a matter of time
before I’ll come clean
with a confession—
and your name will
be so heavy
down in my heart
I don’t know how
I’ll lift it into my voice
without breaking.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-4-17

“The Lovers” by Rene Magritte, 1928

After I Leave

After I leave you
I don’t adjust right away
to the familiar things
I return home to
and I don’t stop thinking
about the reasons
we work
and the reasons we don’t—
and the reasons we don’t
have nothing to do
with a deficiency of love
or lack of joy
or misplaced hope,
but the measurement
of life invested elsewhere—
in those familiar things
that breathe and need
and trust
that I’ll come home
after I’ve had time alone,
which is the lie I tell
when I walk in the door
with stories of
how rejuvenating it was
to spend time in nature—
solo—
and I feel guilty
for not wanting
a welcome home kiss
because I want yours
to be the last one on my lips.

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-3-17

“The Brook” by John Singer Sargent, 1907

 

Mad Love

Madness.
This is what you want.
This is what you hope for
crave
desire.
This is what you’ve never had.
You want love to mean necessity
no matter what.
You want love to mean
whatever it takes.
You want love
to be waiting up for you
longing for you
searching for you
carving out a place for you
dying for a moment with you—
sometimes you want love to say
just a minute
to everything but you—
You,
who would give life and limb
to hold such passion in your arms—
to return it
breathe it
swallow it
become it—
this is what you want
on a night like this
when everything you have to give
is contained inside you
boiling
steaming
waiting to be wanted
and consumed—
all of it going
to such terrible waste.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
3-1-17

 

“Lady of Shalott” John William Waterhouse, 1888

First Encounter

Funny
how the mind
finds as much
excitement
in memory
as it does
in the infinite hope
of daydreams—

thrilling
as it is
to imagine
what’s to come,
what encounters
we have
to look
forward to—

it’s the
memory
of my navel
becoming
a cup
for your pleasure
that makes me
smile and pause—

and I stop
whatever it is
that needs
to be done
so I can slip
beneath you
once again
when I close my eyes.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
3-9-17

Duane Michals, 1969 “The Young Girl’s Dream”