Tag Archives: love poetry

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”

Pep Talk

Sometimes it’s helpful
to imagine yourself
on your deathbed
or on a ship
sinking in the Pacific
hours away from shore—
or at the doctor’s office
reviewing test results
that feel like a life sentence—
short, abbreviated, abridged.
Today could be your last
and might as well be—
you are living as if
you have time to kill—
as if he does too—
that man you love so much
you’ve been seeing stars
when you close your eyes—
but you witnessed
a car wreck just last week
and you slid on the same
black ice that flipped
that minivan upside down
with a life inside
crashing into the reality
that it doesn’t matter
how much time
you think you have—
all you need to do is
stop the car, turn around
and drive back
to where you left him
in front of the fire—
tell him your love
is as solid as a brick wall
and you’d like to invite him
to drive into it.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
3-7-17

Photograph by Bill Brandt, “Hallifax” 1937