Season of Love

Love Poems In English

When Spring in sunny woodland lay,
And gilded buds were sparely set
On oak tree and the thorny may,
I gave my love a violet.
"O Love," she said, and kissed my mouth
With one light, tender maiden kiss,
"There are no rich blooms in the south
So fair to me as this!"

When Summer reared her haughty crest,
We paused beneath the ruddy stars;
I placed a rose upon her breast,
Plucked from the modest casement bars.
"O Love," she said, and kissed my mouth--
Heart, heart, rememb'rest thou the bliss?--
"In east or west, in north or south,
I know no rose but this!"

When Autumn raised the purple fruit
In clusters to his bearded lips,
I laid a heartsease on the lute
That sang beneath her finger-tips.
"O Love," she said--and fair her eyes
Smiled thro' the dusk upon the lea--
"No heartsease glows beneath the skies
But this thou givest me!"

When Winter wept at shaking doors,
And holly trimmed his ermine vest,
And wild winds maddened on the moors,
I laid a flower upon her breast.
"Dear Heart," I whispered to the clay,
Which stilly smiled yet answered not,
"Bear thou to Heaven itself away
True love's Forget-me-not!"

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Night Lights

English Poems

Pajama-clad kids uninhibited
perform a moon dance
choreographed by fire flies.
The cool grass carpet cushions shoeless feet
during their nocturnal hunt.
Tiny illuminations draw wide-eyed faces
into the twilight with arms outstretched.
There! No, there!
Still in pursuit, small hands pull at the air
to coax the drifters downward.
As bedtime approaches,
clean mayonnaise jars with hole punched lids sit empty.
Among the dark trees, a cupped hand
gently stops a lighted flight
and is tickled by its catch.
A flash, maybe two,
before it launches into the night sky.

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Miss You in Montana

English Poetry

Have you ever watched a storm
roll in across the ocean?
Perhaps the river would have to do.
He brought acrid red wine and white plastic cups.
This moment was the last as I knew him.
This was the night he intrigued me the most,
lingering on the rocks, watching
the storm roll in, waiting for him to roll out.
Montana called him tomorrow,
but I called him tonight,
away from the river and into the reach.
The field was soaked in rain and lightning,
our earnest excess of energy.
Or maybe it was the wine.
But St. Christopher had carried us there,
directly below the heavens that bellowed so wildly.
Rain kissed our skin softly, and we mimicked its tranquility.
I watched as the storm rolled in and you rolled away,
fading into nothing but these:
the letters and poems you never read.

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