Oh, I wish I were in love.
How I love to be in love!
It’s so great to be in love —
Until you’re dumped.
Oh, but love is so exciting,
With emotions all igniting,
In the favored one delighting —
‘Til you’re dumped.
I believed in sweet romance,
Loving arms in which to dance,
Titillated by a glance —
Then I got dumped.
Now, I’m not so sure of love,
It’s so hard real love to prove,
And if I don’t fall in love —
I can’t get dumped!
Perhaps I should let my faithful readers know that this poem is not based on a true story. Actually it grew out of a brief experience I had today when I turned on the car radio and heard a song from my high school days. It took me instantly back to a restaurant where I was enjoying some time with a guy I “thought” I was semi-in-love with. He never did allow the relationship to develop into anything serious, and for a short time, I was unhappy. However, by 5 years later, I was thanking God that I never got into anything more serious with him than a mere friendship. I do pity his wife a good deal. But as I thought about that experience, I just sat down to write a poem about how we tend to fall in love with love sometimes, and — well — this is what I ended up with.
The scent of you —
When first I wake to greet the day —
The warm, intoxicating pleasure of your fragrance touch:
It triggers tiny conflagrations deep inside of me
That spark a thousand more responses and then rush
To touch my mind. And then my senses come alive —
Each one: to taste, to hear, to touch, to see, to smell.
It is your smell that lingers, captivating all of me —
Throughout the day, constantly reminding me —
The sweet scent of the only one I’ll ever love so well.
A short Coffee post today. It’s a really busy time for me, but I do still love my coffee. Don’t forget: you’re invited to post about coffee on your site and paste your link into the “Comments” windows below — anytime this week.
I joined the queue outside the door,
Just after 6:00 a.m.
The morning sun had chased the fog,
But warmth was pretty thin.
My breath formed steam each time I spoke,
And pockets warmed my hands.
I yearned for coffee, hot and strong,
A large cup — maybe Grande.
We inched along with moderate speed,
And soon I stood inside.
The fresh aroma brought a smile;
It’s tantalizing tide
Mingled with the cozy sounds
Of orders glorified:
Venti Frappucino – Tall
Mocha Latte – Grande.
Really, there’s no end.
At last, I stood before the bar;
The young barista frowned.
He know I’d order coffee – plain.
No whip, no froth — just brown.
I normally prefer a mug for coffee.
Although I’ve drunk my share in Styrofoam.
And when I’m traveling for work or pleasure,
I take a travel cup with lid from home.
A cup that’s big and roomy has its assets.
It lets me warm my hands around it’s bowl.
Unfortunately, it also has its drawbacks.
For long before I’ve finished, coffee’s cold.
Of course, that’s not a problem in this tech world.
For microwaves are everywhere these days.
And I just pop my cup inside to warm it.
Then sipping merrily, go on my way.
I’ll drink my brew from old-time percolator,
Or from a modern Keurig brewing pot,
Vending machines and fancy coffee houses,
And my drip coffee maker hits the spot.
I’m not too hard to please, and I’m a purist,
Just black with nothing added that’s bizarre.
Just please don’t bring me Starbucks or Gervalia,
And, for heaven’s sake, no instant from a jar!
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Meaningless words are so absurd.
The most absurd I’ve ever heard.
Now, I don’t mean to be a nerd;
And insult I have not inferred.
But, really, when I’m quite unstirred
By words whose meanings are deferred,
My reading seems like riding herd
On crazy cattle who’ve been spurred.
All sanity and sense are slurred
By meaningless words that are absurd.
You can take part in today’s prompt by visiting Daily Post
Oh, that I were a poet.
I would share thoughts so sublime.
I’d create lovely images,
In meter and in rhyme.
I’d delve my inmost being
And discover truths so pure.
Then I’d carefully release them
Into words that would endure.
Oh, that I were a poet –
Not just one who writes in verse.
But to be a genuine poet
Is both blessing and a curse.
Poets true to their great calling
Must give forth all that’s inside.
Every piece they write’s revealing,
Secret selves they cannot hide.
For in halls of education
Teachers who are “in the know”
Will interpret all that’s written
And out of proportion blow.
If the name below the poem
Is one famous as a bard,
Then his simple words and pictures
Are by education marred.
So – I’m glad I’m not a poet.
It’s much better to be free
From high-brow interpretation
And write verse that’s just plain me.
I figure I can get away with this slam against most literary interpretation since I spent many, many years of my life as an English and Literature teacher. Standard curricula encourage and often require teachers to help students learn to “interpret” poems. Occasionally, there is a real underlying meaning to the words in those stanzas, but more often than not, they mean exactly what they say and nothing more. In the last several years as a high school teacher, I tried to help students develop a love and an enjoyment of poetry rather than pushing them to try to find hidden meanings in every piece. Life is best when we keep it simple. So is poetry.