Why buy flowers that fade? A sonnet lives forever!
As a husband since 1976, I’ve written a lot of love poetry.
As a freelance poet and as prime editor for Popcorn Press, I’ve even written some commissioned pieces.
At the moment, I’m accepting new commissions in time for Valentine’s Day! Or whatever other event you care to celebrate.
Prices are just $5 per line, so $15 for a well-crafted haiku, $25 for a limerick, $70 for a full sonnet. Contact me here to work out details.
Here are a few samples of my work:
“Buy a straw hat to get a girl,
young fella!” the general store
owner hailed my granddad, a smile
spreading his jowls like pale butter,
his soft hand tweaking stacked boaters.
“Buy a straw hat to get a girl!”
he repeated, smiling the more.
Granddad stood silent, rafter tall,
and poor—white shirt, bib overalls,
and Sunday shoes all clean, but worn.
“Buy a straw hat to get a girl?”
He said, “It’s not what I come for,”
and eyed the girl at the counter.
She crossed her arms, then slowly curled
a grin, and said, “Some need never
buy a straw hat to get a girl.”
Our love is not a hot-air balloon ride,
buoyed by a mutually kindled flame,
to drift sublimely upon winds we tame
by twining hands and sharing airy sighs.
Our love is not a swan-shaped paddleboat,
propelled on pleasant, placid waters by
the gentle rhythm of our churning thighs,
while I lay kisses on your lilied throat.
No, our love is two runaway night trains,
each rushing blindly through the endless black,
howling our loneliness in silent towns,
to meet head-on, at last, on some dark plain,
to lurch, screeching together, from the track,
and roll, conjoined forever, toward dawn.
Earth, Air, Fire, & Water for Jenny
(on our 30th anniversary)
I know a man with both feet on the ground
(he says) who told me, “Jesus is excused
for preaching peace; He never had to rule.”
I know a gal with eyes fixed on the clouds,
who says, “The world is rushing to its doom,”
and so she waits for God, and cheers for ruin.
And here I am, with burning eyes, a crown
of flaming thoughts binding my head, a fool
who wants to save the world (though helpless to),
Returning to the only hope I know,
the tempering of your cool ebb and flow.
Amazing, nothing less, at this gray age,
across the dusty distance of such years,
to waken from a dream in youthful tears
for an old love, “the one who got away,”
while she who sleeps beside me holds me here,
in comfort of the history we share.
Sleep deeply, Eve. I’ll marvel while I may—
in grip of earnest passion I had feared
forgotten—and imagine, if I dare,
that somewhere Lilith also lies awake.
And, in a different vein, a short alphabetic morph rhyme:
With borrowed hands, she slowly weaves a braid
of someone else’s hair, a different breed
still from her face, her breasts, this pallid bride
to be, this patchwork woman child whose borrowed
womb will someday bear the Monster’s brood.