MAP
54
This week's theme: Love poems that make me smile (because last
week's theme didn't)
Upcoming
themes:
#55:
The Holocaust
#56:
Return of the lost sonnets
#57:
There's no place like home for the holidays
Send
submissions in the body of e-letter. No attachments, please.
Thanks
to all who have generously made your poetry available for the
newsletter. Y'all made it really tough this week; so many smiles, so
little space.
1.
Lynne McJunkins, of Austin had me smiling at "an explosion of
chocolate")
Kissing
You
Kissing
you is like
An
explosion of chocolate
And
tangerine sweetness.
Touching
you is like
Feeling
satin so pure
It
slips through my fingers.
Holding
you is like
Wrapping
myself in flannel
By
a blazing fireplace.
Making
love to you is like
Swimming
in liquid exctasy
And
slipping into the deep end.
Falling
in love with you is like
Loosing
myself in white dreamscapes
A
fantasy that lasts for all time.
©
1998 A. Lynne McJunkins
2.
And from Jimmy Smith in So. Cal.
Love
electric
I
first found you
in
my cyber spaced
over
the pacific
by
a sandy shore
near
the antarctic
wasteland
your
words were delicious
they
had almond eyes
and
dark skin,
I
ran my fingers over your metaphors
and
swooned to see your
adjectives
swell
like
ripe strawberries
in
my hands
I
composed a limerick about
each
of your breasts
and
imagined how sweet your aussie voice
would
sound
"not
too grotty, eh mate?"
if
we ever speak I know
I
will embarrass myself
fawning
over your
simile
gently
kissing the noun
you
walk on
i
have nothing but
descriptive
adjectives for you
and
although we will
never
verb
you
will always pronoun me
in
the first person
ah,
sweet conjunction
lost
in a paraphrase.
love's
languor
liquid
in my
data
base
3.
Renewed contact with this old friend made me smile even before
reading his poem. As well, I like his "proverbial jiffy".
From Nyenga, lately of Tacoma, Washington.
Stop
Thinking
Look,
neither life nor love come with a help manual
and
I doubt that dying is like waiting
in
an airport lounge.
That
our souls might be mates may remain
the
one unturned stone in the universe
if
I never again am intoxicated
by
the nectar of your kiss
or
allowed to bask in the bliss of butterflies
when
your lips locate the base of my spine.
The
flicker of a fleeting thought in your eye,
is
of higher intellect than my brightest reasoning,
the
silence of your smile, more eloquent
than
my most articulate invocations of love;
Listen,
I swear on the first time I saw you
that
the proverbial jiffy with you
is
infinitely more fulfilling
than
eternities in any others company...
and
the flutter in my breast agrees.
So
come with me
let's
carve our initials
in
a heart on the bark of a firm tree
while
the earth still wears green
and
Winter remains in hibernation.
Ah...stop
thinking
and
just cover my lips with yours...
is
it not our emotions that lend life to our intellects?
©
1998 Nyenga
4.
Joseph Powell, of Burbank, sent a sweet little piece.
bliss
you
are my bliss
let
me follow you
the
honey of your kiss
let
me swallow you;
the
caress of your fingertips
let
me feel you;
your
heart, your soul,
let
me steal you.
as
your eyes gaze into mine,
let
me see the love
that
will not let me go.
from
your lips,
let
loose words that will engulf me
in
waves of passion unstoppable;
let
our bodies unite as we complete
the
circle of that
which
was meant to be
since
the dawn of time
as
we enter eternity,
spinning
into infinity;
losing
ourselves and yet,
finding
ourselves,
changing
and growing,
becoming
a glorious one.
like
a phoenix rising,
spinning
and spinning
in
a beautiful rapture;
in
unmatchable ecstasy,
in
sweet copulation,
like
Eros and Psyche,
as
we dance to the music of the spheres.
(c)
Joseph Powell
5.
This one by Chris Vannoy, in St. Pete, might make my friend Marla
smile, too.
Like
Coltrane
she
is like
Coltrane
blue
jazz
thumping
in my chest
each
time I see
the
sway of hips
and
that wink
that
tells me she's all mine
late
at night she whispers
low,
slow words that sound to me like
ice
melting in mid summers heat
and
like a down beat
she
plays me
like
a down beat
then
there's no holding back
as
soft riffs laughter spill around me
and
she's cradled in my arms
like
a tenor sax
that
my fingers are just aching to play
©
1998 Chris Vannoy
6.
And introducing Ian Reed, one of the Brit Bradford writers coming to
AIPF '99.
Ian
explains: (Note: Totty is a semi-derogatory, colloquial, term used to
denote young attractive females. Probably doesn't translate very well
but what the heck.)
Her
new guy's Ferrari
=====================
She
was posh totty you know
Not
the type to be seen with me down the pub
You
could tell she'd never seen the inside of a working man's
club.
Everyone
knew that this was going to go
Nowhere,
fast.
She
was posh totty you know
Not
the type to be seen with the likes of me on a night out
With
all my mates when we'd sing and dance and shout.
Even
I knew this was going to go
Nowhere,
fast.
Just
like her new guy's Ferrari
7.
And as my grandfather said, there’s always room for one more. From
Janet Buck
The
Leaning Branch
Law
& order
in
the rodeo
eternal
love
involves
the
blackout
of reason.
Lights
come from places
we
often fear.
The
coat rack of flounder
fills
up fast.
Lust
is a matador
with
bright red skirts
that
steals the eyes
and
blows in ears.
“Old”
descends
and
starts to smell--
slabs
of meatloaf
in
the fridge.
Bed
rails of
a
wedding ring
must
stand for
necks
forgiving swans;
branches
lean in
needy
winds.
Braille
tender,
arms
around
a
fleeting angel.
Lily
pads that chase a frog
and
stay afloat
to
spite the freeze.
by
Janet I. Buck