By Hannah Bambach
I feel like my mother when I am in love.
I think it is the strawberries I grow on my windowsill
to have…
I think it is the strawberries I grow on my windowsill
to have…
Explore Poems: Classic Love
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- By Carole Boston WeatherfordIt was written in the stars:
A child is born.
From that moment on,
I only had eyes for you.
What a … - By Karen HoulePulling the foreign body off me— out of the dress up over my arms through the neckhole—
he says, You… - By Li-Young LeeWrist,
neck,
shoulder,
waist,
you turn.
And I turn with you.
Glance,
grasp,
blush,
breath,
you turn.
And I turn… - By Rosabetty MuñozTranslated By Claudia Nuñez de IbietaHere we converge toward the only star.
Let’s fall in, love of mine,
let’s drop our oars
down to where night… - By Rosabetty MuñozAquí confluimos hacia la única estrella.
Volquémonos amado mío,
dejemos caer los remos
hasta donde la noche… - By Julian GewirtzMy new country says drinks are cheap and I know what he wants.
Bartender folds her forefinger nine ninety… - By Joyce KilmerNow by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should… - By Alexis De VeauxI pray for us
as evening glides over
implore the gods
pray for us pray
for this breathing
planet the milky way
dreams us
into galaxy
no need for heaven this
is how it started:
way out beyond we
below
the sweet of your lips
dipped in promise
anxieties claim us
bark and skin
what we... - By Nome Emeka Patricklate night, our hearts ticking, the crickets outside
play the the drums of their lives
the candle by our bedside flickers, flickers
billie eilish in the background, in the red background
swears she knows us
i can hear your breath rubbing against mine
your breasts flattened... - By Ali LiebegottI want to grow old with you.
Old, old.
So old we pad through the supermarket
using the shopping cart as a cane that steadies us.
I’ll wait at register two in my green sweater
with threadbare elbows, smiling
because you’ve forgotten the bag of day-old... - By Hart CraneI
Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.
And in answer to their treble interjections
The sun beats lightning... - By Richard Rolle[Alle perisches and passes pat we with eghe see]
It wanes into wrechednes, þe welth of þis worlde.
Robes and ritches rotes in dike,
Prowde payntyng slakes into sorow,
Delites and drewryse stynk sal ful sone,
Þair golde and þaire tresoure drawes þam til dede.
Al... - By M. Bartley SeigelOn this cross-quarter day, quick to temper and cool,
your long lashes startle me with their rime of hoarfrost,
and I am snared like a rabbit pulled into your gravity
by the run of our long love affair together. The seasons race past,
one... - By Kara Jacksonstill, living like they orbit one another,
my grandfather, the planet, & grandma, his moon assigned
by some gravitational pull. they have loved long enough
for a working man to retire. grandma says she’s not tired,
she... - By Wendy BattinIf you can taste the oak in aging love,
then no betrayal overcomes the taste
of smoke on the lips and fire in the throat.
You drank some drug that no blood test can trace.
Love asks every thing, but will take nothing
for an... - By Craig Santos PerezI don't love you as if you were rare earth metals,
conflict diamonds, or reserves of crude oil that cause
war. I love you as one loves the most vulnerable
species: urgently, between the habitat and its loss.
I love you as one loves... - By Mohja KahfHere it is Ramadan
and I forgot to pray
I can think only of you
Here it is iftar
and I forgot to eat
banqueting on a joy
not at this table
Here it is nightfall
and I forgot the lightswitch
a whole chandelier
brilliant in my ribcage
Here it is... - By Luther HughesI came to understand you, dear aperture,
dear sweet sweet apple. I lean into the raven
headboard and place my finger on your pucker.
I tap once, twice, run a line from the delicate fruit
to the testicles’ porch, and the mumble
from the backhoe... - By Geraldine Clarksoni married a person of great age whom i had won
in a bet. they seemed prophet or king. of considerable
pedigree. and worshipper of chance.
...