Roses are red, Violets are…I guess I should leave the love poems to the experts. And there are so many experts to choose from. Some are classic love poems. Some love poems were posted on social media this year.
A few are sad or angry. All of them are beautiful. All of them are about love.
You are a ukulele beyond my microphone You are a Yukon beyond my Micronesia You are a union beyond my meiosis You are a unicycle beyond my migration You are a universe beyond my mitochondria You are a Eucharist beyond my Miles Davis You are a euphony beyond my myocardiogram You are a unicorn beyond my Minotaur You are a eureka beyond my maitai You are a Yuletide beyond my minesweeper You are a euphemism beyond my myna bird.
Which checks the insurance, and doesnt forget The milkman; which remembers to Beautiful writings on love bulbs.
And maintenance is the sensible side of love, Which knows what time and weather are doing To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring; Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps My suspect edifice upright in air, As Atlas did the sky. When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses. Trinkets of borrowed loves. Trunks of secret words. A post shared by Christopher Poindexter christopherpoindexter on Dec 7, at What was that sound that came in on the dark?
What is this maze of light it leaves us in? What is this stance we take, To turn away and then turn back? What did we hear? I think I was searching for treasures or stones in the clearest of pools when your face…. I came to you one rainless August night. You taught me how to live without the rain. You are thirst and thirst Beautiful writings on love all I know. You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky, The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand Your breath into my mouth.
You reach—then bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
You wrap your name tight around my ribs And keep me warm. I was born for you. Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.
I wake to you at dawn. Never break your Knot. Salva, traga, Break me, I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.
This sounds wonderful to everyone who suffers from lacking, but consider, too, that a ravine keeps nothing out:. I have an easygoing way about me. Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a Beautiful writings on love mole at the center of each flower. Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one, each to its end, until the whole field is a white desire, empty, a single stem, a cluster, flower by flower, a pious wish to whiteness gone over— or nothing.
I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut That will solve a murder case unsolved for years Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window Through which he saw her head, connecting with Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red Roof in her heart.
For this we live a thousand years; For this we love, and we live because we love, we are not Inside a bottle, thank goodness! I love you as the sunlight leads the prow Of a ship which sails From Hartford to Miami, and I love you Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun Receives me in the questions which you always pose. Sometimes she is like sherry, like the sun through a vessel of glass, Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood; Sometimes she Beautiful writings on love the colour of lions, of Beautiful writings on love in the fire of noon, Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon.
Sometimes she moves like rivers, sometimes like trees; Or tranced and fixed like South Pole silences; Sometimes she is beauty, sometimes fury, sometimes neither, Sometimes nothing, drained of meaning, null as water.
A post shared by amanda lovelace ladybookmad on Oct 10, at When we are old and these rejoicing veins Are frosty channels to a muted stream, And out of all our burning their remains No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, This be our solace: O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love, When morning strikes her spear upon the land, And we must rise and arm us and reprove The insolent daylight with a steady hand, Be not discountenanced if the knowing know We rose from rapture but an hour ago.
She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. And her voice is a string of coloured beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine. Typewriter Series by Tyler Knott Gregson …. Go grab some holiday gifts at chasersofthelight. A post shared by Tyler Knott Gregson tylerknott on Dec 17, at 4: Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injury To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean— Your two Beautiful writings on love eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene.
Upon my word, I tell you faithfully Through life and after death you are my queen; For with my death the whole truth shall be seen.