Hey, love. I know you see me, we've exchanged a few words, just here and there, but I can't help but see you everywhere. I know you know me, you know what I like, but all we seem to do is fight. Maybe it's because, we both refuse to see, our true feelings really can come to be.
Hey, love, I know you like me, I know it's true, I really am just crushin' on you. I like your laugh, your smile, your voice, I just wish one of us would make that choice. The choice to admit that… just maybe, we could be something more than friends. Are we meant to be together in the end?
Hey, love. You're a really good friend, you know me so well, I just wish we both could tell. Tell if you liked me, or if I like you or if we're just being manipulated into something that's not really true.
Hey, love, thank you for being there, even if we're not meant to be. I'm still crushin' on you, I just don't want to let you see. I'm scared of my feelings, of being let down, but then again… is there any other way to know how? To know how to love, to know how to laugh, to know how to admit that we could be something more than friends.
Maybe, just maybe… we could be the game that ends.
We exchanged I love you’s and went our separate ways.
destiny had been kind to us for a season
Now, overflowing in tears
the nostalgia for something so wondrous and fair nearly kills me
It’s something different that the memories -
the dry uncontrollable ache of loss
which I daily transmute with ritual:
Fresh thyme grown in a pot near my feet,
Infused in oil in a jar
daily performed.
Searching in a new place and time
I play a different song
I finally got it through my head but
just cant break it to my heart.
The touch, soft like a feather.
The voice, filled with affection.
The gaze, makes her stunned.
The desire, which she craves.
Words exchanged by cooperation of weather.
Habits got adopted by some unknown connection.
Within the fear of being shunned.
The care, which she craves.
Both stubborn, more hardheaded
compromise was defeat
Never wrong but seldom right
enjoy the arguing
Could talk all day about nothing
but someone went left
the other stay right
Words exchanged but never violently
loud and profound each believed
the other thought the other nuts
Never met in the middle
divided by sides
Yet each looked forward to the times
they could met and converse
everything to anything under the Sun
Been awhile since I last saw him
would set at our spot waiting
but he never showed
One day his sister Tess walked by
Liam was not expected to live
Thanked her and gave sympathies
Did not see him, just could not go
strange I felt betrayed
Miss the funeral, couldn't do it
could not make myself go
A year after his death
I visited his grave
I left a stone engraved with two words
Peace Brother.
Silence does not win the argument he barked.
Nothing more can be said after victory I replied.
Who ever invented French Kissing?
Certainly, it’s nothing to be missing!
Open mouth – let alone
Other mouth – duplicate clone!
Two open-mouths lock so close
Lip-to-lip and beak-to-beak like two crows!
One tongue encircles the other
Round and slow, hearts churn butter!
Wet and slithering saliva swap
Heaping exchanges in drooling glops!
Taste the gallons or taste the drops
As heart beats race and minds all flop!
No…No…Whether gallons or droplets of drips
I’m certainly NOT missing saliva sips!
The pecking quick peck
Of a Woodpecker’s peck
I’m certain won’t make me gag nor sick!
Keep it clean…Keep it gentle
The Woodpecker’s peck is more sentimental.
Like two young “kinders” on Valentine’s Day
When simple cards are handed away
And both are bashful and way too shy
Mustering every courage to bypass both their “Shutterflies”
And the card is quickly handed with a quick closed-peck
One-second peck causes no harm, no foul, or even wreck!
Cute and quick
is the Woodpecker’s Peck
Such sensational expression of innocence exchanged between two
Our Heavenly Father may better approve
Between my hands warming themselves in the sun of tomorrow,
The memory of our shared moments is still present.
The sky, a wash of orange watercolor where a jasmine scent drifts.
My nets pull up my thoughts, anchors from the depths of time.
Between my hands escapes a smile lit by the lights of the past,
The memory of last hopes, for we always want to believe.
Each moment becomes precious and our eyes are filled with tears,
Our gazes speak and understand each other, time is running out.
Between my hands I press my temples tightly so as not to forget,
The memory of shared moments, no more trivialities, just being there.
You are luminous, the sound of logs crackling in the fireplace.
These exchanged words are nectar, and the fire will not erase them.
Our gazes meet and we know your body is growing tired,
Our pasts no longer matter in the fury of destiny.
One step, it is obvious, a thread of hope for life to charm again.
Last flash of light, time is hurried — here is the end of the path.
Joël Charvillat
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This poem is inspired by the true story of poets Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning. Bedridden and isolated, Elizabeth received a letter from Robert that began, "I love your verses with all my heart." Over 20 months they exchanged 574 letters that mended her fear and gave her life back.
574 LETTERS
Elizabeth lay bedridden in a lonely room,
A wounded bird behind walls of gloom.
Then came a letter, soft as a spell,
_"I love your verses with all my heart" Robert would tell.
A crack of light filled her cage of fear,
Whispers of love drove the mist from here.
574 letters crossed the night,
Mending her wings with gold and light.
Like lilies that grew in abandoned ground,
Her broken life to heaven was bound.
He didn’t burn the past or the pain,
He wrote her hope till she lived again.
So mend, don’t burn. Write, don’t run.
Love can heal anyone, anyone.
Their l was striking up conversation
Talking we were about past romances
It seemed a very strange situation
As we met in unusal circumstances
But boy what a feeling of elevation
That moment when your heart dances
What felt like it was a joint celebration
With exchanged smiles and glances
And though despite the hesitation
I found it hard to ignore her advances
Thinking that shes my desternation
I then chose to take my chances
Prequl to fate 98 follow up to poem chances all 3 written back to back 2018
A wise man unwritten letter
To his future self
A prickly feeling that keeps one on their feet
You notice the other but never yourself
You make time for the other
Stand on your feet and call out mistakes
A wild free feeling
Wanting for the wind
Can't grasp it
It's fleeting yet memorable
A whisper in the morning
A loud cry in the night
Exchanged letters and clothes
To become a memory no one should talk about
Cupcakes on Mondays
Sorbet on Thursdays
But you preferred Saturdays
Confessions said out loud
The heart not so sure
A wild free feeling
It's the magic they all talk about
To only turn devastating and tragic
Makes you wonder
It changes
Against two people
What becomes of it when a third arrives?
I haven't experienced it
But this is my definition
Comprehension is never taking seriously
Only the lucky ones
What is it actually?
It's quite haunting and daunting
If you ask me
I wanted to know what it was like
But I was scared my balloon will fly away
When I give it out
Rain chased me indoors,
into a café I’d never noticed
tucked between two antique shops.
A stranger waved me over~
mistaking me for someone else~
but smiling anyway.
We talked until the storm passed,
names exchanged like warm coins,
and parted lighter than we arrived.
Some accidents are invitations.
Under neon lights and polished floors,
Where innovation hums behind grand doors,
A city of brands in banners dressed,
Each booth a stage, each pitch a quest.
Voices rise in a rhythmic flow,
Of deals to spark and ideas to grow,
From handcrafted builds to digital dreams,
Every corner bursts with vibrant themes.
Designs that dazzle, bold and bright,
Structures rising in a single night,
Stories told through shape and space,
Each exhibit a brand’s embrace.
Footsteps echo on carpeted aisles,
Strangers meeting with knowing smiles,
Cards exchanged, connections made,
Opportunities bloom in the trade show parade.
Screens flicker with future visions,
Products born from bold decisions,
From modular forms to custom art,
Each booth reflects a beating heart.
And when the lights begin to fade,
And the grand displays start to wane,
What lingers still beyond the view—
Are the ties we built, the dreams we grew.
For a trade show is more than display,
It’s where tomorrow finds its way.
Father Time keeps the exchange
and he does not barter,
a minute spent is not redeemable,
what’s done is done, kerplop!
Into the river it drops flowing ever on and away
until it joins the Styx and crosses over
to the unknown realm of death
and what comes after.
However, Father says good deeds are favors
on deposit for crossover at the end,
and may be exchanged for treasure
of the immortal kind.
Time can never be regained,
but deeds done unselfishly
without regard for a reward,
are Father Time’s most highly placed.
Young man, you are rich with time -
you have a whole life ahead.
Young man, how I wish it were mine,
and I had your riches instead.
So, won't you, on this fine Spring Day,
spend a little of your time on me?
I don't take cash. I will take it as pay
if you tell me of being young and free.
Old man, you have the whole day,
you are surely rich with time.
Work and school have taken mine away.
How I wish your time was mine -
and with that, the young man swiftly left,
and that ended their debate.
Both of those fellows were feeling bereft -
with currencies exchanged at a different rate.
tempest pools
he works all day
my woodman
he deserves some play
some interchange in tempest pools
my woodman makes me sigh
he makes me giggle
his pleasure’s my triumph
whatever I do is exchanged for better
my woodman’s prodigal tongue
sparks soul-confirming oaths
I lose myself
Lucky me
I have a woodman
the gipsy's cool audacity
and I’ve known the charms of love
.
.
Songs for this:
Teach Me Tonight by James Taylor
Everytime You Make Me Smile by Massimo Costa & Mika Logo
I'll Tumble 4 Ya by Culture Club
For my 9th grade graduation,
I received my first real ring.
My parents thought that it would be
The best gift they could bring.
It wasn’t very often that
Our presents were in gold.
We weren’t rolling in the bucks
And I had not cajoled.
A friend of mine had gotten one,
An opal, center-set,
With diamond chips surrounding it,
A style I can’t forget.
So when I saw my ring, which in
Its middle held a pearl
With a little sparkly flower,
I was not a happy girl.
To me, a pearl seemed older,
Meant for someone middle-aged.
I don’t remember if
My disappointment was assuaged.
I’m sure they knew my feelings
But it couldn’t be exchanged,
So I wore that ring, but how I felt
About it never changed.
It resides now in a box with
Other jewelry from my past
And as for rings I haven’t loved,
That pearl one was the last.
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