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Non Religious Wedding Poems and Vows
Non Religious Wedding Poems and Vows
The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
in the dark red lipstick of desire.
She visited in '68 still wearing skirts
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
lipstick pale as apricot milk,
hair loose as a horse's mane. Oh dear,
I thought in my superiority of the moment,
whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
She was out of fashion, out of the game,
disqualified, disdained, dis-
membered from the club of desire.
Look at pictures in French fashion
magazines of the 18th century:
century of the ultimate lady
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet
each way, while the waist is pinched
and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out
offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache:
hair like a museum piece, daily
ornamented with ribbons, vases,
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes
that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
a woman made of pain.
How superior we are now: see the modern woman
thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning,
fits herself into machines of weights
and pulleys to heave and grunt,
an image in her mind she can never
approximate, a body of rosy
glass that never wrinkles,
never grows, never fades. She
sits at the table closing her eyes to food
hungry, always hungry:
a woman made of pain.
A cat or dog approaches another,
they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick. They fall
in love as often as we do,
as passionately. But they fall
in love or lust with furry flesh,
not hoop skirts or push up bras
rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs
that poodles are clipped
to topiary hedges.
If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves
like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads?
Why should we want to scourge our softness
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
Why should we punish each other with scorn
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?
When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?
Author: Marge Piercy
THE SENTENCE
Perhaps I can make it plain by analogy.
Imagine a machine, not yet assembled,
Each part being quite necessary
To the functioning of the whole: if the job is fumbled
And a vital piece mislaid
The machine is quite valueless,
The workers will not be paid.
It is just the same when constructing a sentence
But here we must be very careful
And lay stress on the extreme importance
Of defining our terms: nothing is as simple
As it seems at first regard.
"Sentence" might well mean to you
The amorous rope or twelve years" hard.
No, by "sentence" we mean, quite simply, words
Put together like the parts of a machine.
Now remember we must have a verb: verbs
Are words of action like Murder, Love, or Sin.
But these might be nouns, depending
On how you use them –
Already the plot is thickening.
Except when the mood is imperative; that is to say
A command is given like Pray, Repent, or Forgive
(Dear me, these lessons get gloomier every day)
Except, as I was saying, when the mood is gloomy –
I mean imperative
We need nouns, or else of course
Pronouns; words like Maid,
Man, Wedding or Divorce.
A sentence must make sense. Sometimes I believe
Our lives are ungrammatical. I guess that some of
you
Have misplaced the direct object: the longer I live
The less certain I feel of anything I do.
But now I begin
To digress. Write down these simple sentences:--
I am sentenced: I love: I murder: I sin.
Author: Vernon Scannell
1
You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with henna-colored hair, skin like a peachbud,
still have your dresses copied from that time,
and play a Chopin prelude
called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections
float like perfume through the memory."
Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake,
heavy with useless experience, rich
with suspicion, rumor, fantasy,
crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge
of mere fact. In the prime of your life.
Nervy, glowering, your daughter
wipes the teaspoons, grows another way.
2
Banging the coffee-pot into the sink
she hears the angels chiding, and looks out
past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky.
Only a week since They said: Have no patience.
The next time it was: Be insatiable.
Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save.
Sometimes she's let the tapstream scald her arm,
a match burn to her thumbnail,
or held her hand above the kettle's snout
right inthe woolly steam. They are probably angels,
since nothing hurts her anymore, except
each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.
3
A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.
The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature,
that sprung-lidded, still commodious
steamer-trunk of tempora and mores
gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers,
the female pills, the terrible breasts
of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids.
Two handsome women, gripped in argument,
each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream
across the cut glass and majolica
like Furies cornered from their prey:
The argument ad feminam, all the old knives
that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours,
ma semblable, ma soeur!
4
Knowing themselves too well in one another:
their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn,
the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn...
Reading while waiting
for the iron to heat,
writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun--
in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum,
or, more often,
iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird,
dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.
5
Dulce ridens, dulce loquens,
she shaves her legs until they gleam
like petrified mammoth-tusk.
6
When to her lute Corinna sings
neither words nor music are her own;
only the long hair dipping
over her cheek, only the song
of silk against her knees
and these
adjusted in reflections of an eye.
Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before
an unlocked door, that cage of cages,
tell us, you bird, you tragical machine--
is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down
by love, for you the only natural action,
are you edged more keen
to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown
her household books to you, daughter-in-law,
that her sons never saw?
7
"To have in this uncertain world some stay
which cannot be undermined, is
of the utmost consequence."
Thus wrote
a woman, partly brave and partly good,
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more,
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore.
8
"You all die at fifteen," said Diderot,
and turn part legend, part convention.
Still, eyes inaccurately dream
behind closed windows blankening with steam.
Deliciously, all that we might have been,
all that we were--fire, tears,
wit, taste, martyred ambition--
stirs like the memory of refused adultery
the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years.
9
Not that it is done well, but
that it is done at all? Yes, think
of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child,
Time's precious chronic invalid,--
would we, darlings, resign it if we could?
Our blight has been our sinecure:
mere talent was enough for us--
glitter in fragments and rough drafts.
Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mold straight off.
For that, solitary confinement,
tear gas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.
10
Well,
she's long about her coming, who must be
more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge
breasted and glancing through the currents,
taking the light upon her
at least as beautiful as any boy
or helicopter,
poised, still coming,
her fine blades making the air wince
but her cargo
no promise then:
delivered
palpable
ours.
Author: Adrienne Rich
"The Village That Voted the Earth Was Flat"-- A Diversity of Creatures
The Soldier may forget his Sword,
The Sailorman the Sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
And the Priest his Litany:
The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,
And the Bride her wedding-dress--
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
Ere we forget the Press!
Who once hath stood through the loaded hour
Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour
Their league-long paper-bale,
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
That follows the midnight stress--
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
We call the daily Press.
Who once hath dealt in the widest game
That all of a man can play,
No later love, no larger fame
Will lure him long away.
As the war-horse snuffeth the battle afar,
The entered Soul, no less,
He saith: "Ha! Ha!" where the trumpets are
And the thunders of the Press!
Canst thou number the days that we fulfill,
Or the Times that we bring forth?
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
And cause them reign on earth?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings,
To please his foolishness?
Sit down at the heart of men and things,
Companion of the Press!
The Pope may launch his Interdict,
The Union its decree,
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
By Us and such as We.
Remember the battle and stand aside
While Thrones and Powers confess
That King over all the children of pride
Is the Press--the Press--the Press!
Author: Rudyard Kipling
Love is a secret . . . Keep it
Love is a rose . . . Grow with it
Love is a mystery . . . Unfold it
Love is an adventure . . . Chance it
Love is beauty . . . Pamper it
Love is a song . . . Sing it
Love is a struggle . . . Deal with it
Love is sorrowful . . . Mourn with it
Love is a book . . . Renew it
Love is a fire inside . . . Never let it die
Your love is
quite sensational –
Your laughter tastes
like spring-time rain
Your tears smell
like sweet lemon flower petals
Your voice looks
so
deeply
majestic
Your heart sounds
like exquisite violin and harp concertos
And your eyes!
Your eyes feel
like early autumn sunset’s amber-gold lengthening glow
Oh, my love, your love
is entirely, completely,
embracingly
Sen-sational!
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday ***** his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,—
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
Author: Conrad Aiken
My soldier boy has crossed the sea
To fight the foeman;
But he'll come back to make of me
And honest woman.
So I am singing all day long,
Despite blood-shedding;
For though I know he's done me wrong,
We'll end by wedding.
My soldier boy is home again,
So bold and scathless;
But oh, my heart is numb with pain
Because he's faithless.
He's brought with him a French Mam'selle;
They plan a marriage;
Maybe I'll go - no one will know
Of my miscarriage.
My soldier boy has made his choice,
She'll hold him to it;
I tell myself that I rejoice,
May he not rue it.
But oh, that starry month of May,
Love-words wild spoken!
I stand alone and make no moan . . .
My heart is broken.
Author: Robert William Service
December twentieth two thousand and three,
A day to remember in my memory.
The day that my daughter, the light of my life,
Will walk down the aisle, to become someone’s wife.
And I shall be proud as I walk by her side,
The father of such a beautiful bride.
The groom will be waiting, best man by his side,
And lips will be bitten, eyes trying not to cry.
Vows they will both make “I do “both will say,
On this, my daughters wedding day.
Proud we’ll both stand, her mother and me,
And remember the time that they were we.
I watch you walk up our front path,
the entire right side of your body,
stiff and unbending, your leg,
dragging on the ground,
your arm not moving.
Six different times you ask me
the date of our daughter's wedding,
seem surprised each time,
forget who called, though you can name
obscure desert animals,
and every detail of events
that took place in 3 B.C.
You complain now of pain
in your muscles, of swimming at the Y
where a 76 year old man tells you
you swim too slowly.
I imagine a world in which
you cannot move.
Most days, I force myself to look
only into the past;
remember you, singing
and playing your guitar: "Black,
black is the color of my true love's hair,"
you sang, and each time you came into a room
how my love for you caught in my throat,
how handsome you were, how strong
and muscular, how the sun
lit your blond hair.
Now I pretend not to notice
the trouble you have buttoning
your shirt, and yes, I am terrified
and no, I cannot tell you.
The future is a murky lake.
I am afraid of the monsters
who wait just below its surface.
Even in our mahogany bed, I am not safe.
Each day, I swim toward
everything I didn't want to know.
Copyright © 1997 by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, all rights reserved.
Author: Maria Mazziotti Gillan
so much behind us -
may the next thirty-five years. . .
go slow and easy!
For LInda- Marie's "Voicing Vows" Contest
I have done with love and lust,
I reck not for gold or fame;
I await familiar dust
These frail fingers to reclaim:
Not for me the tiger flame.
Not for me the furnace glow,
Rage of fire and ashen doom;
To sweet earth my bones bestow
Where above a lowly tomb
January roses bloom.
Fools and fools and fools are you
Who your dears to fires confide;
Give to Mother Earth her due:
Flesh may waste but bone will bide,--
Let loved ones lie side by side.
Let God's Acre ever dream;
Shed your tears and blossoms bring;
On age-burnished bone will gleam
Crucifix and wedding ring:
Graves are for sweet comforting.
Curst be those who my remains
Hurl to horror of the flames!
Author: Robert William Service
two hearts enraptured in love exchange vows
star eyes can’t see pass the day
hope indwells lovers’ hearts
ceremonious feast and dance ensues
two souls united in flesh
wedding celebration
~*~
For Dr. Ram's "Wedding is One Special Event in Marriage"
~~*~~ ~~*~~
nerves crack a week before vows,
pre-nup dinners get mixed-up,
groom’s tuxedo needs revamp…
best man churns new speech!
from bride’s nth hairstyle redo
to choir revisions; why do
rehearsals take more days than …
the five-hour wedding?
all rights reserved
©
*hour has one syllable
hou-rs has two syllables
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for Dr. Ram's Wedding Rehearsals- Dodoitsu
by: nette onclaud
~The bride wore white gown, the groom his blue tux
Symbol of wedding complete
Shotgun did wedding vows
~Bride and groom together bear wedding bliss
When sweet devotion is borne
Small feet will walk on hearts
For and in honor of Dr Ram
And wedding contest
Sue’s bad hair day, ripped dress, tight shoes, drop rings,
parents share our cabs, fluff vows,
cold lunch, wonderful night
My love is everlasting,
Expanding everyday,
With every passing second,
There's more than I can say.
You are always with me,
Inside my heart and head,
And all that I can think of,
Are things that you have said.
You are my one and only,
I hope you feel the same,
I always want to be with you,
To share the same last name.
The wide Pacific waters
And the Atlantic meet.
With cries of joy they mingle,
In tides of love they greet.
Above the drowned ages
A wind of wooing blows: —
The red rose woos the lotos,
The lotos woos the rose . . .
The lotos conquered Egypt.
The rose was loved in Rome.
Great India crowned the lotos:
(Britain the rose's home).
Old China crowned the lotos,
They crowned it in Japan.
But Christendom adored the rose
Ere Christendom began . . .
The lotos speaks of slumber:
The rose is as a dart.
The lotos is Nirvana:
The rose is Mary's heart.
The rose is deathless, restless,
The splendor of our pain:
The flush and fire of labor
That builds, not all in vain. . . .
The genius of the lotos
Shall heal earth's too-much fret.
The rose, in blinding glory,
Shall waken Asia yet.
Hail to their loves, ye peoples!
Behold, a world-wind blows,
That aids the ivory lotos
To wed the red red rose!
Author: Vachel Lindsay
Honorable vows
Undying love
Stability
Beautiful
Awesome
Never alone
Dependable
Adjoined for life
Noble
Desirable
Witty
Intelligent
Forever
Enduring
Love is all I feel,
With every passing day,
Each time that our lips seal,
I give my heart away.
In words I say "I love you",
And my heart feels the same,
With my soul I'll say "I do",
I know this is not a game.
Life is very wonderful,
He is always near,
The rest of my years will be joyful,
Because he will be right here.
i've found the greatest guy
the one i wanna marry
at first he was very shy
the one i wanna marry
then i fell hard for him
the one i wanna marry
and as the days go by with him
the one i wanna marry
my love grows stronger for
the one i wanna marry
he opened a whole new door
the one i wanna marry
to a future so bright n pure
the one i wanna marry
the one thing i know for sure
the one i wanna marry
he is the only one my love is for
the one i wanna marry
is you
the one i wanna marry
is david william orr
December twentieth two thousand and three,
A day to remember in my memory.
The day that my daughter, the light of my life,
Will walk down the aisle, to become someone’s wife.
And I shall be proud as I walk by her side,
The father of such a beautiful bride.
The groom will be waiting, best man by his side,
And lips will be bitten, eyes trying not to cry.
Vows they will both make “I do “ both will say,
On this, my daughters wedding day.
Proud we’ll both stand, her mother and me,
And remember the time that they were we.
The wedding day is finally here.
The bride is happy and full of cheer
The groom is waiting, standing tall
for his lovely bride to grace them all.
Such a vision, all dressed in white
her gown is flowing what a beautiful sight.
The rings are exchanged,
the vows have been said,
on this special day,
the couple is wed.
Pronounced to the world,
Husband and Wife
together they go
to start their new life.
Almost the shell of a woman after the surgeon's knife!
And almost a year to creep back into strength,
Till the dawn of our wedding decennial
Found me my seeming self again.
We walked the forest together,
By a path of soundless moss and turf.
But I could not look in your eyes,
And you could not look in my eyes,
For such sorrow was ours -- the beginning of gray in your hair,
And I but a shell of myself.
And what did we talk of? -- sky and water,
Anything, 'most, to hide our thoughts.
And then your gift of wild roses,
Set on the table to grace our dinner.
Poor heart, how bravely you struggled
To imagine and live a remembered rapture!
Then my spirit drooped as the night came on,
And you left me alone in my room for a while,
As you did when I was a bride, poor heart.
And I looked in the mirror and something said:
"One should be all dead when one is half-dead --
Nor ever mock life, nor ever cheat love."
And I did it looking there in the mirror --
Dear, have you ever understood?
Author: Edgar Lee Masters
The first night is sweet
Give and take makes it sweeter
For the vow to last,
Love is the answer, mending…
The differences we cast
Life is Good,come share with me.
Love is Free, come share with me.
Laughter is Healthy,come share with me.
So,Please come share your life,love, and laughter.
Be with me till eternity.
This is everything I have to offer to thee.
With this ring
I will wed
Then I'll take
You home to bed
Honor and cherish
I will do
Always and forever
I'll love you
Our rings are silver
Our hearts are gold
From this day forward
I'll have you to hold
Solid and strong
Our marriage will be
Together forever
For all to see
LOVE IS A VERY WONDERFUL FEELING AND THOSE WHO ARE BLESSED TO RECEIVE IT
ONCE, ARE EXTREMELY BLESSED WHEN WE RECEIVE IT IN OUR LIVES TWICE,BECAUSE
NOTHING IS MORE REWARDING IN LIFE THAN KNOWING YOU HAVE SOMEONE WHO NOT
ONLY BRINGS OUT YOUR BEST,BUT ENHANCES IT AS WELL,IT IS EASY TO SAY THE WORDS
BUT THE EXPRESSION FAR OUT WEIGHS ALL OF THAT,WE FAIL TO REALIZE THAT
SOMETIMES WE CAN MAKE OR BREAK THAT VERY LOVE BY NOT FEEDING TO THE HEARTS
OF THOSE WE LOVE.
Life is good,come share with me.
Love is free, come share with me.
Laughter is healthy,come share with me.
So, PLEASE COME:
Live,Love,Laugh with me:
For Eternity.
I will marry Parme and i will have my wife
-------------when----------
when she is free again!
When she can say the vows;
the I wills and the I hows,
the time has come to be in bliss,
I kiss (ewe)
I will marry My Parme
and I will have my life!
I will find a place to stay for my Parme;
out of the rain but near the plain;
Out of the heat we will never burn!
I learn to swallow pride
I learn to kiss(())
I will marry Parme
and then--------
I will never die.
She loves me.
She loves me.
She never loves me not.