Love Poems


The Note


A note passed in open hand

Is squeezed in tiny fingers

And pressed against

A bleeding heart


A heart that was broken

A thousand times or more

A heart that is struggling

To take any more


Her journey that started at dawn

Broken sleep on bone crushing seats

On a slow coach of racing green

Passing steeples and village greens


Two weeks of surviving life

Two weeks of being alone

Planning what to say

Being precise and to the point


The journey drags as it usually does

In semi-consciousness she dreams of running through fields

With her handsome young man

So tall, so strong and bold as brass


The tenderness and respect

A gentle kiss upon the neck

She never hoped for more

He was the one, always the one


She awakes momentarily and glimpses the smoke of a town

A good town, an industrial backbone town

Full of hard working men, just like her man

Sleep overcomes her once again


A jolt as the bus slows down

Springs her into anticipation

And she sees the austere towers

And the heavily fortified gate


Standing at the bus stop

She watches the bus disappear

Arriving ten minutes early

She has time to kill


Feeling empty and achy

She walks to the gate

She now has just an hour to wait

Before she can interact and relate


Facing her partner across trestle table

With a smile, but with the tracks of a tear

She sees his face of pain and fear

And with tiny fingers she passes her note




Lost Love (The last night)


She sits crossed legged on a white Persian rug

With tears rolling down her face

Candle light illuminates her golden hair

Which shines, as ringlets loosen and fall on a chair

Pools of tears gather like an impending storm

With rivers of despair waiting to be born

Dressed in lace she caresses her breast

And imagines the strength of her lovers chest

Where frequently her head delicately came to rest

She cries openly from deep down inside

She knows that this was her very last night


As wax drips on the sandstone floor

Her hero, her lover has gone to war

No more will she see his face

Or remember his smell or his taste

No more will she gently tend and care

As she stroked his greased back raven hair

Or tend his aching muscles so tight and so torn

He was built like a fighting machine

Lean and mean and deadly to his foe

But tender and light of touch to her opalescent glow

She can imagine his fingertips as they flow on her back

She can still feel his breathe warm to her neck


But in her minds eye she has no regrets

She is full of sadness, but she has her respect

Knowing her hero wanted her in every conceivable way

Her hero needed her on this last night

For a moment of joy and as they unite

His every sinew was primed and ready to fight

He loved her deeply like never before

He loved her with passion and she still wanted more

As their bodies lay exhausted and entwined on the floor

His love was full of power and still lingered on

But when she awoke she found he was gone


War was his business and war was his game

His sword was the justice and his blade was his pride

Death was his future that carried no blame

Mourning was her duty and a bride she never became




The Final Love Letter


Contemplating our future

Planting our feet on dry land

Man is not an island

With his head buried in the sand

Clinging to compassion

With fingertips on outstretch hands

Borrowed time from borrowed places

Held together with rubber bands


Substituting all the pleasure

For all the pain that follows next

Analysing the repercussions

And the animosity and regrets

Leaving quickly by the back door

Barely time to write a note

Scrawling on a scruffy piece of paper

The final love letter that I wrote











(The copyright of this poem is the property of the writer)

Print | Sitemap