her
She glances at me
With eyes made of
Honey,
Ashes,
And walnut bookshelves
She smiles at me
With lips made of
Blushing conversations,
Wilting roses,
And pearls
She holds my hands
With fingers made of
Ivory
Piano music
Flowers petals
Romantic poems
Romantic poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Lets not fall
lets not fall in love
but hold each other for that moment
wake up
Black is the night, sky’s now high,
Sky’s now high, stars everywhere.
In this ocean of blushing bulbs,
I think I’ll disappear.
Is my future as black as the sky,
Or is it as limitless and high?
Sunshine doesn’t fascinate me, ( me to the night sky)
It’s you who does.
Morning doesn’t open my eyes,
It’s you, who says “wake up”.
"Crush- Haiku"
Fawning over one.
Tender kiss, shyly stolen.
Sweet nothings whispered.
Ink Stains
We sat on the bus today after school
I took the blue vial of ink and gave it to you
Warning, telling you that you shouldn't open it
You did anyway
Those ink stains on your hands
Oh, I wish I could be a stain in your memory
Never leaving always there
My mother said something to me today
The ones we love the most
Can hurt us the most
What if you hurt me?
I like you more than most of my buddies
What if, I end up liking you to the point
I don't want you to leave
I'll be sad to even think of that day where you walk out of my life
When you leave my side
Letting Go, Being Free
Here we are
With one quest in life
To be free
How is this virtuous prize to be won
Where is it to be found
To be latched down by your own life
By your own heart
To love someone with your heart
And for them to not love back
Them being your lock to freedom
And the key saying, 'forget'
Forget that love
For it will never be returned
Forget those feelings
For they likely have been pushed aside
Forget those memories
Dream Boy
Your eyes are green…
Or maybe brown or blue
But whatever color they are
They remind me of spring.
Your hair is brown…
As brown as a grizzly bear’s coat.
Or as brown as a big oak tree’s bark.
You laugh as if there is no tomorrow.
You are my dream boy.
Tall as a tree?
That you are.
Brave and strong.
You are my dream boy.
Your hands are like butterflies
In orchestra.
Your smile….oh,
My love
Every time my heart beat it beat in time with yours
Every time I took a deep breath your lungs filled with air
We were completely in sync
Mind and body
Heart and soul
We will always be linked even though you aren't here
I miss feeling you
hearing you
Just knowing that you were mine
You, my love
The one I made and the one who made me
No one like you
You feel like sunshine
A warm ray beaming down across my skin
Soaking you in
You aren't around often
No one could ever find sunshine like you
You feel like moonlight
A cool shimmer lighting up my sky
Watching you grow
You aren't around often
No one could ever find moonlight like you
For John
Fifty years have passed since I learned
it is possible to hear snow fall,
it is possible to choose and stay.
And though times and places flicker
on the periphery and people come and go,
always you remain in focus at the center,
standing in the forest in your thin black boots
listening to the falling snow.
COMING TOWARD HOME
I want to love things all by myself,
not looking sidelong to see
if others are loving them, too:
the sky like old blue glass held in by a tracery of trees,
the great horned owl’s cynical question–
Who’s awake?
the falling cold stars of snow.
One night I snowshoed in the woods alone,
the full moon lamplight gleaming
through the lace of soft snow clouds.
Coming toward home I saw in the frame of an uncurtained window
the painting of a summer orchard
above my piano against the green wall,
my husband moving across the kitchen with his teacup.
I thought I would break for joy.
PORTRAIT OF DAVID NICHOLS, ARTIST UNKNOWN
Did I meet your ghost in Paris–
slim shadow brushing by that night
on the street in Montmartre?
I like the way you look at me
after all these years.
That rose that fell
from the balcony in Pigalle
and landed at my feet–did it drop
from your long fantomatique
fingers? Maybe it was your esprit
murmuring compliments
in terrible French as I sunned
in a green chair in the Tuileries.
Your breath on my neck while I lingered
in the café drinking red wine
and watching the moon . . .
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