Poems on the topic: wife

Poems on the topic “wife” on Poets.by.

DreamyDave Bonta

Husbandry

Water comes to my garden in the finest coat laced with rich lace. And on the night of the fire, all the doors in the street dancing with light… The world is an old wife not seen since the wedding. We turn a country into a cot and not a bed.
SadDave Bonta

Cold comfort

Cold in my hut I huddle over the clock— rogue theater, thief of wife and moons.
RomanticDave Bonta

Night air

in the rose I buy for my wife— her free mouth
CheerfulDave Bonta

Hanging

Good Friday at home with my wife, a good ham to read to, supper-to-be.
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Victuals

My mind the victualer counts my desires— my wife at dinner and days full of talk, my affairs, my colored suit. News of our losses.
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Twickenham

I went to Twickenham to sit I went to Twickenham to think alone in a closet I played on my flageolet till the bell-man came by with his bell and left my wife and the maid a-washing still.
DreamyDave Bonta

Descent

katydids in and out of sync our ragged breaths In dreams, my hometown in central Pennsylvania has partially merged with London. There are multiple high-rise apartment buildings now, rather than just one, the river is wider, the paper mill has become a sprawling industrial complex, and the poor section of town now has a distinctly bohemian flavor. Wandering the wooded hill in the center of town, I find a nearly deserted, glassed-in staircase, and descend it in great leaps, nearly flying. My British wife, undercover as a Bond girl, asks how I can do that and not get hurt. This is all just a dream, I tell her. Is it real for you? katydids together apart together
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Pandemic Time

Kept apart by the pandemic — my wife in London, me in the mountains of Pennsylvania — we connect each day through video conferencing software. She tells me of a scary incident earlier in the day when a man spat at her, narrowly missing her face, as they passed on bicycles. She watched in astonishment as he went on spitting: at a bystander and then at a runner, fortunately also missing both, before he disappeared around the corner like a figure out of some urban legend — “the mad plague carrier.” pandemic time stopping the car to watch a pair of ducks
RomanticDave Bonta

Kitchen romance

O mouth, we set sail on a fine pudding, made by a cook and an oven which both please me, the first time I ever saw my wife— we fell to oyster bed.
AnxiousBalachandran V

Waiting one’s turn

In the air conditioned room we sat Facing each other, though not really Facing each other. If chanced to catch the other’s eyes We glanced swiftly away – and then Would covertly watch each other. We waited our turn – though having arrived later I guessed he would go in first. It was awkward, our faces said, to sit In nothing but a gown that reached just below our knees And flaps held together by bits of Velcro. Sometimes, I saw him demurely pulling down The gown; the inside of his thighs could be seen. To the head-capped, green-gowned who passed by now and then We would have seemed like specimens in the biology lab Waiting
CheerfulKit Robinson

Sleeping Ace in Texas

Sleeping Ace was sad in Texas with his wife. Money can save you said his wife. And days, weeks of soli- tude will strengthen your hair as you make it grow. But that was disappointing really, because Sleeping Ace already had millions. They were located high above the earth's atmosphere where no one could wake them, The brightness of these little critters was sense it- self. How frail they are, wondered Sleeping Ace. He did not say it though, because he was talking to his wife on the telephone about education, I'm getting an education just moving my car said Mrs. Sleeping Ace. Sleeping Ace sat around and did nothing. Texas is too hot, they used to complain. That was before Sleeping

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: