Waxing Poetic About Love

[I thought it time I wrote a poem about love.  Why not?  Everyone is doing it. Hold on, kiddies, this gets tedious.]

People fall into it,
It does them in in sneaky steps,
Or outright in a flash.

It grabs their hearts,
Then breaks them,
Or de-chests them in a dash.

 [Need elbow room, try four lines…]

Then I got to thinking:
Love shows in other ways.
Let’s count’m out and then decide,
Which horse we’re doomed to ride.

Ephemeral or eternal?
To speak of ‘Love’ it seems,
I’m still not sure as yet I know,
The better way to go.

Is it free or heavy,
The price that’s asked by Love?
It takes but pennies at a time,
Then steals your last thin dime.

Will it break your back each evening,
Or calm your worried brow?
Will it crush your heart or let it rest,
Where it beats beneath your vest?

No two poets will agree,
On how Love comes to roost;
Calculated – without a fuss,
Or serendipitous?

Does Love soothe your soul or frighten,
When it clutches at your heart?
Is your dance of joy or dread,
When Love messes with your head?

It’s both evil and angelic,
This fickle thing called Love.
It might make your heartstrings swell,
Or dispatch you straight to hell.

That heartheld spot within your chest,
You diagnose the pain:
Be there some malignant sign?
Do tests come back ‘benign’?

Would roses red or white I ask,
Epitomize my Love?
Purely posh said one young fellow,
Who bought a dozen yellow.

Love resides in hearts and brains,
The bards are wont to say.
Neither, I demur, for when love pains,
It’s in my stomach it remains.

Purest potion, putrid poison,
Which weeps Love’s bottle there?
Are you brave enough to wet your chin,
Unknown the drugs within?

Engineered or mystic magic,
How does this Love thing work?
Should you brace or scaffold it,
Or at its mercy sit?

Love runs deep with truth or lies,
As it rushes through its course.
Oh, please believe the troth declared,
Unless of course, you’re scared!

Is Love noble or is it base,
When it twists you to and fro?
Does it make you want to cry,
Or spread your wings and fly?

  [Still not working.  Maybe six lines?  Nah, give it up.]

© SP Wilcenski 2020
Originally on P**** in “Random Thoughts About Love”

Published by spwilcen

Retired career IT software engineer, or as we were called in the old days, programmer, it's time to empty my file cabinet of all the "creative" writing accumulated over the years - toss most of it, salvage and publish what is worthwhile.

11 thoughts on “Waxing Poetic About Love

  1. One has to be pretty intelligent to fully grasp the coolness of your writings. That why I have someone read them to me

    1. Well, not sure I’m embarrassed or complimented. That’s okay. Still say “thanks.” For reading and poking-out a comment. You know, when I read a real poet’s work I often do so out loud – to HEAR the words, grasp their meaning. Guess that makes you and I kin, Ken.

    1. Good Sunday morning, Sir Francisco! Thank your making time to look in and for you wonderful comment. You took what others have said often and made it sound not so bad – I am indeed cracked! I hope the afternoon in store for you is delightful. Do good!

      1. Hehehe…no, in Spain we call a “crack” a person who is a wiz, a cool-cat that can “do it”! And yes, a bright and sunny Sunday it is, I cannot believe how warm it got today, 25 degrees Centigrade! While northern Europe is cold, we are almost with Spring weather! All the best to you!
        F.

  2. You should do more of this poetry stuff. I enjoyed it. What do these young whippersnappers know about love anyway? You are of an age where you have a right to comment! 😂😂

    1. Why, Sir Poet Craftsman, thank you for this naked flattery. I am glad you found a moment’s entertainment. Indeed I am “old” not necessarily wise, but well-worn. And, good sir, I have excellent mentors – Hizzonor Hobbo Guy, Senor Cabera, Captain Clayton, Bestinclass Bump, Marvelous Matthews, others memory immediately fails to bring forward. Thank you, Hobbo and all. Coffee, now, coffee. And my pills, here they come now with the little cup, can they catch me? Ah, I will disguise myself as a coat rack; that worked yesterday…

      1. S-h-h-h-h! Don’t talk to the coat rack. Coat racks don’t talk. Nertz! They figured it out. O-o-o-o-h look! A new one, tiny little green one. What’s this for Nurse Nasty?

  3. I think writing love poems is a seasonal phenomena. Best I can figure, when bow hunting season comes in, men spend too much time alone in a tree with a bow and arrow and start to pretend they’re cupid and write love poems and such. I think that’s what happened to Shakespeare.

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