I lose myself in the space at the base Of your neck, the wood hollow, a place Where rainwater collects and birds sing, The smoothest pool for my longing. I want to lay my tongue in the groove Of flesh, below the bone cupola. I want to stay there and not to move, To taste your skin of . . .
Wild Nights, Wild Nights! (269)
Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee! —Emily Dickinson For more love poems, see The . . .
A Line-Storm Song
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. The . . .
Come
Come, tangle yourself in me. —L.L. Barkat, from The Novelist For more on The Novelist, visit Tweetspeak Poetry Check out Funny Love Songs Check out Romantic Love Songs . . .
Tea, No Sympathy
Bigelow brews up basic black; Lipton warms with its touch of tart Tuscan lemon. But I see these aren't your cups of tea. With them, you get no yin, no yang, no sweet and bitter blend of Golden Flower, no accents of lanky Jasmine Fairy Maidens quick to unfold their charms in the . . .
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