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Killing Love (Stream XX)

Love like gentle petals unfurls,
A tender plant killed by harsh words.
A flower that needs much nurturing
For then it will blossom, grow.
But we, we two,
Having this great gift
Did fritter it away.
Spend thrifts we were,
Misers to its needs.
Gave it no bread.
Fed it no water.
Let the weeds of indifference grow
Choking it with strangling vines.
So that it died in the desert of our neglect.
Killed it stone dead with unkind thoughts
Withered it with cold looks
That chilled and froze the heart.
Turned caresses to sharp words
And used our tongues as swords.
The passion that once burned
Tuned to hot anger.
Destroyed and consumed it.
Now it lies between us ashes.
And we both desolate,
Go our separate ways.

poem by Paul Brookes
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Burned Up, Burned Out, I've Let It Go

I know not what it means to be loved
But only to love in vain
I have not held the gentle grace of your words
Or tasted the fiery bloom of regard
You cast me into a cold prison of oppression
Offering only scrapes of charity, lukewarm sentiments
Mere lip service to fuel my heart when passion starts to wane
You are a cold and calculating master
The proverbial 'wolf in sheep's clothing'
Hiding your confessions deep in the recesses of my shame
You baited me with greedy hooks, tripped the snare
And I, fell victim to your frivolity
I believed myself strong enough…and you, man enough
To ride the insatiable waves of my desires
Still leaving fruit for tomorrow's gathering
But you could not give, the same passion that you received
Nor hold in reserve seeds for tomorrow
Instead you burned, and burned, and burned the candle
Flaming both ends, with a rampant wickedness until there was none…
I look upon the ashes with heavy heart
For I cannot bring back what has been used up and discarded in indifference
I cannot look into the light of tomorrow and see the same man
And though I love, it is with a heart as cold and lifeless as your own
I have long buried the passion that once flamed my nights
Commanded my days and held me breathless to your call
I cannot love you, the true…bread and bone of you
My love is a dream, a knight in shining armor wearing an image of your smile
A mere vision that disappears each morn with the breaking of dawn
I have sang your praises, nurtured the dream decades long
But, I will lay no more beneath the cold stone of apathy
You are not worthy of this passion, this fire, or this undying love
My longing for you is but ashes, soot, soil beneath my feet
And I desire you no more…

poem by Leria Hawkins
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The Garden

CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying,
Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow,
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing:
'Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.'

Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it;
'My plot,' you said, 'rich harvest yet shall give,'
With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it,
With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live.

So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you,
One little pure white flower grew by-and-by;
You could not pluck my flower--alas! how should you?
You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Love is like a delicate flower

Love is like a delicate flower.
But no water is needed for its existence.
Only gentle words to feed its roots,
and passion to help it grow.
Trust to help it stand against the breeze
Kindness to carry its pollen far.

And as this flower grows,
so does the wonder of life
never alone will one soul be,
as long as the flower blooms
No frost to shatter its fragility.

poem by Ben Littlechild
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Let It Grow

(by eric clapton)
Im standin at the crossroads
Tryin to read the signs
To tell me which way I should
Go to find the answer
And all the time I know
Let your love and let it grow.
Let it grow, let it grow,
Let it blossom, let it flow.
In the sun and in the snow
Love is lovely, let it grow.
Lookin for a reason
To check out on my mind.
Its so hard to find a
Friend that I can count on.
Theres nothin left to show,
Plant your love and let it grow.
Let it grow...
Time is gettin shorter
And theres much for you to do,
Only askn you will get what you are needin,
The rest is up to you.
Plant your love and let it grow.
Let it grow...

song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poets Lonely World of Love.

Love spills over
pouring from a cobwebbed heart
nowhere to go from where it flows
but in sensual empty words
touching strangers souls
Verses of passion escape
fuelling a fire that never glows
but smoulders in jealous embers
Romance and desire gushing
from every pore, dispersing like seeds
that blow in the wind falling into
desolate places, with no chance to grow
No sweet buds blossom
from the branches of love scrawled
A lyrical raindropp kisses your cheek
A sonnet is your hearts beat
Penned caresses are all you own
A love so deep, yet all alone

poem by Allie Lusha
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The BLACK ROSE

I've kissed the petal of the black rose as the morning dew blushed its black hue. I felt a passion beyond anything I knew, a flame, a fire, a burning desire for the black rose its petals to unfold, its beauty to behold. Your Love had me entangled upon your vine I dangled, Chained to the black rose petals I wrangled. Upon your bed in the early dew I found a colored rose petal, another heart that throbbed for you a flame that burned now an amber. Who too had thought you true and kissed the black rose petals blushing hue. Those barbed thorns upon your vine; so sharp; the lies, the deceit, the cheat; they cut, tear, bleed and don't prepare for the hurt they leave. Bold and daunting were you in your haunting. I wanted love but it was my soul you stole. In the ice cold blight of the winter night the black rose had froze. I cried, in the glistening icy snow; for the black rose had no heart to with stand the blight of that winter night. What it had was a cold heart with sharp thorns to enfold, the last cold kiss of death on the black rose shows I have no love to share or hold.

poem by Vanita Allgood
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Variations on a Theme by Joyce

The war is in words and the wood is the world
That turns beneath our rootless feet;
the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night. The light lies flat.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.

The rain is ruin and our ruin rides
The swiftest winds; the wood is whorled
And turned and smoothed by the turning tides.
--There is rain in the woods, slow rain that breeds
The war in the words. The wood is the world.
This rain is ruin and our ruin rides.

The war is in words and the wood is the world,
Sourceless and seized and forever filled
With green vine twisting on wood more gnarled
Than dead men's hands. The vines are curled
Around these branches, crushed and killed.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.

poem by Weldon Kees
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I Hope You Still Love Me

I sometimes wonder
If God will still love me
After all I have done

I've thrown away a couple of bibles
I've burned his words
I torn pages out

I used the paper to smoke out of
But worst of all I abused his words
And cursed his name

I'm so sorry
That I took my anger out on you
I blamed you for a lot of things

I hope you understand
I never meant to do things I did
I did them out of anger

The anger just consumed me
Than it somehow turned into hate
I'm so sorry God

That I went as far as I did
I hope you will forgive me
I'm not asking you to forget

But please don't use
What I did against me
I hope you will
Love me after all that I did

poem by Beth Ann
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Poets Words

The poets words,
Of the heart
For a love, lost!
On deaf ears
They tumble
From lips that tremble
Passion spoken
Lost on the wind
Who heeds not his cry
Trees listen
Only to laugh
Cast them to the streams rocks
Water flows
Carrying them cold
To oceans large and bold
The waves they toss
Words, meaning now lost
In a storm, in anger
Upon a deserted beach
Of the desolate heart.

RG/NB

poem by Robert Green
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Ashes

My heart is filled
With the ashes
Of our love burned away
I've emptied out my soul
Until there is nothing
Left to say
Glued the pieces back together
Every time I fell apart
You lit a fire
Inside of me
Then left only ashes
In my heart

I have searched your face
For even the slightest trace
Of the love I used to see
Reflecting back at me
But what is gone
Cannot be found
And every time
I turn around
You smear rejection
All over me
I'm the most broken
That I'll ever be
Your eyes so cold
Your words unkind
You've taken so much
There's nothing left
Of me that's mine
You leave only ashes
In my heart
While your love still burns
Throughout my mind

poem by Erika Wingo
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The Old Man's Wish

If I live to be old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate: In a country town
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance, whereupon I may look,
With a spacious plain without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more
Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before,
With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or veal,
And clean though coarse linen at every meal.
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar,
With Monte-Fiascone or Burgundy wine,
To drink the King's health as oft as I dine.
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

With a courage undaunted may I face my last day,
And when I am dead may the better sort say,
In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
He's gone, and left not behind him his fellow.
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Flowers and Pages

Flower petals saved
Between holy pages
Dryed and faded, both are
Deep words of life,
Love simply stated.
Memories and hopes
Together combine, ever to
Transcend places and time...
- Life is not a simple dream,
There is so very much
Beyond what is felt, heard and seen...
- Lifes paradox is of such:
So full of beauty
At the start,
So worn and weary
At the finish;
Boundless knowledge
Cannot free the heart,
Endless effort
Cannot still the days
That continue to diminish.
- Perhaps tis truly the other way around,
Only with relaxed acceptance
Through the real beauty of age
And understanding
Can love of life
Ever fully be found.
Humanity,
Wrong from the beginning
Of sin;
Redemption right
To the very end...
For what truly is the meaning
Of the mysterious messages
Life to us does send?
(Tacit translation
Terra-incognita
Revenant revelation unto
Beautiful buena-vista.)
Life, like the beauty of the flower,
So gradually fades
Like the slowly disappearing wonder
In a sunset,
Nearly imperceptable end of days.
- Will our lives be found
Only to end
Like the sun,
Burning down the Western horizon
Blazing so beautiful and bright,
until finally captured and killed
by the darkness of night...
Shall the flowering Garden bloom again?
Will that beautiful sun ever return?
(some seeds planted
only grow after all the weeds
have been thoroughly burned)
Yet for now
the weeds still thrive,
And the flowers are barely able
to remain alive.
So, how shall our lives be found saved,
preserved eternally
between some sacred pages?
(the Words there upon print
to the flowers beauty and reason
do give quiet hint)
Who the answer knows?
One and the same:
The books Author,
The lover and saviour
Of the true beauty, that is the Rose.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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Poor Withered Rose

_A Song_

Poor withered rose, she gave it me,
Half in revenge and half in glee;
Its petals not so pink by half
As are her lips when curled to laugh,
As are her cheeks when dimples gay
In merry mischief o'er them play.

_Chorus_

Forgive, forgive, it seems unkind
To cast thy petals to the wind;
But it is right, and lest I err
So scatter I all thought of her.

Poor withered rose, so like my heart,
That wilts at sorrow's cruel dart.
Who hath not felt the winter's blight
When every hope seemed warm and bright?
Who doth not know love unreturned,
E'en when the heart most wildly burned?

Poor withered rose, thou liest dead;
Too soon thy beauty's bloom hath fled.
'Tis not without a tearful ruth
I watch decay thy blushing youth;
And though thy life goes out in dole,
Thy perfume lingers in my soul.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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No More Tears to Shed!

On her sombre face,
tears were not dripping down.
But her sad words and tales
made us shed tears.
Neither she solicits money
nor borrows even a tiny.

She had got two brave sons
but either of the two doesn't live.
For giving solace
her husband is also no more.
What of her boys died
was what that killed her man too.

If they were dead
fighting on the borders,
she would be walking erect
in the midst of her kin.
But all of them laid on the fields
where they ploughed and dug.

Only one snake has wiped out
her warriors one by one
in a span of three years.
Whom to feed, she must grow
crops in that sinful land?
But she clears weeds daily.

All the three were buried
in that tears-stained land
From dawn to dusk she is there
clearing weeds and lying beside
the idols, murmuring, 'There is no God'.
The sea has drawn the waters inward.

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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A Flower in the Rain

My dear, you are so sweet,
For you grow in a field,
Like a flower with
Beautiful petals,
And a rose that has
Many red spirals
And petals that
Make you all the more unique.

But, my dear, I know
Not whether I will always
See you, for many men
Try to chase you,
And you feel so cold,
As if you were a flower in the rain,
And that the meadow was not large
Enough for you to keep you
Warm and safe.

But, I promise,
That I will be there for you,
No matter the circumstances,
For you are my flower,
And you are my flower in the rain,
For you will grow with every drink you take.

poem by James Roberts
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A Good Poke In The Eye

I salute you

post-modern
shards splinters

poking eyes
that will not see

piercing throats
carrying no voice

shattering eardrums
in ears unused

waves of thoughts
permeate space

wavelengths in spectrums
speaking shouting

to all people minds
in their own language

Who has consciously
chosen to tune out?

Looked into the sun
burned out their own eyeballs?

closed throat
gorges upon pig fat

translated into self
absorbed fetishes

through your food
your tastes apparent

are written an indictment
proclaiming inhuman indifference

so very much conscious you are
your personal needs desires

gluttony deadly sins
grow into skeletons

forget not
time passing

cry pain past
awaits all in judgement

open a second of time
let it watered grow

sunlight birthright
flowers awakening

speculate
upon future blooms

grown
in garden of mind
in garden of creative nurturing mind

weeds
ripped out

burned?
buried under turned over soil?

reflect upon purpose fruitful vine

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Beside the Raging River Rhyme

Beside the raging river rhyme
poetry florets flower with prose.
Scripted sweet petals grow and entwine
English gardens of fragrant rose.

Immortalized in pantomime,
the sonnet's nuance smell,
intertwines with ivy vines
and comely cockleshell.

Flowing water of endless words
gather and come hither.
Make known your message meaningful
before the blossoms wither.

poem by Christine K. Trease
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At Parting II

AND you could leave me now--
After the first remembered whispered vow
Which sings for ever and ever in my ears--
The vow which God among His Angels hears--
After the long-drawn years,
The slow hard tears,
Could break new ground, and wake
A new strange garden to blossom for your sake,
And leave me here alone,
In the old garden that was once our own?

How should I learn to bear
Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air,
Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn,
When only in a picture these appear--
These, once alive, and always over-dear?
Ah--think again: the rose you used to wear
Must still be more than other roses be
The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me!

For in my acres is no plot of ground
Whereon could any garden site be found,
I have but little skill
To water weed and till
And make the desert blossom like the rose;
Yet our old garden knows
If I have loved its ways and walks and kept
The garden watered, and the pleasance swept.

Yet--if you must--go now:
Go, with my blessing filling both your hands,
And, mid the desert sands
Which life drifts deep round every garden wall,
Make your new festival
Of bud and blossom--red rose and green leaf.
No blight born of my grief
Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer
Shall draw down blessings on you from the air,
And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree
Shall serve you when you walk no more with me
In garden ways; and when with her you tread
The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead
And when she asks, 'How did you come to know
The secrets of the ways these green things grow?'
Then you will answer--and I, please God, hear,
'I had another garden once, my dear'.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Losses

It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died
For us to figure we had died like.)

In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed
The ranges by the desert or the shore,
Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores--
And turned into replacements and woke up
One morning, over England, operational.

It wasn't different: but if we died
It was not an accident but a mistake
(But an easy one for anyone to make.)
We read our mail and counted up our missions--
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school--
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, 'Our casualties were low.'

They said, 'Here are the maps'; we burned the cities.

It was not dying --no, not ever dying;
But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead,
And the cities said to me: 'Why are you dying?
We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?'

poem by Randall Jarrell
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Love was True to Me

LOVE was true to me,
True and tender;
I who ought to be
Love's defender,
Let the cold winds blow
Till they chilled him;
Let the winds and snow
Shroud him—and I know
That I killed him.

Years he cried to me
To be kinder;
I was blind to see
And grew blinder.
Years with soft hands raised
Fondly reaching,
Wept and prayed and praised,
Still beseeching.

When he died I woke,
God! how lonely,
When the gray dawn broke
On one only.
Now beside Love's grave
I am kneeling;
All he sought and gave
I am feeling.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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