Three Love Poems by Steve

.......... Mosquito ..........

An irritating whine
Buzzing ever closer
To your ear.

Have no fear.

Do not lash out
With a deft whip
Of your hand.

Do not smash down
Your lover as he lands --
A little vampire
Intoxicated by
Your sweet perfume.

He sinks
His kiss
Into your neck.

Tomorrow
Itching welts
Will bloom.


(Thanks to kirei musume who wrote 2/3 of Mosquito)




............. Warm Kiss ..........

They tumble in the door, throw their clothes upon the floor
And wrap themselves in blankets before the fire.
It's fun out in the snow, where on skis they come and go,
Now they rest until the rise of warm desire.

She pulls the blanket from her feet to let them feel the heat,
But keeps the cover tight around her arm.
Outside it still is snowing, they can hear a fierce wind blowing,
They sit very close together growing warm.

Her blanket opens wider so that he can sit beside her;
They watch the crackling fire and hear its pops and hisses.
His arm around her shoulder, he becomes a little bolder;
Her smooth cheek feels his gentle kisses.

They have been this close before, but it led to nothing more.
He was angry that she would not give him
Something that he needed, but "Not now..." she softly pleaded
And he left and slammed the door.

"I was wrong to get so mad," he whispers and is glad
When she says "That's okay." and snuggles closer.
"I just didn't know I loved you then.... Now I do."
"And I love you."

Outside it still is snowing and the winter wind is blowing
But in the little cabin it is warm.
She is warm and soft, accepting; he is warm and firm, projecting;
Love through them creates eternal form.

They celebrate the ancient motion, the rhythm of the ocean,
The waves that enter in, then outward flow.
The surge of motion holds them, the breaking wave enfolds them;
Outside the moon illuminates the snow.

The forest is asleep; the snow lies cold and deep;
Through the window of the cabin moonlight gleams.
He pulls the blanket over them, she smiles sleepily at him;
They float away upon a sea of dreams.



.......... My Woman ..........

A flower blooms in my yard, not a hothouse orchid or an inbred rose, but a sturdy daisy with a face full of sunshine.

A tree grows in our garden, not a plum tree small and tart, not a peach tree ripening quick, but a tree of apples, round and sweet and long-lasting.

A bird sings in the tree, not a squawking crow or a twittering sparrow, but a bluebird with a song full of happiness.

Our home is not a mansion, huge and proud, nor is it a hovel, small and mean. Our home is a modest cottage in a pleasant garden. On the table is my dinner. A warm soft bed is waiting. And "happily ever after" are the words carved in the cover of the journal of my life.