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Love Poems About Homey or Homey Love Poems
by Nadia Shahwan |
Categories: sea, seasonslove,

Pour Love

Pour love everywhere
Veer fairy lilies gently
Thrilling spring’s beauty

Plant white carnation
Daisies are chanting “Holy”
Freeing harmony

Pour love everywhere
Palm branches cuddle lily
Wine is spring’s honey 

Plant dwarf gladiolus
A rosy crown is homey
Fairy’s sketch pretty.
By: Nadia Shahwan. This poem "Pour Love" won an honorable mention in June
2009, then became the winner in January 2010.


by PATRICIA CRESSWELL |
Categories: devotion,

home safe

home safe

still here awake, waiting.
sleep evades me 
I write to you,
so quiet and dark 
a summer peace has grown 
around the house
Joey sleeps deeply in his bed

I write small homey things, 
all grand notions long since
toddled off to bed.
soon the sun will rise
above the forest.
in kingly fashion, it will glide 
over its devotees bowing
smiling at the pagan gratitude
for its return.

every moment is created
of love for you
I sit here and mould it into words
as a potter uses clay.
if I were, if I were…
dreams that are woven into
wishes that will one 
day come true.
good night dearest.
 

by Joseph Silva |
Categories: death, lost love, sad,

not here, not there, not anywhere...

Corridor out of place, twisted and yet homey.
Comfortably lying on needles, no bleeding.
Veins run dry with ash. See the colors inside.
She demands blood shed. She demands death.
Trying to speak, but nothing comes forth.
Only the sound of blood splatter, the hacking.
Choke… she wills the empty soul to choke.
On its own saliva, on its own entrails. Choke!
Watch this soul wicked struggle for breath.
Yearning, pining, thirsting, aching, longing.
Suffer it one last time. It’s leaving here soon.
Never to return, never to look back.
By no means, on no account…never…

by Kurt Ravidas |
Categories: love, river,

The River

We cannot step into the same stream twice
but we have stepped. Oh, deep and mighty river
of bliss that runs between the paradise
and the inferno. Our reflections quiver
with cold, with yearning, with the future tense
which is indefinite... It will be over
as soon as we recover the old sense
of water depth. Oh, let this leaf of clover
glued to your buttock be a pledge of love
which first, a wild, a furious, a foamy, 
rapidly rushes, jumping from above
into the chasm and then, a calm, a homey,
quenches a valley’s thirst… 
                                       Once we will see
this mighty river flow into the sea.