Jenna+K.

Love Poems

Its "Raining in Love" Richard Bragutigan

I don't know what it is, but I distrust myself when I start to like a girl a lot.

It makes me nervous. I don't say the right things or perhaps I start to examine, evaluate , compute what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?" and she says, "I don't know," I start thinking : Does she really like me?

In other words I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said, "It's twenty times better to be friends with someone than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides, it's raining somewhere, programming flowers and keeping snails happy. That's all taken care of.

BUT

if a girl likes me a lot and starts getting real nervous and suddenly begins asking me funny questions and looks sad if I give the wrong answers and she says things like, "Do you think it's going to rain ?" and I say, "It beats me," and she says, "Oh," and looks a little sad at the clear blue California sky, I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time instead of me.

"@Funeral Blues" W.H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead, Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and west working week and my Sunday rest My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

"First Poem For You" By Kim Addonizio I like to touch your tattoos in complete darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of where they are, know by heart the neat lines of lightning pulsing just above your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you

to me, taking you until we’re spent and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until you’re seared to ashes ; whatever persists or turns to pain between us, they will still be there. Such permanence is terrifying. So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.

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