Of Love...

How’s Your Life, Love?

It was the Parliament of Fowls

when birds first featured, choosing mates,

romantic love to celebrate,

though Valentine, unlikely date.

In time, my first love, literature,

whose study started, same name tamed,

translating words beyond my own,

vocabulary, new term, Lent.

With Chaucer came the pilgrim’s tales,

poor testimony to the faith,

some bawdy for holy pretence,

bear naked truth of cloistered cell.

Expense of spirit, waste of shame,

is sonnet form, unmastered Will,

the mistress, discard, in distress,

for no romance, chivalric code.

And there staged drama, musing voice,

the words of verse in rhythmic terms,

a love of life in all its tones,

romantics ’fore the greetings card.

Seems strange that she who won my heart,

would not share lines that so appeal;

sews cross stitch, stretchers, needlepoint,

embroiders, pouncing, crewel work.

But each of disciplines is gold,

an auric ring for valentine,

a pin cushion, so less averse,

outrageous fortune, cupid’s slings.

Those arrows from the quiver drawn,

find bullseye, target of the core;

a husband, wife, or husband more,

but will romance be certain love?

Life’s Loves Recalled

These jigsaw pieces of my life

invested my experience,

displayed about, my furniture,

to others nought, but sum for me.

An object takes subjective form,

stirs memory of who, when, where,

a unity of time and place,

but more, emotion, so evoked.

To offspring, unknown father’s part,

but clutter, late, to be removed,

dead fripperies not understood -

as too, resistance to their cull.