Category Archives: romance

Unlocking the Light – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Lillian at dVerse is hosting Poetics and has invited us to view four pieces of Catrin Welz-Stein’s art work as a visual stimulus to writing either an ekphrastic poem, or other poetic response. dVerse Poets – Poetics

Art: ©Catrin Welz-Stein generously provided for dVerse Poetics via Lillian.

“Beautiful moons make for special nights.” Verna Clay

Unlocking The Light

Moon smiled and said,
in a voice that floated,
if you truly love me you'll
find the welcome swallow
who holds the key to my
cosmic desire and fly to me
that I may unlock the light
dispelling shadow darkly
deep, that is yours,
and mine.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Filed under dreams, Free Verse, love, moon, passion, poem, quote, romance

Moonish – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: doityourself.com

“The sun watches what I do, but the moon knows all my secrets.” J.M. Wonderland

Moonish

Even when she was full
moon was moonish subtle,
her gestures wafting like
jasmine on a summer's eve
that stirs the heart to glow
as lover's light unveiled,
sung on by a chorus of
lesser glimmers of night,
that curved a smile on her
lips as she pretended not 
to see me in the shadows.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Amantes del la Luna – prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

Host Merril at dVerse has invited us to consider a line from a Mary Oliver poem for a prose piece (144 words). dVerse Poets – Prosery – Moonbeams and Moon Dreams

I have been writing about Moon for some time so this landed in a week of moon thoughts.

The line is: “In their dreams they sleep with the moon.” from Mary Oliver ‘Death at Wind River’

Image: abstract.desktopnexus.com

“Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.” Khaled Hosseini

Amantes de la Luna (Lovers of the Moon)

Moon disrobed the darkness, her eyes lighting everyone who ventured to the edge of night. She was an illumine of all that is love in that sacred moment as she touched the tide of rising feeling by the shore of desire that ached with her beauty. The young men are too distracted to notice, they foolishly chase after lesser stars, mere reflections of momentary excitement lost in the ripples of time. But Moon doesn’t mind, the tides come and go in a gentle rhythm, and they will soon enough take notice of her. Besides, she has plenty of lovers. The older men adore her and sigh at her memory, holding her close in their hearts. Through wax and wane they remember the tender intimacies of her soft glow and her warm grace, and in their dreams they sleep with Moon as once they did.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Filed under erotic, love, passion, poem, prose, quote, romance

Love’s Grail – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Image: istockphoto.com

“It is a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the moon.” Galileo Galilei

Love's Grail

 Moon sat gracefully 
at the edge of movement 
where the reeds rest, 
waiting her turn to 
shed her skin and dip 
into the gentleness that  
would caress and hold 
her to waves of glow, 
illuminating the map of 
love's grail, shifting the  
ancient tide. 

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Filed under awareness, erotic, Free Verse, love, passion, poem, quote, romance

She Is – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Image: freedesignfile.com

“The moon lives in the lining of your skin.” Pablo Neruda

She Is

The moon speaks so quietly
in the tangled covers of night,
her wax and wane is mere ruse
for a modesty unwarranted,
for she is a voluptuous beauty
on which to gaze with such
longing  as to faint for 
lack of sleep or wine and,
the longer I wait, the more
she wanders just out of reach.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Filed under Free Verse, love, poem, quote, relationship, romance, Space

How? – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: istockphoto.com

“I’ve always believed in savouring the moments.” Anna Godbersen

How?
When a robe falls,
how is time measured?
In ampules of love or a 
quickening of the heart
that flickers the flame of 
expectation whispered in 
the french way like silken
chocolate on a summers day
when it always leaves just a
trace of memory that 
flavours fire, yes
exactly like that.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Exquisite – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

VJs Weekly Challenge – Taste

Photo: wallpaperflare.com

“…. true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul.” Audrey Hepburn

Exquisite

The recipe was not lost,
simply one off,
never to be repeated, 
just one pinch of shyness,
a sprig of humour,
some joy generously added,
an abundance of love
layered in all its flavours,
with a dash of awareness 
and finished with a quiet
confidence lightly held,
such an exquisite being,
to taste her
is to taste the strength that 
holds everything together.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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We Were – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Open Link Night

Lillian at dVerse is hosting Open Link Night where we post a poem of our choosing.

Photo: pixabay.com

“Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” Rumi

We Were

We were talking about Plato
as you do over wine and,
soon enough, Descartes,
just as I thought I thought I 
was for a mo, until we 
moved to the moderns
when she confessed Derrida
and all that jazz, waxing
lyrical about deconstruction
as I slowly unbuttoned her
blouse, after which we were 
completely existential.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Of Love – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Kim at dVerse has invited us to write a quadrille (44 words) using the word blue. dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Blue

Photo: pixabay.com

“A certain blue enters your soul.” Henry Matisse

Of Love

Welcome to my bower
of all things true
writers ink or anise drink,
azure sky just as Oedipus
reflected in earth's waters,
or the potter's cobalt glaze,
all needs a little chemistry and
heat in passioned mix, 
just as your eyes
of love.

©Paul Vincent Cannon


Note: The Australian Bower Bird builds a scrub nest on the ground and fills it with shiny things, preferably blue in order to attract a mate.

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Nutmeg – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: sheknows.com

“The spicier the food, the spicier the Love.” Anthony T. Hinks

Nutmeg

The day of metaphors arrived
like a vine claiming a trellis,
unconsciously filling the lines
of his normally vapid mind with
a stirring to picking pumpkins,
the slicing thereof to a soup,
tasting the bland therein, spiced
memories erupting a remedy,
dashes and pinches colliding
with a thought that simmered,
that his day was quite the same,
and when he called she said yes,
Nutmeg was always ready to spice.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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