Spring Love

I gave My Love the Summer's Day
the Autumn Moon 
the Winter's Night
yet never was she happier 
than when she drank of Spring 

My Love I gave the precious Dill
the fragrant Campernelle Jonquil
yet still he yearned for that he knew that only Spring could bring.

Gave to My Love the aqua sea
warm golden sands
the sway of peace
but Spring thereof implored My Love to want no other thing.

Of time and place My Love I gave 
and all to see
and there My Love 
in toil and deed
in birth and death 
in want and need
rejoiced for liberation 
from that Spring
to which in adulation
oft My Love
would cling.

If It's Poetry

If it's poetry I should feel it,
not have to wait for you to reveal it.

You can't waggle your finger and say you're dancing.
You don't purse your lips then say you're kissing.
Run to catch a bus and call that sprinting?
If that's correct please tell me what I'm missing.

If it's poetry it needs motion.
To understand it we shouldn't need a magic potion.

You can't say "I'm awake" if you're sleeping,
Or steal from a high street store and call that 'shopping'.
You couldn't strip to your socks and call that naked.
If that's the deal we'd best kneel down and pray kid.

Maybe it's because I love poetry in motion more than I really love poetry itself?
Watching you breathing keeps me believing;
so much of you that I see in myself.

Drawn to the motion and movement of poetry like that which you see as a heron takes flight.
A gazelle as it glides on its hooves cross the land.
See if that isn't poetry I don't understand.

© 2014 Peace

Works of Peace the Poet