Romantic Poems For That Special Someone

Romantic Poems For That Special Someone

A little modern poetry for these modern times.

There's no faster way to charm your honey than with a sonnet. Dive into these love poems, and maybe find the poet in yourself!


Pantoum by Randall Mann

If there is a word in the lexicon of love,

it will not declare itself.

The nature of words is to fail

men who fall in love with men.

It will not declare itself,

the perfect word. Boyfriend seems ridiculous:

men who fall in love with men

deserve something a bit more formal.

The perfect word? Boyfriend? Ridiculous.

But partner is . . . businesslike—

we deserve something a bit less formal,

much more in love with love.

But if partner is businesslike,

then lover suggests only sex,

is too much in love with love.

There is life outside of the bedroom,

and lover suggests only sex.

We are left with roommate, or friend.

There is life, but outside of the bedroom.

My friend and I rarely speak of one another.

To my left is my roommate, my friend.

If there is a word in the lexicon of love,

my friend and I rarely speak it of one another.

The nature of words is to fail.


Northampton Style by Marie Ponsot

Evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer

Northampton-style, on the porch out back.

Its voice touches and parts the air of summer,

as if  it swam to time us down a river

where we dive and leave a single track

as evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer

that lets us wash our mix of dreams together.

Delicate, tacit, we engage in our act;

its voice touches and parts the air of summer.

When we disentangle you are not with her

I am not with him. Redress calls for tact.

Evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer

still. A small breeze rises and the leaves stir

as uneasy as we, while the woods go black;

its voice touches and parts the air of summer

and lets darkness enter us; our strings go slack

though the player keeps up his plangent attack.

Evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer;

its voice touches and parts the air of summer.


The Courtship of the Lizard Lover by Kate Buckley

He crawls through the cracks

of my stone foundation,

sly and sleek as

I tempt him with food.

He stays out of habit; I cook

out of love for things that move.

We grow accustomed to each other’s

trails and smells, the skins we’ve shed

along the long, long road

of rubbing each other smooth.

Till all the skins we’ve shed lie sparkling

like so many stones in this desert land.

I scoop him up in my hand

and eat him.


True Solar Holiday by Douglas Crase

Out of the whim of data,

Out of binary contests driven and stored,

By the law of large numbers and subject to that law

Which in time will correct us like an event,

And from bounce and toss of things that aren’t even things,

I’ve determined the trend I call “you” and know you are real,

Your unwillingness to appear

In all but the least likely worlds, as in this world

Here. In spite of excursions, despite my expenditures

Ever more anxiously matrixed, ever baroque,

I can prove we have met and I’ve proved we can do it again

By each error I make where otherwise one couldn’t be

Because only an actual randomness

Never admits a mistake. It’s for your sake,

Then (though the stars get lost from the bottle,

Though the bottle unwind), if I linger around in the wrong

Ringing up details, pixel by high bit by bit,

In hopes of you not as integer but at least as the sum

Of all my near misses, divisible,

Once there is time, to an average that poses you perfectly

Like a surprise, unaccidentally credible

Perfectly like a surprise. Am I really too patient

When this is the only program from which you derive?

Not if you knew how beautiful you will be,

How important it is your discovery dawn on me,

How as long as I keep my attention trained

Then finally the days

Will bow every morning in your direction

As they do to the sun that hosannas upon that horizon

Of which I am witness and not the one farther on:

Set to let me elect you as if there were no other choice,

Choice made like temperature, trend I can actually feel


To a Grey Dress by Arthur Symons

There's a flutter of grey through the trees:

   Ah, the exquisite curves of her dress as she passes

   Fleet with her feet on the path where the grass is!

I see not her face, I but see

   The swift re-appearance, the flitting persistence—

   There!—of that flutter of grey in the distance.

It has flickered and fluttered away:

   What a teasing regret she has left in my day-dream,

   And what dreams of delight are the dreams that one may


It was only a flutter of grey;

   But the vaguest of raiment's impossible chances

   Has set my heart beating the way of old dances.

Litany by Carolyn Creedon

Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant?

I will let you make me a sandwich of your invention and I will eat it and call

it a carolyn sandwich. Then you will kiss my lips and taste the mayon¬naise and

that is how you shall love me in my restaurant

Tom, will you come to my empty beige apartment and help me set up my daybed?

Yes, and I will put the screws in loosely so that when we move on it, later,

it will rock like a cradle and then you will know you are my baby

Tom, I am sitting on my dirt bike on the deck. Will you come out from the kitchen

and watch the people with me?

Yes, and then we will race to your bedroom. I will win and we will tangle up

on your comforter while the sweat rains from our stomachs and fore¬heads

Tom, the stars are sitting in tonight like gumball gems in a little girl’s

jewelry box. Later can we walk to the duck pond?

Yes, and we can even go the long way past the jungle gym. I will push you on

the swing, but promise me you’ll hold tight. If you fall I might disappear

Tom, can we make a baby together? I want to be a big pregnant woman with a

loved face and give you a squalling red daughter.

No, but I will come inside you and you will be my daughter

Tom, will you stay the night with me and sleep so close that we are one person?

No, but I will lie down on your sheets and taste you. There will be feathers

of you on my tongue and then I will never forget you

Tom, when we are in line at the convenience store can I put my hands in your

back pockets and my lips and nose in your baseball shirt and feel the crook

of your shoulder blade?

No, but later you can lie against me and almost touch me and when I go I will

leave my shirt for you to sleep in so that always at night you will be pressed

up against the thought of me

Tom, if I weep and want to wait until you need me will you promise that someday

you will need me?

No, but I will sit in silence while you rage, you can knock the chairs down

any mountain. I will always be the same and you will always wait

Tom, will you climb on top of the dumpster and steal the sun for me? It’s just

hanging there and I want it.

No, it will burn my fingers. No one can have the sun: it’s on loan from God.

But I will draw a picture of it and send it to you from Richmond and then you

can smooth out the paper and you will have a piece of me as well as the sun

Tom, it’s so hot here, and I think I’m being born. Will you come back from

Richmond and baptise me with sex and cool water?

I will come back from Richmond. I will smooth the damp spiky hairs from the

back of your neck and then I will lick the salt off it. Then I will leave

Tom, Richmond is so far away. How will I know how you love me?

I have left you. That is how you will know


Beaded Baby Moccasins by Joanne Dominique Dwyer

If   love is like a doll’s shoe —

the color of nascent snow

that laces over the ankle

or the polychromatic beaded baby moccasins

we saw lying in the museum drawer

that belonged to an infant from a sea tribe of seal hunters.

Or the rutilant pink blossoms

of the locust tree that bloomed in the dark

while I slept dreaming of my arrival

on a red-eye wearing a long to the floor skirt —

not of a postulant, but of a flower vendor

or a woman covering disfigurement.

Freud believed that religious faith

is a wish-fulfilling illusion.

I can’t locate faith in a carved or uncarved pew.

I’m more focused on the altar boy’s shoes.

Under his white robe he’s wearing a man’s black loafers

vastly oversized for his small feet with

sufficient spare space for a coyote den in each toe.

I want to buy him a kite.

If   love is a mezzanine floor we will not fall from,

a hand holding back my hair from my face

as I’m sick on the side of the bus.

The mouth so at home in the vicinity of pavement.

Pew also means to enclose, as in men who were

as willingly pewed in the parish church

as their sheep were in night folds.

Freud also believed civilized life imposes suffering,

yet he always wore a dinner jacket.

We delaminate layers of old paint

bleach sheets in the shade.

I take out the oily ham from the beans,

the unflattering photos from the folio,

the quotes about repressed homosexuality

being the reason Sigmund’s patient Little Hans

is afraid of   horses.

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