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Posts Tagged ‘romantic’

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Friday, February 14th, 2014

para_kac_habby_heartYour hair runs through my grateful hands
Your head’s home is my shoulder
Your eyes that warm my very soul
Which once was hard and colder

Your ears, with decorated lobes
I often fancy nibble
Your stoic nose designed it seems
To calm me when we quibble

Your mouth, your teeth, your easy smile
That renders me full smitten
Your lips that stun and beg be kissed
And licked and lightly bitten

They’ve said that Love can’t be described
In art or words or lore
I claim full sure Love has a face
And, bless you, it is yours

Gift from Aurora

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

Gift from AuroraA stranger. A surprise.
A curiosity. A test.
A challenge. A chance.
A gift from Aurora.

A bright spirit. A dark thinker.
A soft soul. A sharp tongue.
A quick wit with slow burns.
A gift from Aurora.

Yes, a comic. And cynic.
A skeptic romantic.
Somehow fearless yet shy,
This gift from Aurora.

A fighter, for family.
A lover, like me,
Of music, good food.
A gift from Aurora.

Some long conversations.
And growing flirtations.
Then high expectations
With a gift from Aurora.

A visit. A weekend.
A lover? A friend.
A final perspective.
Still a gift, dear Aurora.

The reality of distance.
Of time zones. Of time.
A saddened concession:
The gift’s in Aurora.

A reflection; a correction!
An ever-present present
In meeting. And in memories
Old and new. Thank you, Aurora.

For the heartfelt, for the smiles,
“Out loud” laughs and, yes, the drama,
Bless you. Thank you for this “sunsrise”,
The meaning of aurora.

A sunrise that daily brightens
And warms my coldest days with
Beauty of spirit, of face, of soul;
What a wonderful gift, Aurora.

Now I’ve broken some bad habits,
Out of my shell and comfort zone
Turns out, quite the inspiration,
This gift from Aurora.

A new friend. A new “me”.
A new “happy”; a new source.
And—look here!—a new poem
Titled “Gift From Aurora”.


—KERRY ALARIC CHEESEBORO

I Heart NY

Saturday, February 23rd, 2013

I Heart NYShe comes to me in her Sunday best. Freshly scrubbed, pink-cheeked, bursting with barely contained jazz hand exuberance. With her flirtatious eyes and classic beauty she entices me. “Come here.” she says, beckoning, her voice like honey.

I offer my bended elbow, and she takes it, sliding her delicate hand into the crook. She smiles up at me, opening my eyes to a bright, shiny world where fragile things crave my exultation. I am a dandy in a bespoke suit, squiring my love to all the prettiest, sunlit places. And I am overflowing with love for her. The shouting from rooftops kind of love. She is the focus of my boundless passion, and she can do no wrong. With a coyly tilted chin she reveals her slyly hidden treasures, those objects and ideas revealed for my eyes only, and I reverentially accept her loyalty, her openness. Because I am my best self with her. Most of all, I love her madly for that.

She comes to me in torn fishnets with disheveled hair. An angry swipe with the back of her hand smudges the mascara running down her tear-stained cheek. Her skin stinking of stale booze, an exhalation after a long drag partially obscures her face like a veil. “Come here.” she says—no, demands—her voice still gravelly with last night’s bad decisions. She grabs my hand and pulls, begins walking away before I’m sure I want to follow.

But I do, I have no choice. I hate her passionately for that. But her seduction is absolute. And when she regards me over her shoulder, a wry smile twisting the corners of her luscious mouth, I am flooded with anxious anticipation for my own imminent bad decisions. She throbs with an energy, a beat that infects me, and I’m filled with a longing ache for her to belong to me the way I belong to her. But she wouldn’t be the same if she did. And the way it would change her would be just one more reason for me to hate her.

Love. Hate. I am never indifferent to her.

I heart NY.