Lovelorn Poets

From Anchorage to Zebulon: In Search of Missed Connections

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: One Last Riddle…

by

to flickr riddlers by Jef Safi

to flickr riddlers by Jef Safi

Six names were hidden
At the start of this quest

One has been found
But what of the rest?

First names and last names
Were tumbled like laundry

Connections were hidden
In the original quandary.

Many a lady is named as was guessed
But only one angel with that name was blessed

A secret of love may never be known
The depth of devotion may never be shown

But in a poem silly, sent out in the night
A secret lover revealed the name of his delight

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconSo, what’s the name of our poet from Portland’s delight? In trying to solve “One Last Riddle” I started the search for an angel’s name. Interestingly, I discovered that Barachiel  is the angel of blessings; the go-to intermediary for pursuits pertaining to relationships, family, friends or work. While this may not be the solution, it never hurts to ask for a little help, right? 

Lovelorn Poet in Pittsburgh, PA: Capote 3

by

Two cats by Peter Neish

Two cats by Peter Neish

u:
wearing black on white.
incredibly handsome.
do i see burnt sienna in there, or is that just the light?
brown leather belt.
you are dashing.
roguish, maybe.
a little heavy–i know this is weight gained for an adventure.
adventure with me.

me:
dressed in ash.
white socks.
im wearing stars.
fursmell: spearmint.
let’s circle.
teach you to climb tree; rub cheek in tulip-stem.
notice my eye-glint.
that’s madness; i sleep in the rain, nap in the garden.
after winter of windowstare, summer’s clawspring.
find the scar under my chin.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconFursmell, windowstare, clawspring. The language of feline missed connections. Read the other adventures of Capote here and here (with a few more to come in the near future…) and become entranced by the purrspell…

Lovelorn Poet in Salt Lake City, UT: Like A Messenger Bird

by

A Small Gathering by Phillip Kirk

A Small Gathering by Phillip Kirk

It’s that time of year when if you stop talking and start listening, you can hear the birds sing.
Even with the traffic, you can still hear the birds.
What is it that they want to tell you?
They are so frantically trying to communicate their message.
But you just won’t listen.
You just look at them and say, “Dumb birds. They should learn English.”

But if you stop talking for like, five minutes, you’ll start to hear the message.
And therein lies the rub.
Who has five minutes to devote to listening to birds?
Not you. Not me. Not anybody.
So we are where we are…
in a world where our useless babble drowns out the voices of the birds and their real message of the importance of loving and being loved.

I love you.
But you already knew that.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconOnce upon a time, in a far-away, distant land, I lived next-door to an elderly woman who was a avid gardener. From my kitchen window, I could see her every morning, walking and working amongst the blooms and greenery. Occasionally, small birds would alight on her arms and shoulders and chatter would ensue – communication no different than if a neighbor had stuck their head over the hedge or the letter carrier came around with a package to sign for.  Simply, friendly conversation. “Nice to see you. How do you do? What about this weather…” Lovely, yes. Yes, love.

Lovelorn Poet in Philadelphia, PA: There’s A Crack In The Sidewalk

by

Goodbye 2008 by Art Siegel

Goodbye 2008 by Art Siegel

There’s a crack in the sidewalk.

No one who walks over it remembers where it started, but there it is, between their soles. Everyday it leans on itself a little more. It grates on itself until bit by bit it chips away at its own crooks and reaches out new dents into the concrete. It’s as much a part of the sidewalk as the footfalls, and one day someone will walk over the cracks and wonder if there was once sidewalk in the pebbles and sherd.

When the sun is hovering about ten feet above it with unbearable, wavering arms, then the downcast eyes of passersby are upon it. Then, it’s a splitting, fracturing trail. It’s a sweatless enervation and anyone who sees it is really only thinking about the shade and the coolness and the relief at its end.

There’s a little yellowing leaflet, there in that crack. Right there in the elbow of the third weariness from the center – it’s lying flat, and it looks downtrodden. It isn’t clear whether every footfall smashes it down, whether drought grinds its edges, whether solstice squeezes its life out of it. But it won’t give up.

The city may walk upon concrete paths, but all things crumble. This here is a little crack in perfection, and here the leaflets may grow.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconTo you, Missed Connections. Keep sprouting.

Lovelorn Poet in New Orleans, LA: Keywords

by

Magnetic Fridge Poetry by Steve A Johnson

Magnetic Fridge Poetry by Steve A Johnson

the funny thing about the “o” ‘s (though it’s a formality)
control in all of its formats
former northern explorers
Amazonians
ugly garments
drive thrus
numerous holes in the head
black dogs
Northern pacific
the hippies
planting portably
my favorite place to retreat
Seattle
global politics
kamakaze fish
Twix v. Reeces v. Whatthefà ‚ £{=à ‚ ¡!ever that was
things that float
the “Robin” issue
determining distance
superhumanism
street signs
DYNOHUGS!

if you thought I loved you then,
I wouldn’t even know what to call it now.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconKeywords are used to reveal the structure and focus of a writer’s reasoning – a shortcut of sorts that provides a reader with a glimpse or “sneak preview” of what can be found within the body of work. Quite a story, many stories actually, could be generated from our poet’s list. If we write the keywords before we write the story, how might the outcome be different? Hmmm …

MENU