Welcome to Valentine's Poetry Week at Lindsay's Romantics!

Welcome to Valentine's Poetry Week at Lindsay's Romantics! We're celebrating Valentine's Day, love and romance all this week through the medium of poetry. Poetry is the oldest, most expressive, most intense literary form. It captures and reveals our deepest feelings and enables us to share those emotions with others. So here at the start of our Valentine Poetry Week are some love poems, written by us.

The Stalactite

If we turn to stone above our organic time
let me be a stalactite hanging over you
feeding you drop by drop like a new born
growing a crystal jewel
reaching up closing the distance
an aching gap that mortality rent between our lips
building a bridge until they touch again that kiss
to seal anew the bond that made the spiral column of pure white bliss
memorial to love ten thousand years before.

Alan Calder, Poet and author at Willowmoon Press:
http://www.willowmoonpublishing.com/authors.html



Lovers Undress
You're a shaft of light
In my crimson evening.

Let's make each other beautiful;
You in a silver ball gown,
Shoulders shine above it
Above superb resilient breasts.


Slow, sensual dance, rustling fabrics,
Hands, breath to lips and tongues
Held through this breeze.


I've striven in my work-outs
For this moment;
I'm yours to relish,
you're mine to savour.


So now undo me, see legs first
- Yours I'll match
Now find my waist and torso
- Feel at first
And then unbutton,
Peel and see.


In shorts I stand before you now,
Athletic
You're throbbing for the next -
You take my waistband, draw
Now I'm just in trunks
- Erotic in your smouldering light.


I'll do the same for you, I'm delicate
with zips and buttons, buckles
Release your gown,
A glittering parachute
and you step out


- In what I dreamed you'd wear:
A purple strapless one-piece
Clinging to your toned lovely form


A one-piece proclaims
A woman's fullest power - Concealing, revealing,
Balance just right - to draw on,
and you can wear one
Before all others.


Now you're my bathing beauty,
I am yours.


The water calls us, shimmering warm;
Let's slice the waves,
Please do the backstroke, let me see
Your breasts, your thighs
Thrusting through the surface
And now an underwater kiss


Now to the shore.
You lie on me, I rub your back
Our costumes dry, peel off
and now deep cleaving
Of thigh and groin.


You are so deep , so strong in love
Made thunderstorms;
You frightened all the others off
Yet drew me out;
Let me embrace my feminine
In our unrobing

Submission? domination?
Now those terms
Lose all pretence of meaning,
In the flooding flames of total love.


You're a shaft of light
In my crimson evening.


David Russell


 ~~~~~~ Zurroc's Love Poem to Kytaira
I know my tigress.
Wild fierce energy burning, she is large of heart.
Kind to those in need, she is a predator for justice.

Currents of white-hot fire arc between us when her Tigress spirit mates with my Tiger soul.

Ancient passions ignite when we tangle, woman and man becoming one.

Savage is another name for the beauty of my Tigress.

She frees me, my woman.

For, what is untamed in me growls to caress what is untamed in her.

From ~ Tigress Shapeshifter... meet the new boss, worse than the old boss... by Savanna Kougar 

Sunny days

Sunny days I spent with you
Memories to last my whole life through
From bronze to silver then to gold
This is how our lives unfold
Simple thoughts, simple pleasures
Worth more than any treasures

Margaret Maguire, Poet and Writer.


My Forever Valentine.

As young lovers, finding each other their urgent lips and bodies entwine.
Forty years on the rush is for the hot wheat bag that they find divine.
My love for you takes my youthful breathe away.
My ancient bones tell me, if I chase there will be a delay.

New-born love; so fragile, so precious, so inane,
Ripened love, mellowed and tempered by life,
sees the sprint of youth as insane.

Fresh hearts are easily given away,
bruised beings retreat, in the hope of loving another someday.

Spring like spirit scatters its seed far and wide,
Autumn’s sprite knows a more fruitful place for its kernel to hide.

And as the last of the summer’s sun begins to fade
and our thoughts turn to a hardier time,
We will still be together; sharing our memories,
our hot water bottle, our life
and you will always be mine.

Candida Heard, writer and poet


Real Time

Turn off the satellites,
Throw away the phones,
I don't want to speak.
I need ROSES, bouquets,
Heart to heart.
Facebook OFF-
love ME!

Christine Hirst, writer and photographer. (Christine took the sunset photograph at the top of this post.)

Candida Heard: Forever Harlyn Bay

Most of my childhood holidays were spent in idyllic sands, beach breaking swell and rock pools that form the Cornish coastline. In particular, Harlyn Bay, a few miles from the now famous Padstow. However, this was a Padstow that was pre-Rick Stein. The locals and the ‘grockles’ both enjoyed the daily offerings dragged from the sea but this was 1977 when the deep fat fryer was king and most fish were battered within an inch of their lives and were accompanied by thick salty chips. This is when all our seaside towns consumed the majority of our post Cod- War quota.

You could eat fish and chips followed by the local fudge and wash it down with a couple of cans of coke, without even a pang of guilt. This was a pre-cholesterol nation. This was the year of gold bikinis, of brightly coloured socks with toes in and all things glitter, which included Gary.

This was my fourteenth year on the planet, when I got my licence to roam and my first independent thoughts.

Glam rock was dying, as was my childhood. Punk rock was calling, poking a finger up at ‘the olds’, enticing me to walk on the beaches and look at the peaches, even if I didn’t understand its meaning. Parental horror and secrecy nurtured my soul and the dark Cornish coves and craggy cliff faces formed the perfect backdrop.

This was the year that I had a foot in both camps. By day I was torn between lying on a towel with my bikini perfectly in place, soaking up the never-ending Cornish rays and occasionally cooling off in the seductively playful sea. And then there was the lure of those rock pools that had held my attention for hour upon hour in previous years, the small safe rock pools, not the huge one at Travone that I learnt not to drown in. These pools held the strandline’s secret circus. I loved the bearded ladies that paralysed their marine prey under water and appeared like engorged rock- nipples once exposed. Also the somersaulting sea shrimps that eluded my net, not to mention the ringmaster himself, the king of the pool, the clever crustacean who was the jewel in my bucket if caught and a total terror if he escaped.

Sometimes I would venture further a field and explore the rough cliff tops and watch a group of skinny boys jump into the surrounding sea from an exposed rock at high tide. I smiled last week when they reported the new craze of Tombstoning as I thought back to those foolhardy boys. Once I fell from those cliff tops and into the swell below, only to be pulled out by some random adult asking me where my parents were. I can’t remember how I regained my solitude without having to divulge information that would surely have clipped my wings for a few days, teenage cunning I guess.

Night and the light of the Cornish Cyclops transformed everything. Gone was the gold lame that was supposed to make my skin look pale and interesting. In came the more ‘up yours’ look of plastic punk, concealed in the black bin liner that doubled up as a dress and could be hidden in the toilet block furthest from the family tent. Out I would come, dad’s tie askew, pigtails at an oblique angle with enough kohl on my face to scare even Marilyn Manson, not that he was around in those days. Off I went across the cliff top in search of the older girls from the chip shop, the same girls that had put a shot of whiskey in my coffee the night before. We were off in the opposite direction from the one and only pub that our parents were hauled up in. We were off to the famous Cornish cliff top Hog Roast.

Even remembering the smell, all these years later, makes my mouth salivate. Words like succulent, pungent and aromatic come to mind and that was just the boys that came to these events! Not that we were to appear interested, that was not the ‘plastic’ way. Instead we ‘pogoed’ to the sounds of Plastic Bertrand with his ‘ Ca plane pour mois’ and Poly Styrene and her ’Germ Free Adolescents’. Only as an adult have I discovered how uncool these were to the real punks!

Later with our bellies full of applesauce and pork and our hearts full of disappointment, we would be drawn towards the shoreline. With the sounds of never swim at high tide or on a full stomach ringing in our minds we stripped off. How daring were we? Once in and only once in, we would shout at the passers-by on the cliff tops, what I can’t remember. Probably something along the lines of come on in the water is lovely, what we shouted wasn’t important because what we were actually saying was look at me look at me. Funny how the Facebook generation thought they invented that. Getting in was all well and good, getting out and into a bin liner whilst dripping wet wasn’t so much fun. Thank god for the nook and crannies and overhangs that the cliffs provided.

Back in the family tent just before the call for last orders, listening to the sounds of the adult revellers, I clutched my copy of My Guy. I looked at the hastily scribbled address of one of my new friends whose run at the chip shop was coming to an end. Pen friends forever: snail mail style, with a promise to meet up next year and do it all again. I scribbled 1977 Harlyn Bay forever and encircled it with a heart before placing under my sleeping bag.

As I slumbered I dreamt of the mad old women of Padstow who shouted at you if you sat on her step eating Tiddyoggy, wet days at the cinema and the boy I hoped to meet next year.

[Photo of Harlyn Bay from www.gosouthwest.co.uk/]

Midsummer Poetry Week, day three

More love poems today from my writing group. Graham, Candida and Barry provide the poetry, while the top two pictures are by Victor Harris from Barry's garden and the one at the bottom was taken by my hubby in ours.


Love, Lust and Friendship

Friendship comes first, with a smile, a word.
Shared confidences over a drink or two
secret meetings, a quiet field trip.
Something happening, don’t be absurd,
we’re just good friends, what harm can we do?
Our own relationships are just having a blip.

Lust can come as a surprise.
That warm driven passion from a stolen kiss,
gentle touch’s hidden from view.
A burning lust does arise,
obsessive secret meetings, a warm wet bliss,
the fires keep burning whatever you do.

Love gifts and tender feelings creep in.
Lust gives way to lifetime thoughts,
the knowledge of a warm and tender love.
No more snatched moments of sin.
Our love will last, no negative thoughts
the angels must have blessed us from above.

Graham Alibone


Six-word poems

Eyes meet,
Sensations prickle,
Lovers greet.

Cannot breathe
I need
Your squeeze

Love’s found
Together
Love’s lost
Alone.

Hey you,
Let’s say
I do!

Together we are
Better than
Apart

First the kisses,
Then it’s Mrs

Shared moments
Knowing eyes
Love’s found

Arthritic joints,
Loves’ longevity
Cures all.

Love is a universe
For two

My inner fire
Wants your desire

Candida Heard


IRIS

Irresistible, dramatic, majestic and yet delicate
dancing with the crowd

Rhizomes exposed to the sun
storing the energy

Inspired Monet and Van Gogh
style, beauty, breathtaking masterpieces

Sensual, demanding and always full of surprises
the charm of a gypsy

Barry Kellington