Super-sized Series

 Lovers 

 
Peggy Trojan’s parents

Sweet Memory by Peggy Trojan

My parents were lovers
for over seventy years.
Being Finnish, they rarely
exhibited their affection
in public.
One day, in their nineties,
when Pa did not know
I was watching, he passed
Ma standing at the
kitchen counter.
Without stopping, he gave
her a little love pat
on her fanny.
Then he turned
to catch her smile.


LATIN LOVE by Lorraine Caputo
 
The night, so black,
the stars points of silver,
still in the pure air.

And here we are on the verandah,
silent,
listening to the cicadas,
to the flutter of moths
around the yellow lantern glow.
 
I at you swaying in your hammock
at the same time you glance at me.
Our eyes connect.
 
A soft breeze blows
through your hair of black waves …
 
                  And I am cast adrift on your sea
                        beneath the silver moon
                  We lay on the silver-sand beach
                        bathed by rolling black waves
 
                 
And I drift towards you,
                        my back bending
                              to your rhythm,
                        ecstasy filling my whole
                              quaking body
                        as your lips, your tongue
                              play over my neck
 
Slowly I walk towards you
Our hands connect,    
our eyes forever connected.
This deep-black night
streaked by the electric blue
of our Latin love.

published in: The Blue Hour


LOVERS IN THE PARK by Jacqueline Jules
 
They are sleeping
on a blue blanket;
her blonde hair
on his bronze chest,
a picnic basket at his hip.
Hundreds of feet
trod carefully around them
as if they were a pool
of tranquil blue water
reflecting a young lover's trust
in a world where
no rocks are thrown.
 
Originally published in Imitation Fruit


SCHMIDT’S BERRY FARM by Barbara Crooker

A plastic bucket hangs from your canvas belt,
while I place mine on the grass between my sneakers.
Either way, we’re using both our hands.  These bushes
are so lush it’s like bushwhacking in a thicket.  Plink
plank plunk.  Blue globe by blue globe, our buckets
fill.  Tactile.  Nubile.  Faint blush of silver on each
blue orb.  Later:  pies, buckles, pancakes, compote
with Limoncello.  The late day sun slices through
the bushes, making it impossible to see anything
but the path in front.  Neither of us can see the stroke
up ahead, taking your right hand, your vision, 
your short-term memory.  Or the virus that has kept
us apart.  Right now, the air is ripe with fruit, 
and you are fumbling under my shirt, harvesting
sweetness now, while we can.

Summerset Poetry Review


Old Lovers Meet by Sarah Russell

We hug, for a moment
catch each other's hand,
remembering the cadence
of shared dances.

We speak of children,
grandchildren, spouses.
But our eyes see butterflies
with battered wings
and transience
before the rain.

First published in Emergence
 
Homesick in San Miguel by Wilda Morris

When I’m homesick abroad
it’s not for our house,
the dining room table
with tall-back chairs
not for the kitchen stove,
or the pet turtle
someone else has to feed
while I’m gone.

I’m happy with my little room
in the posada, love desyuono
at a sidewalk café in January, 
huevos with rice and beans, 
a cup of coffee or hot chocolate,
and later in the day, tortilla soup,
stuffed poblano peppers, 
tortilla chips with guacamole.
The view from my balcony
is more expansive than the one 
from our picture window back home.

No, it’s not our house,
not the food, though
I’d welcome some cottage cheese
or hazelnut coffee about now.
When I’m homesick, it’s
for you, wishing you had come too.    


 



Getting Over Johnny Depp by Laurie Byro

My friends knew the power
he had over me.
Still, I was mostly over it.
 From time to time, they would
mention his name, casually—
tell me where they’d seen him.

I stopped screaming
“Johnny” in the middle of sex.
New lovers didn’t laugh, even
after I told them why.

Like the pirate in the movie says
“I feel old” yet it didn’t stop me
from sneaking off to see him
in the middle of the afternoon.

I had been told it would be good for me.
Everyone said “You have to.”
During stop lights, I practiced my Kegels
just because, you never know.

Truthfully, I had only met him once.
He was playing Don Juan.
I was in Mexico during my travel agent
days. I met him quite by accident and when
I took his hand and couldn’t speak
all he said to me was “I know.”

A harmless obsession, sort of.
I imagined our first date. Naturally,
he would carry scissors. In the morning,
after I called my best friend (from Mexico)
and said “But Lisa—my panties are
shredded to ribbons.”
She explained to me the power of fantasy.

Mostly, I’d endured. My friends helped.
They had me join a 12 step program.
They never said a word when he married
that French beauty. We all pretended
to be happy after the birth of his 2nd child.

But today, I faltered. The heat and humidity
got to me. I knew the coolness and the
pleasure, the temptation of a wide screen.

Still, I was happy to see attendants walk
the aisles with flash flights. I thought
of the fate of Pee-Wee Herman., I thought
of my husband. My disappointed friends
calling me at the lock-up. I pushed deeper into
the softness of the theatre seat. Comforted
myself with a sweet coke.

Seeing him again, I realized what I missed
most was exploring those places I loved.

Antigua, Barbados, Dominica. I knew
I had been standing right where he’d been.

“Elizabeth” he tells her
“It never would have worked between us.”

“I know” I whispered from my seat.

Sigh

I wonder how did he find out?
My middle name.

 

At the Singles Complex in the Seventies by Sharon Waller Knutson

I envied the lovers
as they draped
like reptiles

bare
bodies 
at the pool 

as if posing
for steamy scenes
in a movie

until I hear
the gossip
in the gym.

The Goddess 
with green eyes --
a forty something virgin

won’t let the God
touch her 
except to slather

Coppertone on bare skin
not covered
by her bathing suit.

The blonde 
in the bikini
nuzzled

on her bare back,
neck and navel 
by a Brad Pitt look alike

is married
and her soldier husband
due home any day.

Still that didn’t stop
me from sitting
in the hot sun

with beach bums
and getting blistered
and burned.

.
A Very Tough Day by Catfish McDaris

An attorney arrived home late, after a very tough day trying to get a stay of execution. His last minute plea for clemency to the governor had failed and he was feeling worn out and depressed.

As soon as he walked through the door at home, his wife started on him about, 'What time of night to be getting home is this? Where have you been? Dinner is cold and I'm not reheating it." And on and on and on.

Too shattered to play his usual role in this familiar ritual, he poured himself a shot of whiskey and headed off for a long hot soak in the bathtub, pursued by the predictable sarcastic remarks as he dragged himself up the stairs.

While he was in the bath, the phone rang. The wife answered and was told that her husband's client, James Wright, had been granted a stay of execution after all. Wright would not be hanged tonight. 

Finally realizing what a terrible day he must have had, she decided to go upstairs and give him the good news.

As she opened the bathroom door, she was greeted by the sight of her husband, bent over naked, drying his legs and feet.

"They're not hanging Wright tonight," she said.

He whirled around and screamed, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN, DON'T YOU EVER STOP COMPLAINING?!"

 


Living Alone and Loving It by Lynn White

I’m living alone and loving it,
that I am.
I had a good ‘un though,
but wouldn’t want to train another.
Takes years to train ‘em.
That couple last night,
what a one she was.
You could see who was boss
in that marriage.
Ain't it funny that 
you picked up on it as well!

I don’t like the shows, though.
That magician was terrible. 
Worst I've seen.
Mind you, magicians are old hat,
In my opinion.
Still, better than sitting on our own
watching the telly.
I think we only watch it out of boredom,
being on our own.
I wouldn’t want another, though.
Well, I had such a good ‘un,
it wouldn’t be fair.

Couldn’t believe it when she said:
“I told my first that I’d divorce him
if he got a pot belly
and look what I’ve ended up with!”
Must have hurt him!
No equal partnership that!
You could see she was boss.
Fancy you picking up on it as well.
Must have hurt him.

Living alone and loving it, I am.
Wouldn’t be fair to have another.
I’d be making comparisons.
He was so meticulous.
If he was taking something to bits
he’d make a drawing first
so he could put it back together.
No wouldn’t be fair.
Fancy us both picking up 
on that woman last night.
Yes, you can see who’s boss
in that marriage.
No, wouldn’t be fair to have another.

Living alone and loving it,
that’s what I am.

First published in Clockwise Cat May 2016