Poems Between Lovers

Poems Between Lovers

After the Vows: Poems Between Lovers

Available now via Diminuendo Press (and the usual places).

You are not Orpheus

You are not Orpheus, love, nor would I

have you be, and I will not slip in to

Hades hands. Understand my love is new

even when mundane is the order of

the day and I wish for words of passion

and wit. My days are incomplete without

a kiss from your lips, in a smile or pout.

Fanciful dreams in romantic fashion

still find their way into the world around

me, but now my prince has a face I can see

and when I look in your eyes, I see me.

My name in your voice is sweeter, I say

more musical than any poetry,

or song, Orpheus ever thought to play.

Siobhan M Pitchford

Aphrodite in Your Shadow

So well you take me as I am. I fear

to imagine what would be should that fair-

fortuned force that fogs your eyes suddenly

shed the scales that put me in your vision

as you describe it. I see no such man

within my mirror, but thank the heavens

that you see me so. And how do I see

you? Aphrodite shone as bright, I’m sure,

yet your steadfast nature is earth scented,

unlike Venus’s too fickle fragrances,

therefore so much the more desirable.

Yet, how can I compare you and be fair

when she is myth and you of fleshly make

she I wonder of—you I worldly hold.

David M Pitchford


14 thoughts on “Poems Between Lovers

  1. It will never leave you, buried so deep
    within your psyche – perhaps it’s hidden
    in that place silenced by circumstance.
    It was born into the life led before
    this plane of existence – whether pirate
    or poet in Coolridge’s company.

    Re-written in prose, your muse is now new –
    release for that voice no longer silent,
    heard beyond your inner ear; it is fresh
    welcome solace to a world of readers
    hungry for words they cannot know they need
    – or want – until you pen them in their way
    putting story – fantasy – hero rare
    on the page and into their hearts and minds.

    ~ aigofe

  2. Sunday Mornings—Now

    It’s Sunday morning; I lay on the floor,
    with my dog, wondering what you’re doing
    right now. I want creamy coffee, a game—
    yahtzee, perhaps scrabble, as music plays,
    shuffling one musician to the next
    at random. I miss quiet soft chuckles,
    laughter teasing me when I pirouette
    in front of the stove or shake curvy hips
    as I flip bacon, crisp under broiler.

    I wonder if you’re reading the paper,
    relaxing in your new home; this one gone,
    forgotten in the newness—love renewed
    from that sweet brief encounter years ago
    . . . how did it become more than our time here?

    I wish the dog had hands to roll the dice.


    • Brunch with the Fish

      You are a thousand miles away from me,
      and I am with another man’s wife—is
      honesty betrayal when the truth hurts?—
      shopping for new fish to populate her
      freshly acquired aquarium (though
      I will not know for two more weeks that it
      is solely hers, when the fever breaks and
      she informs me that I am to be out
      as soon as I am well enough because
      she has reconciled with her husband), and
      having brunch with her sons, whom, despite my
      best efforts, I am uncharitable
      in assessing as inferior to your
      sons and mine—in some manner—I’m alone.

      David M Pitchford
      7 May 2009

      • Honest Betrayal

        I have heard it said ‘the truth hurts’. I know
        this is true; experience has taught me
        to breathe deeply and accept discomfort;
        acknowledge survival is possible.

        When I want to curl beneath the covers
        I have learned to throw them off, to stand up,
        face the betrayal I feel – realize
        I am not alone in the sensation.

        Whether in response to my anger or
        through self-preservation, he feels it too.
        Hours spent playing the part of victim
        won’t change the mis-stepped path that got us here.

        We’re both betrayed in ways only we know –
        the decision to heal is ours alone.

        May 7, 2009

      • Pondering Betrayal

        Where does it begin? He betrayed her, she
        betrayed him, I betrayed you, you in turn
        turned upon yourself with ruthless harm—we
        betray ourselves and each other as though
        it were a virus passing among us.
        How often is it we make each other
        sick? By proximity or contempt or
        by accident . . . where does it begin, in
        our intentions or misunderstandings,
        conflicts of loyalty—betray the one
        to remain loyal to another? When
        does the fever break? At the word ‘forgive’,
        or in the thought that perhaps some mis-step
        was an honest mistake—a foolish choice?

        David M Pitchford
        7 May 2009

        Note: there was too little room inside the sonnet to cover the points of maliciousness or deliberate betrayal. That is for other poems – perhaps better left to other poets.

      • A Foolish Choice

        The elusive ‘they’ say I am foolish
        to ponder life within his arms; those of
        betrayal. Why put myself in harms way?
        I ask – silent and out loud – where’s the harm?
        I have ever seen the love, never seen
        the wrath in physical form aimed my way.

        Obtuse? Perhaps. An intentional slip
        sideways into misunderstanding –
        an honest step toward the comfort missing
        from life; the familiar pattern we’d built
        over a decade of getting to know
        one another – not realizing
        we were drifting farther apart . . . maybe.
        Yet, is forgiveness such a foolish choice?

        May 7, 2009

      • Foolishness

        Every choice we make is from some bias
        or another—whether foolish or wise,
        rash or deliberate. It’s our human
        condition to color each choice one way
        or another . . . or several. So many factors,
        seen and unseen, known and unknown, conscious
        and un- or sub-conscious, these biases
        color our world and circumstances, our
        very lives (at least, how we perceive them)
        into the portrait of ourselves. Each one
        of us a work of art in multiple
        dimensions—who’s to judge the value of art?
        Every choice is but a coloring on
        life’s canvas—only consequence can judge.

        David M Pitchford
        9 May 2009

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