The Nature of Love

Sometimes love is a mistake;
all emotion and lust,
very little commitment.
and almost no trust.

Attraction can't do it all;
love is for the long haul,
lust is made for the moment;
means little at all..

Love's aim is important too.
who it is may be wrong
for us and really toxic:
do you get along?

The moral is straight forward:
aim at connection
if it is solid the rest 
comes with reflection.


©2012  C. Boeneman

Heroes Are Rare.

I don't have heroes anymore
They are only people
and they eventually disappoint
if you set them to the fore.

Authentic heroes are quite rare
they are almost extinct.
To do something wholly selfless and brave
takes courage and love to spare.

It takes both qualities, not one.
One of them is fine, good
but doesn't make or equal a hero
just that something good is done.

To be a hero takes heart
and maybe some art too;
it's said, "courage is fear that said its prayers"
faith is what love imparts.


Love alone might make a saint,
courage marks a soldier.
But both together is very distinct;
it takes a fine brush to paint.

Propinquity (Republished)

I have heard that
absence makes
the heart grow fonder

but I know that
isn't true;
the heart will wander.

Closeness is what
really works;
near likeness is best.

The more akin
people are,
their affairs are blest.

So if you want
someone true
try to look nearby;

maybe next door
or at work
he'll catch your eye.

Ignore cliches,
what you've heard
absence is absurd.

Humiliation

It'd been a long time coming
but the burning was new
Support had always been there
but the lust had confused;

Were new feelings for someone
I had always admired
But he's so much older now
close to being retired.

His beloved wife had passed 
I was volunteering;
I was around him much more,
in parades appearing.

So I felt the attraction.
I wrote some poems of love
expressing admiration,
feelings I had to prove.

So as poems appeared online
I found he had remarried
and thus I was mortified;
wanted my head buried.

Humiliation was first
and then came feelings of shame.
I became overwhelmed
and ran out without aim.

I was badly embarrassed,
I wanted so much to die.
I just couldn't face him
or look him in the eye.

Dying of embarrassment
is possible, I see that's so;
because I wanted to
and still might die from woe.

Politics vs. Love

Never fall in love
with a politician.
They are usually lawyers
and practiced liars.

Falling in love with
a congressman is worse
He has staff to cover his ass
and put out all fires.

Truth is rarely told
and not even to him,
if it's inconvenient
for the official.

Minions will tell lies
and even gaslight people,
anything to keep jobs,
truth sacrificial.

The moral is this:
politics can be deadly
'specially for innocents;
the incidental.



©2012 Cherie R. Boeneman

He Confuses Me

He has a heart of gold,
a backbone of titanium,
brilliant as a diamond,
eyes are clear and bold.


Voice mellow as the moon
belies  firmness of conviction.
Steel blue gaze tells how
highly he's attuned.


He's focused on his goal
like an eagle from high above,
circling on the wind,
using self-control.


Opponents know his ways,
respect him for the pro he is.
Supporters just smile
and wait for his play.


The power he can wield
has been decades in building.
It's second to none
when its unconcealed.


Don't ever sell him short,
He can crush you in a heartbeat.
One word from this man
can your dreams abort.


How one man can be two:
compassionate and frightening,
eyes soft and yet steel,
is odd yet it's true.


I find him affecting
and attractive to the extreme.
I don't understand
what he's projecting.


He has sex appeal
in a way that confuses me.
I want to hold him,
his kisses to feel.


I'm not used to this, 
being confused and befuddled.
He takes me aback
I'm dreaming of bliss.

The Neighbor

The woman on the street
pushing a shopping cart
with tattered belongings...
She's my neighbor.

The soldier just home
from a war that made
him mentally ill...
He's my neighbor.

The boy who sits
without saying a word
then has a melt down.
He is my neighbor...

The wealthy man who
is unable to share
whose heart is like ice...
He is my neighbor.

The Muslim across the hall
who prays five times a day
and speaks in Arabic...
He is my neighbor.

The teenaged girl who
gets pregnant and decides
to get an abortion...
She is my neighbor...

Jesus said, "Love your
neighbor as yourself."
He was asked, "Who
is my neighbor?"

Jesus told a story called
The Good Samaritan:
Our neighbor is anyone
and our neighbor is everyone.

Stages

Hoping
Holding
Longing
Loving
Yearning
Yielding
Kissing
Caressing
Kissing
Yielding
Yearning
Loving
Longing
Holding
Happy

Silver Fox

He is a silver fox
appraising ice blue eyes.
Silently slinking, stalking,
standing and waiting.


The prey is unaware
of his stealthy presence
as she calmly continues 
writing, creating.


Smoothly he approaches,
silent as the moonlight's
shadows within which he moves.
He starts debating:


When should he start his play?
Not wanting to scare her
the sly old fox steps in front
before stating:


"Would you care for some wine?
The Beaujolais is fine."
His prey smiles and then stands up, 
he is baiting.


She waits for his approach
as he slips in beside,
she turns to face him fully,
options weighing.


She reaches up to kiss
him and run her fingers 
through his hair and stroke his ears;
love awaiting.

Propinquity

I have heard that
absence makes
the heart grow fonder


but I know that
isn't true;
the heart will wander.


Closeness is what
really works;
near likeness is best.


The more akin
people are,
their affairs are blest.


So if you want
someone true
try to look nearby;


maybe next door
or at work
he'll catch your eye.


Ignore cliches,
what you've heard
absence is absurd.

The One

Who is the One?
Is it you?
Is it a friend?


Who is the One?
Is it he,
one who offends?


Who is the One?
Is it she
who does contend?


Who is the One?
it is all;
who walls ascend.


Who is the One?
It is God
Who transcends.

Shattered Soul

My heart is broken,
love is impossible. 
my soul has shattered,
all music has died.

Truth is no longer,
belief irrelevant.
what's real is in flux:
I feel dead inside.

The moral is this:
Don't trust anybody,
they all deceive you;
will all make you cry.

Rely on yourself.
Then if you are let down
you will always know
that at least you tried.

Believe in yourself
and maybe One Other.
Hold to your values
they'll help you decide.

Let others be friends
but never let them in
so far they can hurt:
take them all in stride.

Monday Night

I'm afraid of what the night will bring.
I'm terrified of what he'll say.
I so want this man's respect,
more than I care to admit.
His approval means everything
and I'm scared he'll say, "Go away"
and that he will reject
me and see me as unfit.


I'm scared he won't even look at me,
indeed admit I'm even there.
To be treated as unreal
would afflict me to the core.
Just to have him look over and see
me as a person,  be aware
I'm there would make me feel
that I am someone worth more.


It is sad to say I'm in this place
desperate for him to like me;
that I can't stand on my own,
accepting what he discerns.
I need to reach within and embrace
all the things that make me unique,
trust the need to stand alone
so that self-respect returns.

Winter Eyes

His steel blue eyes,
icicles piercing my heart
freezing it in love.

A Paradox Reconciled

Why do we see justice as blind 
when, in truth, she must be able to see 
more clearly than all of us in order 
for any of us to be free? 

Why do we seek peace with a sword 
when swords only divide; bombs cannot bind? 
Together is how we must learn to be, 
Living as one, all humankind. 

How can we value our freedom 
yet use that freedom to oppress others? 
We trap ourselves in our contradiction; 
our own liberty then suffers. 

We say that love is the center 
of all that we are, of all we can be. 
If that is true we must learn from each other, 
reach out in trust and harmony. 

4/27/88  

The Tragic Soul

The tragic soul yearns for better things: 
it looks beyond the cross 
and reaches past the tomb 
to seek for life unbound by age, it sings. 

The tragic soul yearns for lovers' sighs: 
it soars beyond itself 
and reaches past body 
to seek for love unbound by lust, it cries.
 
The tragic soul yearns for bluer skies: 
it leaps beyond itself 
and reaches past the clouds 
to seek freedom unbound by Earth, it flies. 

The tragic soul yearns for some answers: 
it looks inside itself 
and reaches past questions 
to seek faith unbound by death, it dances. 

The tragic soul yearns for better things: 
it looks beyond the cross 
and reaches past the tomb 
to seek for life unbound by age, it sings.