Love Is

Love is a small thing

Two birds nuzzle little hearts

Big War bunting flaps.

Love is a gesture

One look tells many tales

Roses twine with weeds.

Love is a moment

Just stand there and be silent

One raindrop quenches.

Love is a goose laugh

Grinning removing trousers

Maid cleans down feathers.

Love is a tearful

Broken hearted sunshine blues

Opens arms and sings. 

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

6 thoughts on “Love Is

  1. I very much like this poem; your levity and pellucidity of thought is very balancing, and in a sense, every composition of yours is backgrounded by an added layer of serenity. I don’t know if that makes much sense; I’m not known for making much sense.
    I also find it somewhat charming that you didn’t use a singular comma in this poem (and rightfully so), whereas I seem to drop a pallet of them in each verse.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you for writing to me. The intuited background of any composition is a raw (less intellectualized) expression of the author’s soul, in my estimation. If you can discern a serenity in mine, then that is a good sign, for the burgeoning creative should endeavor to find a quiet spot somewhere in his soul to pluck the petals around him. As for commas, I am mindful of J. Alfred Prufrock: “All the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo.” In other words, too often punctuation is akin to mindless chatter. They can be poignant when used sparingly and with clear purpose, but otherwise they are just blathering pauses.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I don’t understand the geometry of Prufrock with commas, nor do I understand the comparison, since if any author was absurdly fond of punctuation, it was Eliot.
        But I absolutely agree that anything with purpose should be used with parsimony, after all, that’s the purpose of purpose.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I agree. I am a fan of Eliot, but I find his fondness for punctuation sometimes a distraction. It is like being artsy for art’s sake. There may be a valid reason to be so indulgent. Perhaps, for example, a particular poetic scene is best expressed in a pompous or bombastic voice. For the most part, though, the embellishments tend to get in the way. I know that you have referred in a prior note to your own proclivities in such regard. I have yet to read anything of yours where I thought the punctuation distracted me. Therefore, I was referring to the overuse of commas more generally in poems.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh, Michael, I wasn’t at all feeling as if you spoke of me, if not merely for the fact that punctuation is the absolute last problem with my writing. If I’ve written a word, I have already fumbled everything.
      As, as Eliot, I do have the issue of being artsy and bombastic and fustian for arts sake. Well, I’m more like Wallace Stevens, since Eliot had a more subtle mind beyond all the titivation and bombast.
      I hope I grow up and out of my festooned shell, for my sake, but I’m indulging in this hyper-literary style if only to understand the limits of my distensibility, and perhaps they were too. As long as I’m not selling it, as I say, I’m allowed my badness.
      I do think your poetry is sublime, and your parsimony is an essential aspect of that. I must inspect you closer, see if something rubs off on me.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. All poets are indulgent, even the more subtle ones. The hyper-literary expressiveness of the experimental poem is something to admire actually. Sometimes, they work. Oftentimes, they do not. It is much like sleeping in many beds for a while. Very often, the experiences do not turn out to be all that good, and we do not necessarily include all the details in our memoirs, but what would like have been otherwise but the safety of drab grayness? If the poet does not have his occasional affairs in dark and dingy backrooms, then he is probably not well suited to his life’s pursuit.

        Liked by 1 person

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