The (Im)perfect Love Poem

Over in the Imaginary Garden we were given the formula to write "The Perfect Love Poem."  It is as follows: x (p + b + c + o), where P = Pattern (meter and rhyme,) B = Brevity, C = Comparison (describe the love or lover with a comparison), O = Obstacle (the difficulties inherent in a love affair), X = Mystery

But I was told there would be no math, so I didn't quite follow the formula. Instead I give you two imperfect love poems: 

My first love  poem is more like y(p+b+c+o), where y = humor.

Love Poem #1

Your love is like the bite of a tick

unnoticed at first, then making me sick

with fever and chills, aches and pains.

I hate that my heart doesn’t have any brains

when it sees this disease

that brings me to my knees.

If there was an injection

to stop this infection

I could save my heart from your rejection.

but I seem to be a philosophic waxer,

and a crazy, wild-eyed anti-vaxxer.

And my second love poem is sort of x(b+o)

Love Poem #2

You are 

the feel of wind

on my face,

the moon’s reflection

in my eyes,

the lens through which

I see the world.

You live

in the hollows of my bones,

in the lining of my skin,

in my dark center,

patient, waiting.

AnOther Folly

I started my project years ago,

with great enthusiasm.

I began without a blueprint

but as time went on

I dreamt up ever more

elaborate and outrageous designs.

But it seems the walls were built

without enough support
or a proper foundation.

Corners didn’t meet and

dovetails didn’t slide together

but from a distance it looked so lovely

I couldn’t bear to tear it down

and start over,

so I’d just add the next bit,

assuring myself this part would be better

until the haven I intended

was empty and labyrinth-like,

echoing with the sound

of broken promises

and better times that never were.

I tried staying there,

but it couldn’t hold up to the last big storm.

It’s been condemned;

declared unsafe.

From now on

I think I’ll just rent.

This is for the Imaginary Garden where Hedgewitch asked us to write about a folly; the kind that is, "...a building constructed primarily for decoration, but either suggesting through its appearance some other purpose, or merely appearing to be so extravagant that it transcends the normal range of garden ornaments or the class of building to which it belongs." - Wikipedia

Pending

I ask you if your love is true

but your response is pending.

I use my phone and email too

in asking if your love is true.

Unlikely reasons saunter through

my mind - excuses never ending.

I ask you if your love is true,

but your response is pending.

The triolet is a short poem of eight lines with only two rhymes used throughout. The requirements are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance: ABaAabAB, where capital letters indicate repeated lines.  Also, ideally the lines should be iambic tetrameter, but  I am rather rusty at this form,  and played a bit loose with this. :o)

Escape Clause

When we converse

all I can think is

escape.

Does the panic show

in a white-rimmed eye,

if you bothered

 to look?

I can feel your words,

smooth, sweet, dangerous

sliding down my back.

I am wary, ungrateful,

as I silently begin

chewing off my foot.

Domestication

does not suit me.

For PAD and NaPoWriMo, Day 16

Pushmi-pullyu

You

push me

away,

then entice me to

pull you

back.

Again and again and again.

This is the game

we play.

And now

I am ready

for something new.

Yet I fear,

when I finally

 push you

away,

you may not care to

pull me

back

to you.

For G-man and his FF-55.  And in keeping with the theme, just for fun here is a Brilliant youtube Doctor/River song.  Enjoy!
*Image from carolseatory.blogspot.com 

He Said - She Said

Every poison conversation

turns on your tongue, twists in my back;

becomes a cross-examination.

Every poison conversation

degenerates to accusation;

too much pressure makes us crack.

Every poison conversation

turns on my tongue, twists in your back.

Image by Steamcrow.com

This is a Triolet for dVerse where they are in good form at the pub.  Check it out for informationby Sam Peralta on the Triolet form.