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Dear You, is a collection of love poems that explores the alchemy of love through its various manifestations. It contains different visions of love that unravel the deep mysteries of the heart by delving into the passions of the soul and the flesh. Dear You, is a chapbook of love, beauty, tragedy, and romance - a chapbook, with a heart, turned inside out.
She walks with butterflies
She walks with butterflies
All around her body,
And light shines upon her skin from head to toe.
It must be her,
Her serpentine beauty that beguiles my eyes.
O, love, it is as if roses were made from her lips.
See how, when she laughs, the sweetest petals bepaint her cheeks.
And as this fine maiden passes by,
A flower blooms wherever she treads her feet.
Tell me, how does she do it?
How does she make the Moon hang by the glow on her face?
How does she teach the stars to twinkle in the night?
Even her skin reflects a thousand moonbeams
While her eyes move the Sun to rise, and burn bright.
O, how, love?
How does she capture light with her own light?
That in her absence or as when she frowns,
The universe would turn afoul
That all heavens, whether day or night,
Would weep the saddest woe
To unbridle her from such gloomy plight.
Yet the more I cannot tell
The thoughts that court her mind
But they must be sweeter than the music of the nightingale
For no beauty as hers should hear a tinge of whisper
That can produce even the slightest ail.
But if her beauty is devoured
By the wiles of envious time,
The more praises I will give,
For her beauty shall for-ever live
In my verse, in my love, and in my rhyme.
I grieve for the ignorant poetry
I grieve for the ignorant poetry
For they know not what they write
Because if they only see that which I see,
All their daring lines shall be called a spite.
God knows, every word of beauty,
Expresses none but you.
O, is it not insulting, love, that they compare you to a flower?
When even the meekest bud has seen what is true:
"In her presence, do all flowers shy away;
And how, when she walks,
The greenest grass bow and praise;
That even the winds fall silent and listen when she talks."
And, love, when you blink, as when on our bed you lay,
That's how the Sun knows
That the night must now be turned to day.
'How about the beauty of the rose?' they ask.
"But that's too poor a cliché." I say.
Remember, how, a rose, is embarrassed when you hold
Such poor rose - its esteemed beauty drops and fades away.
Decay - decay.
More - I can show; but much - I'd rather leave untold.
Yet, forgive them, my saint,
Because I, too, am as guilty as their lines
For writing too frail a verse.
But how to write?
When even Cupid's pen will take a thousand times to nurse!
But, this I write to tell
What the best of quills unknowingly hold as true:
That not one can tell, but can only praise
The poorest inch of you.
She walks with butterflies
She walks with butterflies
All around her body,
And light shines upon her skin from head to toe.
It must be her,
Her serpentine beauty that beguiles my eyes.
O, love, it is as if roses were made from her lips.
See how, when she laughs, the sweetest petals bepaint her cheeks.
And as this fine maiden passes by,
A flower blooms wherever she treads her feet.
Tell me, how does she do it?
How does she make the Moon hang by the glow on her face?
How does she teach the stars to twinkle in the night?
Even her skin reflects a thousand moonbeams
While her eyes move the Sun to rise, and burn bright.
O, how, love?
How does she capture light with her own light?
That in her absence or as when she frowns,
The universe would turn afoul
That all heavens, whether day or night,
Would weep the saddest woe
To unbridle her from such gloomy plight.
Yet the more I cannot tell
The thoughts that court her mind
But they must be sweeter than the music of the nightingale
For no beauty as hers should hear a tinge of whisper
That can produce even the slightest ail.
But if her beauty is devoured
By the wiles of envious time,
The more praises I will give,
For her beauty shall for-ever live
In my verse, in my love, and in my rhyme.
I grieve for the ignorant poetry
I grieve for the ignorant poetry
For they know not what they write
Because if they only see that which I see,
All their daring lines shall be called a spite.
God knows, every word of beauty,
Expresses none but you.
O, is it not insulting, love, that they compare you to a flower?
When even the meekest bud has seen what is true:
"In her presence, do all flowers shy away;
And how, when she walks,
The greenest grass bow and praise;
That even the winds fall silent and listen when she talks."
And, love, when you blink, as when on our bed you lay,
That's how the Sun knows
That the night must now be turned to day.
'How about the beauty of the rose?' they ask.
"But that's too poor a cliché." I say.
Remember, how, a rose, is embarrassed when you hold
Such poor rose - its esteemed beauty drops and fades away.
Decay - decay.
More - I can show; but much - I'd rather leave untold.
Yet, forgive them, my saint,
Because I, too, am as guilty as their lines
For writing too frail a verse.
But how to write?
When even Cupid's pen will take a thousand times to nurse!
But, this I write to tell
What the best of quills unknowingly hold as true:
That not one can tell, but can only praise
The poorest inch of you.
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