Why do I try to write love poetry? (scraps of something in progress)

Love may not sing of itself,
Nor answer calls towards its providence;
And love may not, in its silent
Arduous climb, make footholds
Where none exist.
Love gives no
Guarantee of safety,
Nor offers its hand to help
Others along.

For the life of love
Is the mountain itself,
And its cragged footholds
Are all the promises of safety
One could need.
It is the mute life of quiet assurance,
The self-satisfaction of sharing
In the comfort of the hand which
Proffers it-
((((more poetry here))))

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 29th, 2009)

Whose Theophany?

Placid clicks,
nails on mulch on soil
on roots on crust
core and mantle,
escalate to
frantic scratches
over oak-bark
over wooden
flesh and blood.
Frantic scratches of escape.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 26th, 2009)


(written during creative writing class exercise, will be expanded)

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Motif

The stars too often shoot
straight out of our grasp,
and we can reach the sky
just as soon as it falls.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 12, 2009)

A Brief Account of All That Remains:

Each incisive word,
each softly battering touch,
ciphers of themselves
and of the nothings we
eventually left one another
(though often we left them
only in the ears and flesh
of those who came next).

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 13, 2009)