February Poem of the Month contest

For February, the Poem of the Month prompt is: Write a love letter. Not just a love poem, but an epistolary (in the form of a letter) poem directly addressing someone you love. It could be a significant other, a child, a deceased relative, a celebrity, absolutely anyone — but you have to speak directly to that person.

When your poem is finished, copy and paste it as a comment on this post. Be sure to include the poem’s title, your name and your York County, Pa., township of residence.

About Stacia M. Fleegal

York Daily Record multiplatform journalist. Degrees in creative writing from Lycoming College and Spalding University, and a coupla books with my name on them. Central PA native who came home after floating around for a while, but always grounded by words and the places and people I remember.
This entry was posted in Poem of the Month 2014 and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

11 Responses to February Poem of the Month contest

  1. Amy Kern Triantafyllou says:

    Dear Mom

    If it wouldn’t have been for you
    You wouldn’t be hearing these words
    I wouldn’t have taken a breath today
    I wouldn’t have known this world.

    If it wouldn’t have been for you
    You would never have gotten to know me
    My pains and gains and all life entails
    I would have missed it all around me.

    If it wouldn’t have been for you
    You would have had more time for yourself
    But you see…you gave life to me
    And donated your time to myself.

    If it wouldn’t have been for you
    There’d never been one, two, three…
    How could I ever thank you enough
    The gift you gave selflessly?

    If it wouldn’t have been for you
    I would never have had a home,
    No eyes to see, ears to hear
    I would have never had kids of my own.

    If it wouldn’t have been for you
    All that I know would be gone
    The treasure life is, and all that it is
    Had I not had you as my mom..

    If it wouldn’t have been for your mom
    And the cycle began in that way
    This poem would cease, no life to be leased
    If today wouldn’t be your birthday.

    Love
    Your Daughter

  2. Thorne McFarlane says:

    Lady Grey, you’re a fatal trap.
    You’re an aimless puzzle map,
    Your words spell mishap,
    Your gaze predicts regret,
    And how I wish I can forget,
    You, Lady…

    You had me with that first smile,
    Your feminine wiles, sly guile,
    I was disarmed by your charm,
    And I rushed to greater harm.

    What was it that you said?
    How did you enter my head?
    What part of you lingers?
    You had my feelings on a thread,
    That thread attached to your fingers.

    So we’re back to square one.
    If I had a dunce cap, I would wear one.
    My heart’s broken –
    Does anyone know how to repair one?

    So we’re back to square one.
    If I had a dunce cap, I would wear one.
    My heart’s broken –
    Does anyone know how to repair one?

    It’s like you’re my drug; I need my fix.
    So quit with the evasive tricks,
    Like a desperate puppy I keep coming back,
    And I love every smack.

    If you ask me what tale I’d feed you,
    I’d say I don’t need you…
    But to tell you the truth:
    What I wouldn’t give just to hold and shield you,
    From the world, my warm tears hold the proof,
    To hold my broken heart, and flaunt it,
    Am I not what you wanted?
    Were you embarrassed? To be haunted,
    By specters of our love on lonely nights,
    I rummage through spite, thinking of ways,
    To lock you out of my life with no invite.
    That oddly silent week, with the hinges torn off,
    One of us said something, the other stormed off,
    Your spell had worn off, words ran shallow,
    We grasped for lost love in the shadows.
    The love left to wallow, another restless week,
    I threw small rocks in a bottomless creek,
    How, I struggled to find the right words to speak.
    I cried profusely, sighed loosely,
    And I searched for you confusedly.

    At the end of that remorseless week,
    We finally meet; I try to kiss your cheek.
    Embrace you with a love so sweet,
    You push me away and tell me of your deceit.
    There are other guys, but do they recognize?
    The uniqueness of your eyes,
    And the way your lips sparkle in the sunrise?
    Do they run for you in the pouring rain?
    Do they reach for you in roaring pain?

    What was it that you said?
    How did you enter my head?
    What part of you lingers?
    You had my feelings on a thread,
    That thread attached to your fingers.

    So we’re back to square one.
    If I had a dunce cap, I would wear one.
    My heart’s broken –
    Does anyone know how to repair one?

    So we’re back to square one.
    If I had a dunce cap, I would wear one.
    My heart’s broken –
    Does anyone know how to repair one?

    So I walk away with whatever scraps I have left.
    Feeling anger and betrayal with every breath,
    You weren’t my true love, but I thought you were.
    The flurry of love, the fury of lost love – it’s all a blur.
    How did we end up corrupting a love so pure?
    Could it have worked? We’ll never know for sure.
    Moving on is the toughest part.
    You enjoy a fake love and a fresh start,
    But memory still eats at my barren heart.

    So we’re back to square one.
    If I had a dunce cap, I would wear one.
    My heart’s broken –
    Does anyone know how to repair one?

    So we’re back to square one.
    If I had a dunce cap, I would wear one.
    My heart’s broken –
    Does anyone know how to repair one?

    Lady Grey, you’re a fatal trap,
    You’re an aimless puzzle map,
    Your words spell mishap,
    Your gaze predicts regret,
    And how I wish I can forget,
    You, Lady…

    “Lady Grey”
    by Thorne McFarlane
    Manchester Twp. York, PA

  3. Carsyn Smith says:

    Dear Diego,

    If I am the minute hand,
    you will be the hour and
    every time I see you,
    it feels like the first time.

    It seems, no matter how far I go,
    I will always run into you again.
    Around n’ around…
    Time n’ time again…

    It seems we’re stuck on treadmills,
    never going anywhere
    but constantly dreaming
    of a far away finish line.

    We’ll trip and stumble,
    just as all humans do,
    but you’ll never see us acknowledge it.
    Our rule: talk about but never to.

    Deep in my bones,
    there is an ache that shakes me,
    but no matter what I swear
    I will see you next hour.

    It is similar to a curse
    that binds us with unchecked will.
    No explanation-
    just our actions that feel right.

    So many questions as to “Why”
    but how am I to explain
    something that sits in my bones
    and tells me “Do”

    I’ll say goodbye,
    but what good will that do?
    If I am the minute hand,
    I will see you next hour.

    “I Will See You Next Hour”
    by Carsyn Smith
    Springettsbury Twp. York, PA

  4. Jerald E Proctor Sr says:

    Say I Do

    This is how you treat her
    From the very 1st moment you meet her
    Look her in the eyes.. and tell her what you think
    If it’s love at 1st sight don’t blink
    But don’t stare either
    Love is a action ….make her a believer
    It’s what you do .. not what you can give
    It’s who you are ..and the way that you live
    You should pull out her chairs ..and open her doors
    Treat her heart the same way you treat yours
    Run her bath water ..before she’s gets home
    Even when she’s not with you ..she doesn’t feel alone
    Rub her back ….loving her is your mission
    Don’t buy her flowers ….go pick them
    Continue to make her feel secure and safe
    Treat everyday ..like it’s your 1st date
    Walking hand to hand in destiny
    She was conceived ..born and meant for me
    When she needs you the most ..you always make time
    Put her on a pedestal ..higher than cloud 9
    When she speaks ..you should always listen
    So you can remember things ..that she thought you didn’t
    You’ll cry right in front of her
    You’ll tell your friends she’s the one ..in love with her
    But she will still respect you
    You are the one who makes her feel special
    You want to be everywhere she’s at
    Her body is beautiful ..but she’s much more than that
    Did I mention ..give her attention
    She;s the closest thing you have to perfection
    Spending nights and days together
    You her and God ..pray together
    She is such a divine creature
    What you did to get her ..do the same to keep her
    Now get on one knee and ask your boo
    I bet you she’ll say I DO!!

    ConsciousOnePoetry

  5. David Loring says:

    February 14, 2014
    Dear Lisa,

    Perhaps I am a poet fooled by appearances conjured through his own words, but song is part of who you are. Music, for which no one asks justification, best expresses the highs and lows of primal contradiction, which in words was exemplified by the paradoxical friendship between Aristophanes’ Chremylus and Cario:

    CHREMYLUS. … Tis through you that everything is done; be it known to you that you are the sole cause both of good and evil.
    CARIO. In war, ’tis the flag under which you serve that victory favors.
    CHREMYLUS. And many others besides; wherefore men are never tired of your gifts: Of love
    CARIO. Of bread.
    CHREMYLUS. Of music.
    CARIO. Of sweetmeats.
    CHREMYLUS. Of honors.
    CARIO. Of cakes.
    CHREMYLUS. Of battles.
    CARIO. Of figs.
    CHREMYLUS. Of ambition.
    CARIO. Of gruel.
    CHREMYLUS. Of military advancement.
    CARIO. Of lentils

    Will you marry me? What a musical question! I have never asked this question as if it was the beginning of a song. A wise and knowing lover understands, as the young commonplace fool would not, that a marriage wish is not only a legal question, or moral question, but, he who finds his inspiration in a woman and in that woman the highest symbol of himself, to ask for marriage ( “until the end of the story”) is an aesthetic question.

    There are so many different things I want to say to you and so many different ways I want to say it. I do not want you to think, however, that just like the work and life of a critic I mean to incessantly look back to find the mere flaws and errors of our past lives. To live and think so rationally, calculating and recalculating, means breathing this same dry contracted winter air we breathe today. There is a time to turn from winter, as necessary a season as it is for collecting oneself, and to begin to think of Spring as being near, when warm air will travel through our skin and into our hearts like light. Of course, being highly analytical, I have mapped out perhaps some of the more critical details on my own; for example, the clear intention of leaving clues at one time about being pregnant while working at a pharmacy and then, at another time, leaving another clue about eventually meeting Jerry there. You can be a shy girl; a trickster as well! Well, whether our relationship is more rational or irrational, and whether what I knew of you was the appearance of something else which was mostly unknown to me, and whether I am more foolish than wise, I know that I long to be with that musicality of character and that womanhood which made its appearance before me. If there are any more questions to be answered or problems to be solved, they are mere games in light of this overwhelming consciousness that my life is more beautiful and more cheerful with you near me. Do not mistake beauty, nor my personal desire for you to be in my life, as those who superficially think of beauty, art, and deep friendship as stuff that need not be taken seriously; as if art is no more than a tinkling of pretty silver bells, sentimental words, or pictures of snow falling on the faces of children. Rather, I mean to seduce you with what I know you yourself know and want, which is an aesthetic vision and experience of your own life. For you are an artist as much in theory as in practice, and with me you can enjoy yourself as such. Like a doctor of old, if I were to press my ear against you heart, even getting as close as I might have, I believe I will hear and feel in you the roaring desire of existence pouring through your veins, a thundering life-current; or the petite, gentle, wily brook, gurgling smiling songs even as you are driven wild with joy for being alive. You seek your twin who knows just how you would pleasure yourself, and you are most at home, not in the artificial excitements of narcotics of intoxication and/or resulting fogs, but in the self-creation of our life as a joyful aesthetic experience. If you seek one who adores the beautiful and intelligent, and finds in beauty a metaphysical justification and comfort for all of life, then we belong together who belong to the life of music.

    Your life turned into so many moral and existential extremes and, perhaps, your expectations of life and people are now lower. Consider, though, beauty as the higher morality, the higher law. Let us, then, inspire each other and learn – to laugh. For we are ones “who know” and we do not need — because we have paid our dues as others might have chosen not to — to live in terms of conventional forms of morality, of right and wrong. To people like us, to our depths, law is unnecessary, excessive, just as much of a government’s function is excessive. There is something servile in the habit of seeking out a law, secular or religious, to obey. There are, though, laws to hold even us dancers and revelers back, which are of an aesthetic nature, higher laws of conscience, compassion, duty to others, and, ultimately, manifest in the form of and in the name of beauty. As for justice, if you are hiding because you feel you cannot redeem yourself and you are ashamed that you, surreally, fell in to the recapitulation of the old Semitic myth of the fall, in which curiosity, mendacious deception, susceptibility to seduction, lust – in short, this series of feminine like affects to which is ascribed the origin of evil, then let me redeem us both through the sacrilege of making love to she who betrayed me, and this unnatural act will be our hymn of impiety. We will balance and restore the justice by singing songs and laughing in the face our weaker natures. Let us sin against what is expected of us by nature if it will lead to bliss and beauty during our short lives.

    Just as I feel you are present as I write to you, so I imagine myself present as you read and I can already sense how, like a wounded wild animal who senses that survival depends on trust, questions arise of whether or not you can trust me. If I sound different, it is the effect of becoming a better listener; for I am taking my inspiration from music instead of traditional forms of morality (i.e. Socratic morality). Nonetheless, I have proven I am trustworthy. I, in fact, denied myself many times taking what was offered to me just to prove that I am overly, abundantly, strong and trustworthy to the point that my stupid adherence to morality might have confused you about what I wanted. From an ascetic’s discipline of self-denial, and a Herculean stupid-strength, I delayed my own instinct for gratification; worse still, I ignored when what was apparent to me was your own desire for me to enjoy you. Now I vow as much to you as to myself to be honest just as I am trustworthy. I cannot not convince you through argument, analogy, words, or even music, deepest form of persuasion, but I convince by my presence and the promise of innocent smiles and the return of a knowing laughter between us.

    Your true and loving friend,
    David, “Loring”

  6. Carol Clark Williams says:

    The Prodigal’s Mother Speaks

    I have rocked you in my body,
    small ship inside flawed bottle,
    eager to set sail on stranger seas.

    In a dream I carried you
    past fallen fence rails
    into a quiet orchard
    where branches offered both
    white blossoms and ripe fruit.

    For you I have created mythology:
    gibbous moon waxing,
    the tallest pointing pine,
    wild grasses, Morning Star,
    Oracle Maiden tattooed
    with symbols of Eternity.

    For you, I would design rites of passage
    painless
    but significant.

    I would set your path into the mountains
    with flat stones
    deeply chiseled with words like:
    “Courage” and “Believe.”

    You have made me
    a fogbound ancient harbor;
    I watch the West horizon
    for your returning sail.

    Carol Clark Williams, North York

  7. Joanne Wildasin says:

    Jeremy

    If I could see your face again
    it would make me cry.
    To hold your hand, and see those blue eyes.
    To tell you how proud I am of you.
    You have taught me so much,
    about what real love is.
    You have shown me your kindness,
    your determination
    and a deep faith in God.

    I want to say to you,
    how sorry I am
    Sorry for the things I missed.
    The times I did not listen.
    The times I was too busy.

    I want to thank you
    for being there for me.
    For your strength when I was weak,
    for believing in me, for encouraging me.
    I knew I could do anything if I tried.

    I want to tell you how much you changed my life.
    How much I love You.
    You are my reason, my strength, my purpose.
    Your love will always be a part of me.

    If I could see your face again,
    it would make me cry.

    Love Mom

  8. Pat Long says:

    Romance on the Water

    This Valentine’s Day I look back on the years
    And I think how I’ve always loved you
    As we’ve paddled our kayaks on lakes side by side
    Or down streams in our yellow canoe.

    I prefer simple boats that are quiet and slow;
    Flashy cruise ships would give me no pleasure.
    The time spent with you in kayak or canoe
    Are the memories I’ll always treasure.

    Sometimes you will choose your blue rowing shell,
    Gliding by with such balance and grace;
    Love fills my heart as you row ‘cross the bay,
    Paddling fast, I just try to keep pace.

    The years drift on by—we’ll soon be sixty-eight
    Still we paddle in all kinds of weather;
    When you ask, “Shall we go?”, I do not hesitate
    To explore water’s beauty together.

    Pat Long
    West Manchester Township

  9. Nancy Jones says:

    “Life Unfinished” – by Nancy M. Jones
    (York Township resident)

    Dear Mom,
    Happy 85th birthday!

    Almost two years have passed since you died.
    In my heart I treasure your love, your encouragement and support.

    The home where you lived stands forlorn
    Only memories occupy the silence now.

    Dust collects among the treasures stored there.
    Gone are the parties, the laughter shared there.

    Regrets are like dust; they collect in my mind.
    The questions not asked, the stories not shared,
    And the words of love unspoken.

    It feels unfinished—your life of eighty-three years.
    I need more time to tell you again,
    I love you!

    Hugs,
    Nancy

  10. Pingback: Versify | Take 2: Another poem from February Poem of the Month contest

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