Who Needs a Buddha?

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Your love is not a poem.  Love is more

A door that wants to open or is not

Quite open wanting you to push it, or

Is half way open, waiting, wanting hot

Skin fingers.  Lovers are not windows—yet

Like mirrors that you want to clean with kiss,

Tongue, lips.  Amor is God-infected debt,

A huge one promising in payment bliss.

Your love is a returning to a leaf

That never falls, a cherry blossom made

Forever pink, eternal, more like grief.

Your love is New Jerusalem, no shade.

  Forget the moon.  Think only of the light

    That caused all stars, all suns at fullest height.

~ Phillip Whidden