Romance – Poems by Sam

The Colors of My Dreams

Hey folks. New poem out here that I think everybody might like. Without further ado…

The Colors of My Dreams

Raindrops fall on an old and blackened bench

while purple twilight surrounds a rain-soaked plaza, awash in its prismatic violets.

The soft patter of rain against the quiet brown of my hat

calms me in the face of unrest;

here she walks beside me.

She runs in sequins before me

through the forest and up the road,

golden hair whirling and wafting like wispy smoke

that carries warm auburns and rosy cerises

through the greenest of summer’s leaves.

Her face alight in cerulean blue

and infusing white

that brought to bear

those swirling rings of sage and amber,

looking back in all their candor

affixed and filled with all their splendor.

Afeared and alone,

the drip, drip, dripping of golden ichor on the stones,

amidst silver ash and crimson fire,

an ascent to the top of an onyx spire.

I awake in your arms again.

Hey folks, poem today! This also marks the official launch of my substack too (substack.com/samdotson) if you’re interested. I’ll probably be posting poems both here and there, but there may be some extra content thrown that way. Let me know what you think however you’d like! Without further ado…

As Love Often Does

The love in your eyes looked as love often does:

Golden, and witty, and warm, and pretty.

I have seen a great many things I found to be less beautiful,

and many fewer that I desired more.

Ice and fire met there like sapphires raining on the sands of old Venus,

a painting in baroque style

so torrid it would threaten to burn.

Ancient pits and wells were far gone from my eyes then,

as were the machinations of myself and other men.

I hoped one day to live up to that adventurous promise

in the eyes of that hope-filled novice.

Fresh alabaster met the marble of old,

belying youth in the age of soul untold

and love again had moved to take hold.

Atop a lonely mountain,

beside a lonely fountain,

a chance to see my home again.

The love in your eyes looked as love often does.

Dust and Water Vapor

Evening, folks. It’s about damn time I put out another poem. Here’s one I wrote on a recent trip when I could only just see the moon. I hope you like it. Without further ado…

Dust and Water Vapor

In the light of one sullen moon,

did sanguine, red wine cross his lips,

dripping and dripping into the abyss.

What sordid passion is this?

There sat an ignoble moon,

possessed of dark clouds

concealing its sight,

but for one sultry glimpse

by one half-mad loon.

So traveled as he was,

in this place he had been,

did fear still alight

in the hearts of some men.

Filtered then

by so much dust and so much vapor

was the light of the moon

doomed once again to taper.

Venusian Hearts

Afternoon, folks. Here I am at a burger restaurant listening to Muse and I’m thinking, “Well, golly gee, I haven’t posted a poem in a while.” So here’s a tribute to my new girlfriend who happens to be pretty awesome. I hope you can see just a little bit of why she makes me so happy. Without further ado…

Venusian Hearts

Untoward advance of the midnight sun

brings unfortunate end to evening fun,

but always there, some silver lining,

before my eyes a feast for dining.

Whitened stars

beset porcelain jars

astride feelings then

so far from mars.

Venusian hearts

pierced now and again

by Venusian darts

thrown now and then.

Tapered then,

by Aphroditic design,

is beauty spared

the stroke of a pen.

Yet here and now,

does candlelight bow,

and flicker,

and bicker,

and shedding evermore its wicker,

thus illuminating elegance ever quicker.

And under sheets of a bed

does red warmth lie

beside stones and pebbles

in a river you spied.

Art and Artist

Good afternoon, everyone! Anybody in the mood for a romantic poem? I would consider this one of my finest, even if its subject no longer holds captive the workings of my heart. I sincerely hope you enjoy a look inside the way I love. Without further ado…

Art and Artist

He stared, then,

in the low light of this cobwebbed attic,

at the weathered painting laid afore him;

there he saw it,

the face.

Taken aback, then,

by the radiance of this face,

he sat down upon a simple chair.

In this twilight,

her twilight,

he continued to look.

He was unafraid.

Beauty and grace in tactical confluence,

he stared so long at the elegant contours of this painting that the eyes began to move,

then the lips,

then the wisps of delicately tended hair,

until finally she rose from the painting

to greet her onlooker with a kiss.

Stupefied, he sat,

as the woman met his lips

and pulled back again

only to look deeply into him with warm, happy eyes.

For what might have been eternity,

the man could have looked,

staring into those deep and smiling eyes;

but he didn’t have that kind of time,

so he asked her to hold him as he fell asleep,

and in the morning he asked another question,

“Why don’t we go together?”