[Jim Hayes]

Oh Molly, my Irish Molly
Molly, mo cushla croi,
Molly, my Irish Molly
from the banks of the lovely Lee

My Valentine
Oh Molly was my heart’s delight--
an amply favored maid--
and every night beneath a light
she plied a merry trade.

One golden coin for quick relief
she usually took,
and two got thrils beyond belief;
oh boy, could Molly buck.

One Autumn, as the night grew dark,
“Let’s go” a client gushes;
she brought him deep into the park
and lay beneath the bushes.

The job was done, the client pressed
two coins into her hand,
perfunctorily Molly dressed
and went back to her stand.

With difficulty in the mist,
in time her focus settles
to see, clasped tightly in her fist,
two Confirmation Medals.

Saints Peter, Paul, Saint Patrick too,
The Virgin of Glengariff
were cursed when, slouching into view,
a client enquired her tariff.

She gave her head a haughty toss
then in a sultry voice,
deciding to recoup her loss,
she doubled up her price.

The client recoiled and then replied;
“I hope that you are worth it!”
“Worth it? Worth it? Molly cried;
“Sure I have medals for it!”

[Jennifer Reeser]

In a Department Store, February 14th


I said I would be satisfied with pink
and crimson in the storefront valentines;
with plush white teddy bears and puppies, mink
displays in cases, candy-heart Be Mine’s.
I bought a deep-blush sweater set on sale
and thought of you, belovèd, standing there,
beside whom Cupid’s cardboard props looked pale
beneath the signs that urged me to COMPARE!
But I was alone, and so I will remain
beyond the fourteenth day of February,
to prop against your absence, to abstain
from imitation and the chocolate cherry;
to walk the aisles – fluorescent, straight and narrow –
seeing your face above each bow and arrow.

[Kate Benedict]

Poofed poofed poofed poofed poofed poofed poofed

[Susan McLean]

An actual valentine I wrote in college:

A puppy both foolish and young
used to try to catch wasps with his tongue.
The moral of this
is not easy to miss:
he who messes with WASPs will get stung.

[Roy Hamilton]

The only love poem I ever wrote, and this is why:

Lost Love

Oh love
Taunting me still after all these years
Dreams washed up on bygone beach
Memories dim but for the fire in those eyes
Haunting me though I choose not to go there
Oh love
Forgive my callous youth misspent
My days of wine and roses
Pursuing always the unattainable
Neglecting your gift so full of promise
Oh love
Where is she now in your realm
Obedient to some stranger of fortune
Mother earth to the heart of another
Or drifting alone on fate's cruel sea
Oh love
Banish me now from your kingdom alone
Wreck my ship on some blissful shore
Never knowing your elegant graces
and dreaming of lost love no more

I count twelve cliches but I still like it!
My first true love. I wonder where she is today.




[This message has been edited by Roy Hamilton (edited February 13, 2008).]

[Brian Dion]

New Love does not so much as grow
as suddenly turn up;
delivered in a steaming cup
by one I think I know,

or rather, one I thought I knew.
Allow me to explain:
One morning, blunt with pelting rain
and window light gray-blue,

I woke up to a stranger's face.
Spent passion bloomed her cheek.
Within the brief span of a week
I took a Lover's place--

I, who knew nothing of love;
only passing time
in dervishes of spines entwined,
the finger and the glove.

But on this dismal, rainsoaked morn
I watched her graceful form
rise from the wide bed's quilted warm
like Venus, newly born.

Her bare feet padded from the room
and past the windows smeared
( as eyes become when they are teared )
that magnified the gloom.

Then she was standing over me.
My eyes, when drifted up,
fell upon the steaming cup;
I smelled the scent of tea.

At that moment I had found
to my delight that she,
who did not like the taste of tea,
had wound the bagstring 'round

the white cup's finger ring.
The tab did not fall in.
and I could not suppress the grin.
It seemed so small a thing

and still, I knew that I was bound.

[Pua Sandabar]

Er

M'lurve is like a Hummer
swervin' 'round the curve, un-
nervin' me; I'm unde-
servin'.BANNED POSTBANNED POSTO the verve!BANNED POSTBANNED POSTM'hors
d'oeuvre platter: Irv.

[RCL]

Bewitched

Mon dieu! I cannot live with you,
a girl whose dark charms grew
for seven long unholy years
after we said, I do.

Oh no, I must be rid of you,
whose spells would turn me blue,
moving me to violent tears
with magic that you knew.

True, it’s true, I’m leaving you,
who’d melt my mind to glue,
and daily dig my heart out
to boil it in your brew.

Now, I’m going, cursing you,
your tongue a torture screw
racking me to finally shout,
adieu, you witch, we’re through!

Cheers,


------------------
Ralph

[Mario Pita]

Nipple Temples

Christian husband, Buddhist wife,
dissolve in love their early strife:
East meets West upon her breasts,
each by Jesus and Buddha blessed.

[Andrew Kuhn]

Valentines Day After

Oh darling you remember how
I was a shining hell to you,
As I in turn remember now
How low I felt when you were through
With me . . . . So why would we allow
Us back to tear us up anew?
Perhaps you know? Is it to prove
Your greater durability
Than any who have gone before?
Do I imagine I will move
You—to love, or solicit me
At least? But motives are a bore,
I know we long ago agreed;
Like Lear, let’s reason not the need.