at the grocery ~
Meeting accidentally in the wine section
you sip me shyly with gentle conversation
and read the label on my selection,
your hand brushes mine, a sensual appeal
It’s for drunken pasta! I explain,
you laugh and say you’d rather drink than eat it
your eyes are Wedgwood blue and hold a wistful smile
you imagine I’m something fine, a vintage port
you’re flushed with the fancied sweetness
I could drink you too, a sturdy Bordeaux
but I no longer deal well with hangovers


To the Frog at the Door

if you kiss a frog, so I’ve been told
there’s a chance he’ll turn into a prince
a frog prince, which means you have
you absolutely have to love him
and i’ve loved a few frogs, at least
i think i have, they never became princes
nor did their love morph me into a princess
i’m still a cranky old crow, we are what we are,
loving frogs and crows isn’t transformative
….why should it be?
one woman’s frog is another woman’s prince

…….as for this old crow

………….she loves flying solo

…….not that you asked

© 2013, poems, Jamie Dedes, All rights reservedIllustration ~ Wine and fruit photo courtesy of Jean Boufort, Public Domain Pictures. net and The Frog Prince by Walter Crane (1845-1915), U.S. Public Domain


Because love poems are elegies (if you don’t agree, pretend you do for the sake of the exercise), write an unRomantic poem.

If you feel comfortable doing so, leave your work or a link to in the comments section. Responses to Wednesday prompts are published on this site on the following Tuesday.



  1. your innocence

    I forgive you –
    the essential being
    I am in love with
    that looked down at little flowers
    and took up whims with passion;
    you are innocent in thinking that
    you yourself deserve forgiving

    well then I forgive the innocence
    but nothing else:
    perhaps there is nothing else to forgive
    it being all your secret
    and therefore nothing to do with me

    forgiveness is an arrogant intrusion
    into somebody else’s life

    when I say it was
    an elaborate charade
    I do not mean you deliberately
    tricked me rather I acknowledge
    that I believed my own
    solution to the discrete acts
    you put on for me
    to suggest the whole world was ours –
    person place and thing

    this fool
    blinded by spot-light
    entered into the spirit of the game
    you’re so relieved to quit

    one more day
    to endure
    (this I think you think)
    of living where I fit
    quite comfortably

    our life ends
    the day after tomorrow;
    our brief life once
    so promising
    and I can see
    you are excited –
    something I might once have loved –
    like a little kid at the start
    of the summer holidays

    I’m not sure that this answers the prompt. It comes from 1982 – getting on for half a life away! It’s just a bit of straight-up misery. I remember it well…

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Third response, thanks Jamie.


    it all shows through
    the other side
    and backwards,

    we the warriors
    try to hold our own
    under chaos
    and scrutiny

    invade the private place
    at peril
    you will kiss us,
    kill us

    is this love
    or captivity?


    Liked by 3 people

  3. Second response –

    .. somethings cannot ..

    some things cannot be put to word.

    i try. hard. you lay there cold.

    i stumble stutter say sounds backwards.

    think i know? i thought i knew

    you know.

    there is silence. some socks

    will not fit the drawer.

    some things need tidying.


    some things.

    there were bits of cabbage in the water,

    now they are down the sink.


    Liked by 1 person

  4. Thankyou Jamie – my first response…..

    :: poet ::

    it is just that some dislike

    love poems, those that rhyme

    all romantic. pretty though

    they are.

    some write of other

    things, in a more

    random fashion.

    i like things private.


    Liked by 2 people

  5. Hi Jamie,

    My second response:

    Vacuuming her dressing table you, accidentally suck up an earring

    and spend most of the day
    your finger up the thin hole

    of the bag until it drops out,
    and you are covered in dust,

    empty peanut shells, feathers,
    cat fur and damn your OCD.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Hi Jamie,

    My first response:


    more work for her.
    Always afterwards she
    strips the bed,
    changes the blossom of linen sheets,

    puts stained sheets
    in the wash, hangs
    them on the line or horse.

    On ferries or in hotels
    his jewellery catches
    on hers, hours disentangling
    earings, repairing necklaces.

    His sweat drips on her,
    not like a veil,
    too soon, fat not muscle
    flops over her.

    He makes work
    of her temper.

    Takes too much time
    to find sheet corners
    that are never pulled
    tight enough.

    To her his help
    is more hinder.

    Liked by 1 person

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