When you’re 16 years old and you meet a cute guy you can get a little gaa-gaa over him. Puppy love, isn’t that what they call it? It never lasts, right? Wrong. Sometimes it does.
30 years ago I was 16 and met a cute guy, got a little gaa-gaa and guess what? I never got over him. I tried a few times, but I could never do it. I never will.
Today is the anniversary of the day we wed, 22 years ago. We had ups and downs, a couple kids, marriage, a couple more kids . . . life. We made a life, stitched it together with love and respect and a little bit of crazy (that stuff really sticks).
I cherish every moment, every memory, every dream we share. I guess I’m still a little gaa-gaa over him ❤️
Give me your heart
to tuck safely away
and I’ll give you mine
if you’ll have it.
It doesn’t look like much
anymore, but it’s
the only one I have.
It’s seen better days, I know,
I used to wear it on my sleeve.
It’s weathered many a storm,
this heart of mine.
I should have
taken better care,
it’s been broken,
but it beats stronger
now than it did before.
It gets heavy sometimes
so if it’s too much to bear
I’ve lost it a few times,
but you’re the only one
I’ve offered it too.
If you decide to keep it now
and change your mind someday,
I won’t be needing it back.
So if you give me your heart
I’ll tuck it safely away,
and I’ll give you mine
if you’ll have it.
Initially, I thought it sounded like a fairly simple undertaking, but as I sat to write, it proved a bit harder than I’d anticipated! More than a few attempts were quickly tossed aside, especially after I took the time to read some of the other poems that had been written following the same guidelines.
I kept the three I hated the least 🙂
The rules are simple
•Write about love using only 10 lines.
•Use the word love in every line.
•Each line can only be four words long.
•Nominate others who are up for the challenge.
•Let them know about the challenge.
•Title the post: Love in Ten Lines
•Include a quote about love (this can be your own).
•You may write in any language.
Mi amor, mi amor,
baneful love, unsheathed weapon,
mortiferous love, piercing armor.
Love fails, love falls,
battlefield casualty, mi amor.
Your love, or mine,
one love must endure.
Mi amore lives on.
I’m sorry, my love,
mi amore lives on.
“Love is a battlefield” Pat Benetar
Sweetest love – unblemished, innocent,
untainted and virtuous love.
Love bestowed without expectation.
Love requited, without reservation,
without trepidation – pure love.
Intertwining hearts, palpable love.
New love, unparalleled enchantment.
First love, irreplaceable communion.
Such is the love
that teaches us love
“Love is a many splendored thing” William Waterway
You are my love
my true, forever love.
Our love sustains me,
our love contains me.
Your love is precious,
your love is sure.
Your love strengthens me,
your love surrounds me.
My love is yours,
my love is yours . . .
“My heart is, and will always be, yours” Jane Austin – Sense and Sensibility
UPDATE – I forgot the noms! Letsee . . . I nominate, umm . . . Hmm. Letsee, oh! I know! I nominate YOU! All ya’all. Do it, it’s fun 🙂
I’ve spent a lot of time over the past couple of weeks thinking about compassion, dissecting it and attempting to define it in some way. I prayed about it, I researched it, I perused texts written by ancient philosophers pertaining to it, I read passages biblical scholars have written and found blessings in the verses long ago penned to pieces of parchment.
I took notes, jotted down my own thoughts and feelings and complied them to create my own compassion dissertation of sorts. It was good, I daresay it was really, really good.
I deleted it. It wasn’t a purposeful deletion. I’m not ashamed to say I felt a little devastated. Those words were pieces of my heart and I lost them.
I was done.
Ready to throw in the proverbial towel and simply be done. I was angry at myself and ever so slightly defeated.
But then . . .
I was lifted up, encouraged, and compelled by the kindness of others to shake it off and start again. I became the grateful recipient of compassion freely and without hesitation offered by strangers who in a strange way have become a family. They come from all walks of life, from countries around the world I will likely never see. Some speak languages I will never speak, and some are so very different from me – and yet – we are the same in more ways than I ever could have imagined.
They exist in a village called 1000 Voices, they exist in my heart. Though miles and miles and thousands more miles may separate us, they are as close as a click of a keyboard away.
That is a beautiful thing.
So with the new-found strength they helped me muster I began again to write of compassion. It’s not the same as it was, not nearly, but they are my words and they come from a place of love and compassion and thankfulness.
1000 Voices Speak For Compassion has touched my soul and I am more than exceedingly thankful for it.
The philosophy of compassion is not new. Since the beginning of time compassion has been a thread woven into the fabric of humanity. Biblical scholars wrote of it, ancient philosophers spoke of it, and today, we too, come together to remind every willing ear of its importance.
For an ideal so grand, so important, and so necessary, I have a hard time trying to understand why so many do not seem to embrace it. Are they ignoring the primal instinct I simply have to believe we all possess to be compassionate? Do they simply misunderstand the true meaning of compassion? My fear is some people just don’t care, and I have to say, the thought breaks my heart.
One dictionary defines compassion as a noun, a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.
I just don’t think that 23 word blurb even comes close to actually defining compassion.
Thích Nhất Hạnh is quoted as saying, “Compassion is a verb.” I agree.
Compassion without action is just a word, a simple noun like chair or rock. It has to be something more than a lovely concept or lofty ideal we sit around and talk about over coffee.
It’s not enough to have compassion, you have to be compassionate. How often do we see something or someone and think, oh, that’s heartbreaking, and then move on? We may feel compassion, but we don’t always act on it.
True compassion has to be acted on, it has to become tangible, it needs to exceed the definition printed to a page in a dictionary. It must be more than a feeling, more than a desire to act . . . it is the act that impacts.
Being a compassionate person says more about who we are as human beings than it does about those on the receiving end. Compassion does not mean acceptance. The capacity to care about the physical, emotional, and mental well-being of another should not be conditional, measured or rationed based on whether or not we agree with someone’s choices, their beliefs, or their lifestyle.
When you suffer, I suffer too. In attempting to relieve your burdens, I too find a sweet relief. Admittedly, sometimes it’s hard to feel compassion, let alone act on it. When I look at the monstrous acts committed by some, I have a hard time finding compassion for them . . . I have to close my eyes and envision the child they once were.
Sometimes, a prayer is all the compassion I can muster, but in that prayer, I ask the Lord to still my heart and help the one I am unable, perhaps unwilling to help. Christ had compassion for those who nailed him to a cross. He said, “Father forgive them, they know not what they do.” I try to remember his grace as he slipped from earthly life, I try to remember that in the midst of the sorrow of his sacrifice, he showed compassion.
I don’t want to be thought of as a compassionate person, I want to be a compassionate person, but I must admit, there are moments when compassion becomes a choice I must make, moments when it would be so much easier not to be.
To me, this means looking past a persons deeds or circumstances and seeing the helplessness within them, the same helplessness that exists in each of us. I don’t have to subscribe to the same beliefs and ideologies someone may hold to extend a helping hand when they are in need, I simply need to reach out and offer it.
Sometimes, this means I offer a kind word to the unkind, charity to one who may be less than charitable, or help someone who would not go out of their way to help me. It may be naive, but there is a part of me that hopes my compassion for them may stir something within their own hearts, help them see that proverbial light I have been blessed to see.
Compassion is a verb.
It doesn’t end here.
So Valentines Day — It’s here. I was going to write something lovey and gushy and sweet, but before I did, I asked my son what words he would put down instead . . . words aren’t really his thing (even though they are and he just doesn’t realize it), I could see the little wheels begin to spin and he said he’d get back to me.
He and the adorably nerdy geekdom that are his circle of friends, had a text party that night.
While he waited for his friends to get their romantical ideas to him, we sat down and wrote our own, sort of. We did string together the words, but most had already been said, you might recognize their sources. It’s short and sweet.
I would follow you beyond the blackest gates,
into unseen dangers if you’d only wear my ring.
I would wait for 2000 years just to see your face, my precious.
If we were ever torn apart
I would face the depths of the unknown,
for my hearts; they beat only for you,
can’t you hear the drumming?
I would pull time itself apart for you.
When we met I wondered
if I’d wandered into a dream,
and when I said I love you,
you simply said I know.
it’s together or not at all.
If you asked me how long I was going to stay,
I would say forever,
because we’re all just stories in the end.
Ask of me anything,
I will grant it to you . . .
as you wish.
So back to my sons geek squad of *romantics for a day*, I provided the beginning and what follows makes my heart soar because a group of teenagers and twenty-somethings took time out on a Friday night to come up with these cheesy, surprisingly sweet, and innocent lines of . . . I guess we’ll call it love.
Romeo and Juliette had a love so tragic,
but James and Lilly Potter —
their love was truly magic.
It lives on and on forever,
that much can be said,
you can see it on their faces
in The Mirror of Erised.
My heart screams for you like a mandrake,
like a mermaid in the black lake,
when I cannot be with you.
My heart soars like a quaffel
every time you eat a waffle.
Dragons are red,
Nevilles face is blue,
attracts me to you.
Flue powder is green,
the portkeys a shoe,
I feel my best
when I’m traveling with you.
You are a golden snitch
and I’m a humble seeker,
I know that when I catch you,
you will be a keeper.
So I’ve not written a sonnet or an ode or an epic ballad of love this year, I just had some fun with my son and his adorably fantastic friends — the laughter and the love filling the room as we played was a gift, and these silly words will always be my portkey to take me right back to it, that makes them far more epic than ten thousand words penned to a page.
Crystal R. Cook
Sharing in honor of Valentines Day . . .
I remember writing this the night my husband
returned home from Iraq.
It was his third and last homecoming
from that faraway place . . .
He’s since retired.
The sight of those boots laying there at our bedside
was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Dust from another world,
soles worn from wear,
the color of sand,
wrinkled and creased
from the miles
Dappled with the
from fallen sweat
and silent tears.
On the floor
by the bedside
weary from war.
Worn with pride
ready again for service,
but now they rest
beside the bed where
the soldier sleeps.
home with me.
When tomorrow comes
a little boy
will wear the boots,
clumsily making his
way around the house.
He doesn’t know
boots have been,
he just knows
they are his daddy’s
and he is home
again . . .
Crystal R. Cook
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