Love can be an outpouring
that dwarfs eye and mouth,
an arching thrust of energy,
a searchlight the width of the torso,
a metaphor that feels
as physiological as breath.

What is it after?
What cruelties will it use to get it?

Beginning a season of despair,
seven colours were spilled.
They pooled among their shards of broken glass.
The glass had no idea.
It did not cry:
More red! More red! More red!!

It was Love, stupid Love, did that.

©  Sue Stanford 2008

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
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For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow


Sue Stanford

If you were half a rainbow
would you have 3.5 colours
or would you hang, agon
ized in the middle of the sky
waiting for someone else
to swing themselves, the other
part of the bridge, into place?