By Robert "Bob" Bussey
Well, it happened, and it happened faster than I could imagine. It happened so fast I was caught off guard, thrown in the briar patch, sunk at sea. It was like a sun giving off its last dying energy… one last blast.
But then, Valentine’s day happened. The new coffee shop Hemingway House happened. Things came together. Things bloomed. Things got created in my mind. Yeah, it was time to have a Poet’s Party (with a few musicians since they are poets, too.) I invited everyone I had interviewed over the past 2 and a half years. Some could not attend, some forgot, some ignored. But, we found two new poets … and, oh, yeah, they will be interviewed.
At any rate, the crème de la crème were there: Shelley Jinks Johnson (short stuff to me); Bonnie White (the creator of Hemingway House); Dr. Thomas Smith ( and his dental poem); Lola Willis (all the way from Leesville), Alicia Lewis (with her weird glasses; Abby Taylor (telling us all how to swoon a poet); Gene Sterling (who is actually older than me, but not by much).
And then there were the newbies: Megan Prestridge (watch out for her, she carries a loaded poem) and Bryce Mitchell ( he who stands stout). The poems were flowing, the images were floating in the air. And, we also had some fine musicians: Sam Stokes (Making Woody Guthrie proud); Rick Adams and John Jordan (opening and closing the evening) and Kelly Stevens (appraising isn’t all he does). What a
night. What a way to celebrate Valentines day, listening to poems and music about love in all its different forms…hard love, soft love, lost love, misinformed love, confused love, wandering love, wondering love …
Below are some love poems. I wrote these. When I started to write I felt there was something more that I could give to my work. I’m a visual person. I have words floating around in my head, but they are usually tied to images. I have over the past 4 or 5 years tried to find images that fit or almost fit with the poetry that I write. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I flop, but I keep trying.
So, in honor of love and in honor of Valentines Day, here are a few from me. You can see the images I tied them to either in this article or at the bottom… it depends on the whim of my editor. (Darn editors).
Bayou Of Your Heart
I live by the bayou of your heart.
It’s slow rhythmic beat filling my being.
It’s sounds low, subtle, calming, enticing.
I listen intently, yielding, searching, playing my part.
I lay my head, my body down by the bayou of your heart.
My senses alive with the aura of your presence.
My skin, my eyes, my touch, feeling your essence.
A knowing that your flow, your spirit was the start.
I told my being to quiet itself by the bayou of your heart.
My insecurities subsiding.
My life fulfilling.
Calmness engulfing our togetherness, never to be apart.
I lived in splendor by the bayou of your heart.
Realizing the joy of reality.
Experiencing the perfection of purity.
Loving every moment from the beginning to the heart-to-heart.
Bob Bussey (Jan 20, 2025)
Rising Each Day
Many times I don’t know
Don’t know why or what path
Don’t know how or when it will happen
Don’t know who or whether to laugh or cry
Sometimes I just have to feel it.
Feel the road under my feet.
Feel the wind as it comes in waves.
Feel the hate, the love, the knowing and unknowing.
Often I simply have to experience it
Live the why, live the path.
Live the how, the when till it hurts my skin.
Live the hate, the love, the knowing and unknowing.
But then there is the praying, the wishing, the dreaming
Praying for you to be near.
Wishing to hear your voice.
Dreaming of us dancing in the moonlight.
Then I know the why, know the path.
Know the love and how to endure the pain.
Know the road leads to you.
Know the laughter that washes away the hurt of the crying.
And know why I rise each day.
Bob Bussey (Jan 12, 2026)
Toaster Love
Why is love such a human thing?
Why can’t it be more machine like?
Dispensed from a cigarette vending machine.
Or from a frozen margarita mixer
Or a vacuum cleaner
Why can’t we just have
Blender love
Toaster love
Microwave love
I-pad love or just
Cellphone love.
Why is love so messy
Causing a whirlwind of human emotion
Stirring up childhood fears
Ramping up, running our every waking moment
Invading the stillness of our nights
Coloring our dreams
Why can’t we just have
Blender love
Toaster love
Microwave love
I-pad love or just
Cellphone love.
Why can’t love just be blowing in the wind
Falling with a rain storm
Crashing with a wave
Tumbling with an avalanche
Delivered from the sun
Why can’t we just have
Blender love
Toaster love
Microwave love
I-pad love or just
Cellphone love.
Why can’t it be delivered by FedEx
Or shipped by Amazon
Sold by REI
Purchased at your local five and dime
Delivered with a warm cup of coffee
Why can’t we just have
Blender love
Toaster love
Microwave love
I-pad love or just
Cellphone love.
Why is it so tied to passion
To longing for the warmth of someone
Desiring one more view
One more soft spoken word
One more gentle touch
A soft or hard kiss,
Caring, commitment,
Arousal, attraction,
Compassion
Hot or cold
Turning you inside out
Or outside in
Felt in total darkness
Or in blinding light
Fast and slow
Loud and quiet
In tune or completely out of tune
Sweating or shivering
Blind but completely seeing
Strong and tender at the same time
Orderly or a complete mess
Clean but ready to roll in the mud
Why can’t it be simpler and just be
Blender love
Toaster love
Microwave love
Why can’t it just be cellphone love
Sterile
Cold
And shiny?
Bob Bussey (Jan 5, 2024)
To A Dark Place In My Mind
Oh, how they drag….those chains of history.
Their weight growing daily over time passing.
The strength of the links forged in mystery.
Becoming thicker, denser … not fasting.
Made from fired metal matter so lasting.
Sad memories propping up daily life.
Cutting through reality en mass… a cold knife.
Memories coming from depths unwanted.
Cutting through sweetness of normal living.
Hot swords striking my calmness … united.
Snarling, destroying, without forgiving.
No tears in them… creating tears, in passing.
Losing sight of her in the cold hardness.
My mind so swirling in daylight turned darkness.
Prince of Anxiety … of Tragedy,
Can you lay claim your sad, sick, realm elsewhere?
Must my mind become a dark malady?
Is there no room for sweet, sweet thoughts anywhere?
Can there be some warm thoughts of her somewhere?
I turn and walk towards the bitter winds.
Those bitter winds cutting and laying open my sins.
A chance for sweet love and harmony lost.
Corrupted by daily, routine, living.
A chance for sweet love lost at such a cost.
The chains, weighing greatly, unforgiving.
Voices calling, calling…. My mind roiling.
My dailies must have need of my tending
Why else would the dark palette make this rendering?
Whatever did become of the sweet, sweet wine?
Did it fall to the chains of ravaged time?
Did it squeal in the death throes of a swine?
My mind left to wander in thick mud’s crime.
Wondering are there mountains still to climb?
Oh, those chains tightened their grasp on my soul.
Waiting, waiting for their chance to consume my whole.
Spilling the wine, emptying the whole bottle
Upon the earth, sinking to its dark grave.
Those chains becoming outwardly hostile.
Not so worried about rules on how to behave.
Those heavy chains much more selfish than brave.
Into darkness the strong chains did plunge me
Tying my soul, tying my arms… not to be free.
What does it take to break these heavy chains?
Will I be forced to drag them to eternity?
Can they be broken … so that love is gained?
When broken, some familiarity?
A new life, an opening …. fraternity.
Or must the sweet, sweet, wine be lost forever
Oh, dark thoughts, chain maker, never a light giver.
Be gone.
Bob Bussey (May 2024)
Well, there you have it. Some good love, some not so good love. Hey, I will be signing off for awhile. Going on a multiday bicycle tour to Key West in March. Might try to write about it. Might not, too. At any rate, I’m looking forward to “getting out of Dodge” as they say. Until next time. Sing a song, write a poem. Smile. Give someone a hug. It will do you good and them, too.
Bob Bussey is a local poet. Yeah, that’s me. If you would like to be interviewed
about your poetry you can contact me at Rlbussey450@icloud.com. Don’t be
shy.
