Spring Fever

I know that “spring fever” has several meanings, but it has always been in my mind that this means that flowers and sunshine make everyone and everything want to do it. That’s what WikiPedia lists first, so I’m going to call that a win for me and move on.

Depending on the hemisphere you’re in, you might have noticed in the past few weeks that you have been becoming a brighter, happier person who wants to keep the species alive. Smiling and wearing less clothing are always things that I endorse: keep up the good work!

If you’re having a hard time finding what to say to the individuals you are pheromone-bombing as a result of your fever, though, I’m here to help. Around Valentine’s Day, a few of us wrote love poems to sell and raise money for the Literary Society, and I’m going to share a few of mine with you now. I can’t promise that they’ll work for you, but did have one very satisfied customer.

Should you find one you like, print one out, tie it to a brick, throw it through your love’s window, and tell me how it goes. Spoiler: They’re mostly silly.


Roses are tacky,
carnations are cheap.
Let’s grab a drink
at the pub down the street.

I thought about telling you that the blue smoke
that curls around the heads of smokers
reminds me of your hair when you walk away,
that I occasionally think about what you’d like
in your stir-fry while I chop carrots and ginger,
that my thumbs tend to find your name
in my phone when I’ve been drinking,
but none of these things are true.
Or maybe they are.
We could talk about it over dinner.

I heard that men and women are drawn to different smells.
Women like fresh-cut grass:
clean, but a hint of dirt under nails.
Men like vanilla:
roasted beans and fresh cake batter.
I didn’t know how to start this conversation.
You smell great.

I’ve offered you peach trees,
homemade cherry pie,
and you’ve taken these treats
without batting an eye.

It’s time to be bold,
grab a handful of Fate:
I know you like sweet things,
so how ’bout a date?

I could’ve spent hours
picking you flowers,
writing bundles of verse,
and tying it all up with lace,
but at the end of the day
all I have to say
is, “I want to make out with your face.”

Sometimes between the notes and clock-ticks
that make up our time in class
I wonder what would happen if I smacked your ass.
You could smack mine, too–
get me as good as I give.
Then I’d take you to dinner so you might forgive.
Feel free to walk away
if this poem gave you a fright.
The offer stands, and I’m free tonight.

You’ve got that breezy, eternal summer thing
of the Seventies.
tube tops,
dewy skin,
Barry White,
button-fly jeans that snap all the way down.
Oh, won’t you please take me to Funkytown?

Sometimes I think about your hands.
Let’s leave it at that.
About them in mine,
on mine,
on me.

Let’s leave it at that.
About your fingertips,
your knucklebones,
the heat of your palms.
Let’s leave it at that.


And don’t forget to enter my new giveaway.

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