St. Valentine Day’s Reflections and Love (?!) Poems

Posted by OrdinaryJoe - February 10, 2019 - Features - No Comments

Since Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, I have noticed love is in the air.

During my anything but swinging bachelor days, Valentine’s Day was my least favorite day of the year. I was very much like Charlie Brown–the poor schmuck who got the candy heart embossed with the words “Forget It, Kid”. After grade school, I seldom got one of those romantic cards wishing me a Happy Valentine’s Day. I spent my time alone eating soup–or was it gruel?–rather than dining a exquisite French restaurant before heading off to a romantic rendezvous in Paris or even Paris, Kentucky. Of course, I didn’t get any box of chocolates from any candy store or the Dollar Tree. But at least I didn’t get a bouquet of flowers. About the only time guys truly look good with flowers are the goons in Mafia movies wearing carnations in the lapels of their pinstripe suits.

But now that I am married, I have a different take on Valentine’s Day and realize that it may be not as special as Christmas or Arbor Day, at least it is not as dismal as a day in Chiberia (Chicago) during a monster blizzard. Unfortunately, I don’t celebrate the V Day very much because it usually falls on a workday. The last thing I want to do after working my 9 to 5 (actually 7 to 3:30) is to get dressed up and whisper sweet nothings in a romantic restaurant or the local White Castle serving up those romantic sliders. Since I am a man, I don’t read those bodice rippers with covers of big chested women and even bigger chested men–instead, I get my romantic lowdown perusing Cosmopolitan covers, tabloids, and those magazines covered in brown paper wrappers. I don’t even want to watch romantic movies unless they are filled with naughty bits. Any flick that has lots of people running around in their birthday suits and engaging in wham-bam-thank you ma’am and mister action in the bedroom, the boardroom, the rumpus room, or pretty much any other room is worthwhile viewing in my screening room.

Thankfully, my wife tries to give me a box of candy around February 14. Getting no candy on Valentine’s Day is like getting no stuffing on Thanksgiving or spiked egg nog during the month of December–it makes a festive day about as much time as spending a glorious spring afternoon in a middle school detention hall. I especially love all types of chocolate candies this time of year except those filled with coconut. Chocolate and coconut is not like love and marriage–they don’t go together like a horse and a carriage. In fact, they taste like those gag soapy cream drops sold in novelty stores.

Once in a while, I even get a stuffed animal symbolizing love. Even though I stopped playing with stuffed animals about the time I became a Cub Scout, it’s the thought that counts. Besides, it’s better than a Speedo festooned with hearts. I tried on a Speedo once, and I looked more out of shape and more ridiculous than the fattest Full Monty stripper.

While I don’t abhor Valentine’s Day anymore, I don’t exactly go gaga over it like other February pseudo-holidays such as Groundhog Day, Mardi Gras Day (although it is occurring in March this year), and Leap Year Day. Just give me some sweets and maybe a take-out pizza and I will be contented.


In anything but honor of Valentine’s Day, I have written a few love poems. These poems are not of the caliber or William Shakespeare or Robert and Elizabeth Browning. In fact, they are far worse than the worst verses in greeting cards. But to reiterate myself, it’s the thought that counts.

Roses are red
Cow manure stinks.
Time for some hanky-panky
Nod-nod, wink-wink.

Roses are red
Candy is dandy
But making love
Is better with brandy.

Roses are red
Valentine is a day
Being in your bed
Is more than okay.

Roses are red
Mickey is a mouse.
Let’s do some dirty stuff
At your clean house.

Roses are red
Ships are sailing the seas.
This is the day
For making whoopee.

Joe’s Maybe Memorable Quote of the Day

I can’t define love but I know it when I make it.

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