30 Poems in 30 Days

[unpredictablebijou]

1-27

The Evidence of Things Unseen

Faith is not required
once you have seen the proof. I will invest
in nothing now, because I know
that anything
can be real.

Late at night, I used to see him:
the Devil at the foot of my bed
just like mama said, to tempt me or drag me
through a fiery rift in the blue carpet.

But on those nights
when it would start low, downstairs,
after the three of us were in bed,
my sister in the lower bunk
and Jeffy in his own room, the mumble and cry,
muffled by the vent, would grow and rage up the stairs
and a tornado, a wind of God, righteous and terrible
would blow the door open. Yellow light from the hallway
would slice across the bed.
Satan was bad. But God
was worse.

I knew the air was thick with demons,
that they entered me when I was angry. What they required
was my rebellion. I knew
that demons made their exit from the mouth. Still,
I open my mouth. Still, nothing comes.

What it took to rid us of them
was prayer. Late at night, I'd hold Missy's hand,
the four of us kneeling for hours. Mama prayed,
her hands heavy on my sister's head
while Jeffy's chubby fingers squeezed and squeezed my own.
I had to stay
and make sure the younger ones lived
long enough to get away. The demons
are gone,
as is God
and good riddance to them both.

 

[vampiredust]

30

The Pause

Rain struggles onwards. Streetlamps
interrupt their journey with a fluttering
of orange wings. Nobody is awake

to remember. Clouds stay still
to record this moment between
the two opposing sides, people's
dreams accumulating like interest

on their pillows and sheets;
the transaction above the roofs
approaching completion. Children
won't know what was said

or done, what the purpose
of the moment was for. Time
will sidestep this hole
in their memory and carry on.
They need this to learn.

 

[TheRainMan]

11-9

.....

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-28

Real Grrrrls

There was really only once
when I almost got myself killed
in that bar, and the real grrrls were the ones
who saved me. That was the night
when a man bragged to me
he had six young kids by different mothers
and he was about to come into some money
but he wasn't going to give them any.

My best friend heard me
all the way across the bar
over the music, when I called him
a motherfucker and went for him. I don't
remember moving, but suddenly
I was across the table and had
his shirt front in my hand. I have never
hit another human being before. I remember
my vision turning red, just like they say
only I had always thought it was a metaphor.
It was real, the red filter, and I remember
wanting to see blood on his face, a sensation
of clench, of smash, of a fist coiling.

He'd have killed me in self-defense
but my grrrls were right there,
standing next to me, ready to go,
and they pulled me away. The bartender
kicked him out. They
let me talk, took me in
to splash my face with water in the women's room,
settled me down.

Only later did I realize
that no one had stopped to ask
what it was about. They didn't hesitate,
came and stood beside me
without question. Real grrrls
don't need an explanation. They hear
a tone and they move.
they know when you've been wronged
without asking. They know what to do.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-29

*******

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Fuck yeah

********

 

[TheRainMan]

oops . . .

 

[4degrees]

14-1

total of two weeks
of trying, weak set against
a stone musculature
pushes full force into
an abandon armature
abaddon, maddening waves wash
over a face so hot it glows
like a dragon's sigh
its august again, do you know where
your passion lies
remember me as some
stippled version of adonis
i love this too much
to let it rest for very long

 

[4degrees]

14-2

ambitious in the sense
part time position this
poetic mind fills again
you created this, yes
and we take turns perpetuating
curing properties of neglect
with random and timely
love, miss yous
i do, i do.
despite the seven years between
i believe, we were severed prior
to birth on this earth
why else would this connection
not only remain, but stay
as tight with me like
a laboratory chemical compound
nothing really means anything
just that core truth of connection.
i feel it tug me every day.

 

[Sara Crewe]

1

She dreams of falling.
It starts in the middle
without explanation.
Her skin is covered
with the softness of faded jeans
she has never worn
and she rubs her ass
against a stranger’s fly.

They have never spoken.

The seams of her pockets catch
against his zipper in a ripping
noise and she is torn
between wanting more
than a tease, more
than a fragmented touch
in a half-lit world and the fear
that comes with giving
him a face with eyes
to see her as more
than words, naked
in the light of imperfection.

But it’s the seconds before
we pull the rip cord
that convince us
we want to live
and there is pleasure
in giving him the power
to make her come
with just a kiss or cry
with one step away
and so she turns, knowing
songs, even sad ones
are better than the silence.
She is still falling
but the sky seems still
when you are not alone.

 

[Tzara]

#1 in an exclusive new series! Collect them all!!!

She dreams of falling.

He Wishes Ms. Crewe Good Luck on Her 30/30 Run
in a Jog-Trot Verse Form Unworthy of Her Praise

With this, her new poem, our bold Sara Crewe
starts out boldly (oops, said that) for thirty anew.
Will this time she make it? I tremble, astew,
and admit that her poems all make me feel blue.

It's lust, folks, not sadness. She's cool when she's hot.
Her poems aren't badness. My zipper gets caught
when I read them. Oh, sorry, that's more than I ought
to be saying, but golly, they're some foxy trot!

Like in dancing, I mean. She writes like a dance.
A clean one, not freaking. She writes of romance
of an earthiness kind with some fellow named Lance
whom I envy and dream on in some kind of trance.

I see that I'm mucking this up really bad.
Only wanted to praise her and just made her mad.
It's unfortunate, really, her best wishes I had
for this her endeavor. Aw shit. Cad, cad, cad.

 

[Sara Crewe]

2

In a Corner of the Lincoln Memorial

a man leans against the marble
to cool his skin and moves his cane
to the side to let the crowd of ghosts
walk by. If his hand would listen
he would salute but it hangs heavy
against his jacket so he looks
some of them in the eye
and for some he bows his head.

In another corner a young woman
looks into her flip phone
like it’s a compact but it holds
no mirror. Instead she talks to others
to see herself and they apply
her make up. The parade of dead
walks straight through her while she chats
about her boyfriend, the bracelet
she bought yesterday and her trip
to New York tomorrow. They have not met

but the man in the corner
is ashamed of her and afraid
that she sees everything
except the reality
of what is right in front of her.
He sees a hollow statue that will shatter
under the first rain, too weak to hold
even the weight of a dove.

She is not made from cornerstone
and he will look for hope in another.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

2-1

Power collects at Intersections
- Bill Whitcomb, The Magician's Companion

and this is between
also: above, the narrow
inlet of her waist where you can fit
your fingers, that sacred multiple curve,
the universal mathematics,
between that high plain of the hand
and the place where her back slopes down into two
rounded hills, widening by a fingertip
warming down into mystery, into Lascaux.
Between those two places is a hand-width
a flat plain of skin, tender as a rabbit
a smooth place, a fulcrum
and when I put my hand there
I can hear the hum of her spine
that tone, the hiss of the serpent fire
the coil there, the music,
her golden humming.

 

[4degrees]

14-3

it runs like watercolor
fades from one hue into another
just like lovers,
remissions of tongue pressed
up into the ridges of a mouth
pronunciation is key, differs
the 'whee' from the we
enter my sandman into some
southern cooking contest,
and all you'll get is grainy grits
don't even try to get my gist
its not cryptic, just nonsense.

 

[Tzara]

2: Which should be a charm, at least in my limited universe

blot

I left some paper
on her desk

so as to cover
my spill.


............Ink.

 

[Sara Crewe]

.........

 

[Sara Crewe]

3

A Cage of any Colour


The sign says black and yellow
orb weaver spider. She
is the size of my palm
and I step back when I realize
there is no glass guarding her.

She stays there?

Her keeper waves a hand
in front of unresponsive eyes.
She lives without questions
and answers only to appetite
and the vibrations
sent along her silk.

No one touches her web
and we feed her every morning.
Why would she leave?

I lean in without disturbing
her craft. Read her random
letters written in fragile lines
of survival and my humanity
feels parasitic and heavy.
Face to face
there is no glass
but I still see
my reflection
in an inverted perception
of our shared truth.

In this state of blinded sight
she is beautiful
and I am the ugly one.

 

[annaswirls]

00

.......

 

[4degrees]

14-4

restless
teste-made addict
breaches the surface of
recovery's mind, made up
to start up again, to sip thine
essence like some fine-ass
cognac. nothing ever was sipped
it was sucked down in seconds
used up just to crave more
but a drink its not, its deeper
engrained upon conseption,
i'm sure, a wild lover of many
any number of men is
never plenty, always too much
for such greedy soul searching
there is a beat hidden
here, can you tell where
no kind of format or any of that
just a beat like some
native drum, conjuring the hormonally-
challenged, come to me, and let
the fire die down tonight.

 

[Tzara]

3 is prime, though not the first

ReVox

It is how I want to touch her—
precisely tapping pleasure points
like solenoids that glow green
in my darkened room. Tap here

for Fast Forward. Here, Rewind.
Her hysteresis motor spins up,
spins down with just a feather's touch.
They're nice controls. Expensive,

but way worth it. Classy. Deluxe.
Their feel, of course, is fine, is smart,
but the best thing is the magnetic twist
of reels of tape. I am recording this.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

2-2 much

I've lived a life crawling with heroes

I've been drenched in their blood,
knee deep in their mad heroic juices, these mundane
unwitting knights. They never see how big they are,
how beautiful, like Aaron's flowering rod,
wading through their days of detail
and domesticity, while wings burn
through their backs, the all-givers, the sacrificed kings.
No gods to fight for, no fiery bridges or guarded gates,
just the pavement and plexiglass, the chivalry of laundry
and trips to the store. I'm surrounded
by Parsivals and Tannhausers
raging around living rooms with wrenches,
wondering why they burn so hard,
so often without cause.

 

[Sara Crewe]

4

Colour Commentary Between Pop Culture

We look like a line of fireflies
flashing and fluttering around glass boxes
attracted to the treasures on display.
Between the fluffy photo ops
of Dorothy’s ruby slippers
and Kermit the frog
there is a stainless steel memory
with turquoise trim. A lunch counter
from a black and white America.
Beside one of the stools
he reads the words
that fall short of explanation.

Everyone couldn’t sit together?
No.
I don’t get it.
I know. You are different and don’t see colour.
He’s eight and this offends him.
I am the same and I see all the colours.
Exactly.
I still don’t get it.
You do. Better than most people.

 

[annaswirls]

00

.....

 

[Tzara]

4

The rasp of whipcord thigh on thigh
abrades my sere intelligence.
That whisk and snap bleeds out my sigh,
this rasp of whipcord thigh on thigh.
Though men are visual, my eye
when closed sees with another sense
that rasping whipcord, thigh on thigh,
abrading calm intelligence.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

2-3

Magnificat

I am the lucky, unlikely lover of gods. Like most
mortals I know that I will eventually
be doomed for it, see the true face of Zeus
and burst into instant flame
or wave with the narcissus at the water's edge
or shrink and become a cricket
immortal but helpless. I have read
the stories and I understand the consequences.

Never believe what they tell you: the gods
are fair and offer us a choice
to yield, to open, or to escape
to the earth. They do not rape
but only, irresistibly, seduce.
My thighs opened wide
to that shower of gold.

Now I am
snake-charmed, the winged serpent
in my spine, the eye
in my forehead, and I have the honor
of receiving the rage
of ages.

Someday I will open that particular locked door
or ask the wrong favor, and I will transform
to ash, in an instant. I know this.
What I've chosen
is to burn in ecstasy, to go down
in flames.