30 Poems in 30 Days

[PandoraGlitters]

Nap09-5

In the marsh on a warm Spring night
the bullfrogs have picked up the meme
stretched across prairies and hills, across
rivers and pavement on either edge
of the indigo sky.

Still in unison the bass
thrums and lingers in the grass, the top
hat tap dances upside down on the ceiling
of clouds, on the breaths of creation
Low in the oceans, The whales
have dropped the last stanza
from their songs.

 

[StepStransky]

2-6

Daily Mail on the waiting room table; does anybody really ever read these things through to the end in here?
Every time I come here I pick it up and flick through, glancing guiltily at the door.
Not that I am in any conceivable way interested in the contents, you understand. I only want to peek.
The receptionist always seems to wait a little longer than my flick, like she's waiting for me to start reading comment.
I really don't care what it is the government are/should be/will be ashamed of, etc. All the same,
she could at least have let me finish the first paragraph. Instead I get called. I have to sit, so they can look at my
teeth.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Nap09-6

They have a bug now that can eat plastic
and I tell this to my niece to dissuade her
from wanting a Rapunzel Barbie: the immaculate
reconception of feminine helplessness right down
to the dainty plastic fingertips. My neice
does not care that there is a bug that can devour
plastic bags in minutes. She is in love
with the poofy dress and the plastic tresses
hanging down like a handle.

 

[StepStransky]

2-7 Many, many

In the bar at midnight, we
stood and sang, and shook hands and
kissed cheeks. We raised glasses of
fruit flavoured fizz and ate green
grapes for each of the months
to come. They have just one song for
forward-facing days: they sing for
many more years of life to follow. Two hours
passed and then they stood again for
us, the Brits. The snow fell
on the new year's ground outside
whilst they sang us happy birthday.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Nap09-7

Perhaps muting Regis Philbin in the taxicab
multimedia experience was ultimately unwise,
but it felt so good in the moment--so powerful
a retort to my inner fear that taxicab riding says
of me "Out-of-towner, you are no

New Yorker," or "You don't even know
your way around south of 14th street," both
of which pain me because they are true.
(Perhaps Pearl was named for its elusiveness
amid Water.) Anyway I stuff
the figurative sock in Regis's mouth, muting chatter
for the far-better almost-silence of driving and glass
banged by bass until we roll past, the cabbie
and I now a "we" of sorts. I compliment
his illuminated dashboard statuary and he asks
if I have noticed it is windier, lately.

Out of the silence he says, "Everything that moves
has an engine and every engine
has a cooling system."

"Our earth has the poles," I offer, and he smiles
without smiling in the rear-view glass, moving
only the corners of his eyes and his hands,
swiveling the wheel's circumference.

"Once the cooling system is melted, what
do you think will happen?" I only blink.
He continues, "What will happen to the fiery
magma and burning nastiness beneath
us, under the crust? What will happen
once the engine boils over?" I see him
watching me in the mirror and now
he really does smile.

"Hell on earth," I reply, no longer volunteering
but whispering. He turns off the meter
to answer, but I have already arrived
at another reason not to take a taxi.

 

[StepStransky]

2-8

The closeness of summer can be
seen now from the window. Long light
bathes us as we turn off our computers. Today
we did catch-up stuff and talked over the divides. No-one
phoned. We swapped office stories and found time
to make the tea in rounds. And I
looked out at the blue sky
and thought about the sun on your shoulders.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Nap09

In your hand I am an apple
your teeth raking
over my skin

 

[StepStransky]

2-9

The satisfaction
of programming is just that
things are right or wrong.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Nap09-8

In bird shadowed morning
I match you, pace per pace
and breath per breath
over the wet bridge.

Our heels land on the edges
of puddles, our legs spatterless
and exhilarated, lengthened.
Our feet beat the earth

path to the spring
where I pluck up my shirt,
climb down into steam, lift
this bare offering of arms.

 

[StepStransky]

2-10

Sometimes I worry that one day I'll
blink and it will all be gone. Or frozen.
I took a quest for tea today; by foot
I walked the half mile to the shop, across
the park and past the allotments. True, it
had been raining earlier, but the only
signs of life I saw were the five cars that
drove past me and the girl at the shop
who smiled when she gave me my
penny change.

 

[StepStransky]

2-11

Conscious movements creak.
I can but listen, rapt, to
your second coming.

 

[annaswirls]

love-1

The Man Who Wasn't There

You asked me to bury
our silver rings outside
the old barn door,
the door that leads to the hayloft.

You never carried me across that threshold,
it was just a dream I woke to tell you about.
We were both kids, climbing up to the loft,
hiding behind a wall of hay bales,
your hands under my calico skirt, discovering.

Still that dream was solid enough
to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning,
this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors.

Our bronze-legged statue you sculpted
watches from her shelf.
She gives birth to her own hands.
They reach out between her legs
and grasp tight to the egg
that is somehow her body.

We too, deliver ourselves,
climb leaning ladders,
press hard into softness,
bury silver rings in foreign soil
in hopes something will grow.

 

[annaswirls]

love-2

so we decided to buy the turkey

I ran to the store
the day before Easter
to buy a few things,
cream for our coffee, breakfast.

Holy shit, it's just us down here,
I thought while shopping the
aisle for a semi-healthy cereal
the boys will eat without too much protest.

I am the one who needs to cook the ham tomorrow!
Scalloped potatoes, corn casserole, twice baked potatoes,
salads, pies.... No aunts or grandmothers
with their flour sifters, hand kneaded dough,
home stirred sauces, just us.

I throw the Honeycomb into the basket.
"Don't forget, milk. Eggs."

The store was out of ham
so we decided to buy the turkey
(breast that is.)

We sat at one end
of our long table
the five of us,
with microwaved corn
sweet potato casserole
with ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg
and baby marshmallows.
The cherry pie made with fruit from a can.
But at least I baked it.
At least I cut the frozen crust into
fancy lattice.

We always thought my mother worried
too much. Planned too much. We thought
she should just chill out and enjoy the company.

But here I am. I forgot to make the biscuits.
I did not think of the vanilla ice cream.
I forgot to send my nieces and nephews
anything. Not even cards.

But here we are, just
thankful we are together. I
wonder if the boys know
what they are missing.

The phone rings,
it is home. The rattle of
dishes in the sink, clatter
of cousins on the foyer stairs.
They send wishes in boxed baskets
and electronic photographs.

I close my eyes. I can almost hear my mother
offering coffee. She already knows who will take it,
and how. Grandchildren's favorite cookies
are placed on plates.

Sweet rolls and ham slice leftovers
are sent home as they all make their way
across the coast without us. Next year, I
will be ready for this. Ready to plan,
design, build a day my children will miss
when they too move on.

~

 

[annaswirls]

love-3

Mannequin Envy

their words come in electronic boxes
with poetic pedigree lists of degrees,
publications, the occasional dog/cat/iguana checklist

they write of grandmother's graves
the ocean peaceful breezes,
mother's gardens and jars of tomato sauce,
schizophrenic stream of consciousness wire tapping
margarita mixes down clogged drain willingness,
and if I am lucky, rough sex.

we shake out the aspartame daydreams
kick cliche to the curb
publish one in twenty maybe

sending acceptance letters
what would you expect?
of course it is wonderful

rejections get you shunned at poetry readings,
uninvited to lunch
the occasional gracious
thank you for your time,
I will try again


I am tired
this is not done yet
new issue awaits
pocketful of springtime
in my hand

 

[4degrees]

1-21

today, a mental muscle
ripples under thickening
skin, in spite of spite
or a real poet's chagrin
release the obscene
while tendrils tumble and
squirm like grease covered fingers
come play tug of war with this
two-sided man again

 

[4degrees]

2-21

suspended in amort
a cavalcade of words
phenomenonly unrelated
seem to hold some
endless gospel
its just a web of expression
covering past scabs like
a spiderman band aid
-the cut bleeds new sorrow
every day its re-exposed.

 

[4degrees]

3-21

sixteen bones hold
a heart that beats,
sometimes
in its constant imprisonment
it turns black and sleeps
says no prayers before
having dreams of turning
inside out completely
sometimes.

 

[4degrees]

4-21

forgetting all things worldly
and civilized,
we go round on this rock
and back in time
regressing into some
ficticious species
and eating one another
alive.

 

[4degrees]

5-21

a snake's soul slithers
from a scaley sheath
slick and stiffening
seeking solace in shadows
sliding towards a sound
the suction sweeps
a solitary shape inside
this salivating, gaping
sin.

 

[4degrees]

6-21

i eat poems on
lunch hour
the adjectives stick
to my nicotine stained teeth
and take their time decending
into my belly
where the verbs bloat me
and flip like live fish
they do digest
after a smoke or two.
you should see the prose
i have at dinner time.

 

[4degrees]

7-21

the lost boys
handsome and hungry
somewhere in between
bakersfield and the bayou
i see my reflection in their
eyes, glinting with bloodlust
my belly pangs with pain
while i recall the flavor
as well as fever
of a black love
gone forever.

 

[4degrees]

8-21

juice and connectivity
strap my soul down like a
camel's warm saddlebag
running the invisible race
and forgetting the future
forgetting the past
the sand is in my eyes again
i put it there myself
so that the grittiness cuts
and reminds me of love
every time i blink.

 

[Remec]

4 - 1 Theirs

On the fringe is where I sit,
precariously perched and
vicariously satisfying all
the wantonness I gave up
years and years ago.

Or, rather, set aside to share
only with whomever I've been
given leave to share with. My
throat is bare, but the band
upon my finger tells the world
of my vows--a collar is still
a collar, no matter the size.
-----

 

[4degrees]

9-21

i want a poem
that reeks of sweaty muscle
moments after orgasm
a poem that drips with
fuckjuice until it congeals
in my mouth, like glue
rendering me speechless
and nearly unable to breathe
a poem that sticks with me
after a shower and listerine
the kind a zombie can smell
before breaking out of his dirty world
drawing him into a dirtier one.

 

[Remec]

4 - 2

bobbing branch
laden with pink-white blossoms,
no squirrel
-----