30 Poems in 30 Days

[TheRainMan]

8-8

.....

 

[darkerdreamer]

1-7

Pork Rind

With greasy fingers I reach into you
again and again.
As you become depleted
I become completed.
I savor you, cherish you
despite my knowledge of your composition.
Deep fried flesh
stripped of swine
doused in hot sauce
(Louisiana style, no less)
but I love you no less for it.
You are gone,
but,
Ninety nine cents bring you back to me.

 

[wildsweetone]

19.

Bottled Dreams

One day I felt sure
a liquid mantra
lay at the bottom of the bottle.

I heard the chant before
it strengthened my soul, my eyes,
until I saw
we had arrived
at our almost quarter century mark

that slash that we'd somehow managed to notch
on the headboard, just

another line to add to all the rest
you conjured up.

 

[loserstyx]

1-2

a demon within me
locked away in a 1000 foot cage
built inch by inch through sorrow and pain
He seeks release from His prison

 

[vampiredust]

10-20

Finding Plath

They would often find her
in a cavity underneath
the floorboards. No-one,
luckily for me, ever found

traces of where I crouched
beside her, the Capuchin
monkey on my lap playing
Auld Lang Syne on his miniature

harpsichord for entertainment,
a smuggled in hurricane lamp
providing the source of light.
I would giggle when she
put her hands together

and made shadow puppets
on the wall. She loved making
a bird and sometimes would coo.
How she loved to fly

I never noticed the tag
on her ankle then, a Bakelite
bandage she would whisper
to when I turned my back.

No-one is sure what happened
to it when Sylvia died. Perhaps
they kept it on her body, tracking
her, to make sure she steered
towards the underworld,

as it had always been intended.

 

[Tathagata]

2-19

.....

 

[TheRainMan]

8-9

.....

 

[wildsweetone]

20

Road Trip - Booking

Maybe I'll book in advance
for the renowned beauty
of the Chateau, where mountains
fill glass walls and sunsets
turn snow caps to gold, maybe

I'll take my chances
and stop en route
at a hotel, avoiding
the teal carpet and vinyl kitchen
brigade that are off the beaten track,
up lampless side streets
were there is little traffic
and a dozen homeless street walkers
sniffing glue and living dreams.

Two things are for sure,
the food will be cheaper
on sage green plates
and mismatched utensils
than on mahogany
and cream carpet, and

I can't wear satin
and pearls at a backpackers,
nor stone-washed denim and sandals
at the Chateau.

 

[darkerdreamer]

1-8

Basement Warehouse

I stacked boxes today.

Two hundred boxes,
two hundred files in each one.

Each file; a representation
of a worker hired by a Queen Bee,
to fly in from a thousand miles away.

Is this the American Dream or is America dying?

They sound much the same.

 

[tungtied2u]

3-3

It is a love beyond measure
which drag's one, flailing arms
kicking legs, and wailing
into the arena of winner takes all

when empty hands are clenched
teeth gritted as stomach trembles
tears flow in anticipated fear
where failure appears the obvious outcome

when the monstrous head of past
devastation once again rears itself,
fangs bared , eyes bulging in hunger
for a heart filled with hope

yet against such odds miracles occur
when memories of what was pure rise up
find a foothold, stand as a shield
and deflect failure's demons

the sword of salvation severs
the hydra's heads, sends them to Styx
where the fire of redemption awaits
and the Phoenix arises from the ash

 

[loserstyx]

1-3

couch
I have a blue couch
it is plaid with white stripes
a bed folds up into it

this is my battle station
where I go to fight my wars
armed with cigarettes and a fifth of Jack


I move through the webbing
I connect with life
I feed my addictions

all from the sweet embrace
of cushions warmed by my body
and the lifeless metal that holds me up

 

[vampiredust]

9-21

Carrying


The lightning bolt carries electricity
from heaven to earth.

Lovers hold thoughts
of each other inside organs,
carrying them on escalators
of veins and channels.

Weeping trains deliver widows
to Victoria Station, a troupe
of sombre taxis waiting outside
to carry them for the final leg,
each orange light a signal

for those with empty arms
to make the sign of the cross.
Their lovers will hold earth
in their hands, moulding it to fit
the shape of bodies waiting

in earthly pit stops.
Everything carries something else,
this is inevitable, the human body
having been born a vessel,
having been descended from a vessel.

 

[Tathagata]

2-20

.....

 

[tungtied2u]

3-4

Last night I met Catherine Deneuve.
She was a docent in an historic Dutch residence.
She was demure and we were indecent,
as the buns baked and the kettle boiled

we scurried into the larder
hurriedly ripped off buttons
discarded clothes,
wept and growled
as waves of urgency overtook
our common sense

without thought or condoms
controlled by animal need
we fed our fervor until sated
stroked cheeks, kissed palms
then parted, with hopeful eyes
and au revoire's

 

[eagleyez]

spring is foreplay in new england
unexpected warmth and a glimpse
of pink buds
clothes come off in layers
laying back eyes closed
soaking it all in
thinking
this is it
spring
it's coming
it's almost here

then winter is your mother calling,
kids coming home
clothes go back on
you walk around hunched
expectant
for the next time nature whispers
" want some?"

foreplay indeed...

 

[Tathagata]

foreplay indeed...

I was going to say "cock tease'

 

[TheRainMan]

8-10

.....

 

[darkerdreamer]

A half gallon
of liquid hate from McCormick's.
Two grams
of natural redemption.
Ten sticks
of Mother Nature's finest cancer.
Twelve pieces
of Her aviary, mutilated and deep-fried.
Five hours
of complete silence.

It's going to be a good night,
for once.

 

[loserstyx]

1-4 The Portriat of My Broken Soul

The Portrait of My Broken Soul

A picture in my head longs for print
A sun wheel represented in the upper right corner
A blue oval dominates the center background
comprised of lyrics from the songs that remind me of you
An angel is the masterpiece
Her back turned
Her wings outstretched across the page
Her right arm upraised
seeking the sun
A dress of gold adorns her figure
hanging below her feet
A braid of silken strawberry-blonde
flows down to the small of her back
Another angel dominates the bottom left corner
His face upturned
His wings crumpled
His right arm upraised
seeking Her

He falls...
His right wing black
His left wing white
They could not support him
As She rises
Into the Son
He falls
Into Pandemonium

Alas, these poor hands are not adept
And this Portrait will never adorn Her mantle

 

[wildsweetone]

21


Autumn's fall

This morning contains nothing,
nothing more than a blank screen,
some sunshine that doesn't reach
the page and wind that has blown
my thoughts away. To be banned forever

to this land of limbo would be punishment
enough but to contain the urge to create
expands my skin to bursting point, spreads
sounds like a virus of songs
seeping through my thoughts, that in any other day

would be banished at the flick of fingers
across the keyboard. Coffee
turns no key to free the images
from behind the blackout windows. Perhaps

the dying of leaves will mulch in my mind
and new growth will blossom forth
those needed words.

 

[vampiredust]

12-22

He is dead

Mother spoke only three words
in Italian when grandfather
died: lui e morto,

my breath translating them
for the eavesdropping world:
he is dead,

its three syllables escaping
to a nearby garden, hanging
like earrings on the grass,

prematurely expecting him
to be already buried.
The vowels would follow years

later, having been trapped
in my throat; stuck in a queue
of things I wanted to say.

 

[Tathagata]

2-21

.....

 

[tungtied2u]

3-5

Premature Anticipation

I watch her as she walks toward the apartment
heels clicking, hips switching, holding a promise
Haunches flexing, suggesting a readiness
to mount and ride into exhaustion, back bared
Just enough to entice the imagination

At the steps, she stops, leans forward
and stretches to grasp the screen door,
Fingers encircle what I wish was my handle
thumb pressing the knob, and pushes
firmly enough to gain entry

To the inner sanctum, where I wait
for the knock on my door, the only sound
my pulse beating in my ears, then the swift
rap of knuckles on wood, my neighbor’ voice
inviting entry to my wet dream

 

[TheRainMan]

8-11

.....

 

[wildsweetone]

22

yet another draft to add to the pile...




Bad Timing

They wait until the golden hour
when the sun drips its heat
onto the skirt of the sea. They fall
on the unwary, stumble and pick
pockets for survival, for that last meal
they are determined won't be their last,
or that the come-and-get-it funding
will really come, allowing psychedelic light
to enter their lives through plastic syringes,
or white motes on mirrors,
a slow release of highlights
only their minds can distinguish
and feed off.