30 Poems in 30 Days

[Tzara]

11

Italian-American Sonnet, for Boy Soprano and Virginal

I'd guess that even Petrarch once was pure
For none are ever born unvirginal,
Especially Milton, and his studied chill.
All poets are first virgins, I am sure.
Write I of lusts unknown, of lusts endured,
Mere iambs joined with an untutored skill
And little knowledge of these fires, until
Into my lonely bed poetess lure.

And then! O, then flame on! What wild new themes
Will open like her legs or luscious mouth
Beneath my frenzied body! Bada bing!
Now grind and hump are useful words—and scream!
My Art moves from my brain to points down south!
I need your Body, dear. Of thee I'll Sing.



Yeah, yeah, I know. Posted elsewhere. Waste not, want not, capisce?

 

[TheRainMan]

10-19

.....

 

[Sara Crewe]

7-11

Walk with me before the birds
begin to sing. Talk to me
and tell me nothing
or touch me once with secrets
that tell me everything.
Dance with me when the lights
are on and turn me around
till I find my center. Hold my hand
while the wild horses melt
into blurred colours
from our place in middle
of this carousel. Kiss me
once for every inch of skin
when the world slows
but the walls still spin in shades
of reds and my veins feel
like they've been threaded
with swirling silk ribbons.
Their infinite ends rising
to the surface
ready for you
to pull me
apart
again.

Please.

 

[Eluard]

1-11

. . .

 

[tungtied2u]

4-5

Where are the evening songbirds
I miss their serenade
Where are the glowing lightning bugs
They seem to've lost their way

This is the hour for a thundershower
Even it has gone astray
and the crickets and cicadas
have not come out to play

The heat has laid them all to rest
This season's memories I love best
Instead I'll drink some cool ice tea
Switch on the TV and AC
Pray for rain, and wait and see

 

[wildsweetone]

16.

When there's hope in bubbles

I watch for light rings
in the gin and tonic,

those little yellow circles
inside the bubbles
that prove I wasn't laid out
under the stars.

They're not there
and when I look up,
the ceiling lights twinkle

as if to taunt me
to down another,
to jam my tongue
between the rocks

and drown my memories
as their roots
drag me under.

 

[4degrees]

13-28

a toxic thought process
so beloved, clutched so tight
to a heartless chest
absolution being the only answer
that comes close to making sense
poems of encrypted headgames
holding hands with changing names
static electricity raises arm hair
as if gravity doesn't exist anymore
maybe it doesn't
and we're all floating
an inch above ground.

 

[Sara Crewe]

7-12

Why She Always Wears Black

She’s a quiet person. Not shy but subtle.
Like every honest woman
she is both slut and saint
and to know to whom you’re speaking
on any given night don't look
at her shoes or stockings
or try to read the notes
of her perfume. Look at the string
of pearls wrapped tight
around her neck. If she’s feeling
angelic each bead will be a tainted
white but if she is ready to play
pirate her pearls will be painted black
as both a warning and invitation.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-6

*******

 

[vampiredust]

9

In The Early Hours

Sunlight moves like an exile
amongst the waking city.

And you, turning to offer
sanctuary and begin anew.

 

[Tzara]

12

Ardor

There's not always a shock
when it strikes. It's not always lightning.
It can be the kind of rain that has been falling
for so long you've almost forgotten
about it until you pat your shirt pocket
for a cigarette or your bus pass
and find you're soaked and wet. Somehow
that doesn't matter, though. You shouldn't
smoke anyway and, what the hell, it's nice
and warm and maybe you'll just walk home,
even stamp and splash at some puddles
on the way.

 

[TheRainMan]

10-20

.....

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-7

When you're 25, he said

you'll understand so much more. You'll be a whole
different person. At 18, I believed him;
his studio apartment was full of his work, god,
what an artist, I thought. Toy planes glued to a thick-slapped
canvas about War, and mannequin parts
strewn artfully around the checkered floor. He worked
as a waiter at an artsy coffee house. I'd sit
and admire him while he worked. I let him read
my poetry. Candy-ass, he said. Life is not all about sex and love.
There are wars and betrayals all around you.
The people you love are the ones
who are dying. He said
I needed to read Sam Shepard
and get serious. Eventually,
he let me fuck him. Then he invited me
over more often, but I was busy
trying to write darker work. One night
up on his roof, with his mouth
working my neck and his fingers
squeezing my nipples too hard
I turned and threw my beer bottle over the side.
It shattered on the street.
It surprised him
so it must have been art.

 

[4degrees]

13-29

my peripheral view
has improved; i can look
one way, and still see you
out the corner of my eye
waving your hand, gesticulating
and pointing out the tiny
brushstrokes or chisled out valleys
getting much too close
to that six hundred mil monet
but sometimes, i look the other way
because i remember
and still sometimes feel
the diabolical urge to
touch something beautiful
too.

 

[wildsweetone]

17.

The Malt Tin

The tin containing the malt
that we'd wrap around our teaspoons
used to sit behind the door
in the hallway,
underneath the phone
with the handle
that grandma would grind
each time she made a call.

It was a party-line phone
and she answered it
no matter that it rang the neighbour's
code of short-short-short.

She'd even pick it up when it hadn't rung,
just to make sure it was working,
or to pass time gossiping
with Mary at the exchange, or
to listen in
while she sat on the lid of the malt tin
in the dark corner behind the door.

 

[Eluard]

1-12

. . .

 

[TheRainMan]

10-21

.....

 

[vampiredust]

10

After 7/7

Morning practises its vigil
under a wick of grey cloud
slowly burning with sunlight.
It watches flocks of exiled

gulls gather in the square,
gossiping amongst them
-selves on ramhorned
bicycles. Planted flowers

pray for the departed,
buses hold saddening
thoughts in their steel
bodies. Street cleaners

search the sky for blue,
eager to see off
the exiles. Everything
becomes still as morning

speaks. The scene
reappears a few seconds
later, broken.

 

[Sara Crewe]

7-13:

I'm early and pause, swaying
to a mental song of runaway
or stay. The glass door is covered
in bug bumps like a highway windshield.
They answered the familial buzz
and flicker of the open 24 hours sign
and died seconds after they saw reflections.
I close my eyes against the ugliness
of the end. It’s July but there’s a piece
of blue tinsel caught in the hinge. I tug it
but it won’t budge. It’s stuck
in time like the ripped leather
seats in the booths that ring
the metal tables like chuck wagons.

I look for one without crumbs
but the smell of buttered toast
and maple syrup remind me
I’ve been driving all night
so I sit by the window and grab
a menu. It’s covered in plastic
that’s covered with food
from the menu. The waitress
catches me scraping off
scrambled eggs with my fork.
She doesn’t say hello
just what do you want
with an alligator in the water
look over the rim of her bifocals.
I put the fork down with a clink
and decide not to ask about specials.

I look around at the other tables.
Over easy, pancakes, French toast.
When I choose I don’t want to covet
someone else’s plate. I get twenty seconds
before she starts to leave.
‘I’ll have a number three
with whole wheat toast, no butter.”
She raises an eyebrow that makes
me add, ‘if you have it …
and that’s okay.’ She fills my water
glass and walks away. I watch
the floaties swirl and settle
like a cheap snow globe. Push it
to the empty side of the table
and wonder if you’re coming,
not sure if I want you to. I see

the telephone booth outside
and decide to call home. A familiar voice
says hello when I see you walk by.
You talk to my waitress with your hands.
She points to the table and my cold plate.
From my car I see you bite into a piece
of my bacon. You don’t sit down
as your fingers count the money
on the table. The tip says I’ve gone.
Only the waitress and the knot
in your stomach can say
I was ever really there. I’m sorry

my straight line became a circle.
That I left you like half-dead road kill
with my lights still in your eyes.
I hope you'll forgive me for being
afraid that goodbye might have turned
into hello. Did you hear my tires

crunch the gravel, spinning again
as I turned to head home?
My hands no longer shaking
against the steering wheel
but busy catching tears
like the wipers catch the rain.

 

[4degrees]

13-30

thirteenth and thirtith like
past lovers, verbal one night stands
fun while they lasted and some,
some i'll think of again
the ones that took place
while in black out state will
get buried deeper inside
the unknown every day
leave the past in the past,
that's what they say
nothing lasts, alas, but
the sound of your name.
and i say it every day.

 

[Tzara]

13

Two Cultures

So if you said, not that you would,
Your heart would fly through lead for me!

I would say, Yes! Well, if I could.
I can't. I know lead's density.

 

[wildsweetone]

18.


A Beginning...

There is no Madonna
on the wall in our church,
no mother holding her baby
in smooth alabaster.

There are no coloured glass windows
brightening the room with visions
from the bible we read,
no scenes of trial or triumph
to look up to,
to memorise.

There is a small plate
that passes from hand to hand
across the rows,
containing coins and folded notes,
donated during prayers.

There are tiny cushions for knees,
a silver cup for communion,
bread discs for the tongue,
flowers and white name tags,
tea and cake,
and a minister who preaches
his own belief.

None of it ties me
to this place.

Yet I return.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-8

Bachelorette Party

Weddings are women's mysteries.
They are about mothers and daughters
and the women who understand your blood.

My grandmother the matriarch
discusses with cousin Shannon
hors d'oeuvres and valet parking for the reception,
while the son and the father smoke cigars
and talk about the mortgage.

Later, the men stay wisely on the patio
while three daughters and a daughter-in-law
meet and drink wine with the foreign bride.
We hear about the ex-girlfriends
and their attempts at sabotage:
phone calls three times a day
and Ambien left on the bedside table.

We know only one thing about her:
she clearly loves my father.
That is enough for all of us,
and the alliance is formed
as we finish the wine
and flick cigarette ashes into bougainvillea.

Jessica, the rival ex,
walks her dog past us, acting casual.
She has traveled eight hours to pretend she still lives here
and to check out the party.
The bride turns to face the house,
stands in the gateway and spreads her arms.
No one says a word,
and when the ex is out of earshot,
the women explode in laughter.
Weddings are women's mysteries
and it was a perfect wedding.







*
Dictated by phone from California
Amanuensis Russell the Lugh

 

[Sara Crewe]

7-14

Disconnecting the phone with a button
is totally unsatisfying if you are angry.
You can’t possibly press it hard enough
to relieve any kind of stress and compress
your anger into fiber optics. I long
for the days when you could slam
down the receiver hard enough that the phone
would protest in a whimpered ring.

Today I console myself with banging
the cordless against the desk twice
before I proceed to have a pretend fight
with you. It’s a one-sided dialogue
but it goes further than the reality
of my soft goodbye and I like
that there are no answers
other than mine. Like a raccoon
with its head in the garbage can
I throw every single foul-smelling
word or deed you have ever done
out into the open for me to measure.

When everything feels empty
I have proven that you owe me.
But when I look at our history
strewn all over me and my life
I see it with a sigh because I know
you are oblivious to the rotten stink,
made blind by your belief
that everyone wants what you do.

I think I won the fight today
but I don’t feel better knowing
I let you make a mess inside of me.

 

[Eluard]

1-13

. . .