all of a sudden passion suddenly

[normal jean]

...........

 

[ghost_girl]

a cantaloupe fantasy

Fruits the size of fist-balls
cling and the vines rise
as if some amusement ride
the amazing cantaloupe vine ride
will sling you across the yard
and Kentucky wonder pole beans
climb the jute rope matrix
a mesh of string on a frame
that once was in my garden
my afternoon nap time swing.

Now I imagine them all engaged
in a game of garden catapult,
the melons are first in line
for the pelting of the neighbor's
tomatoes at high noon.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

not by chance
the easy verse
of who knows the stones
on the path the dust
and the sand
and the concrete of its synthesis

and pour it all in the jump of a cat
on a hot tin roof, the same

that got your tongue
that was just here

but no tongue is a verse
till it finds its metaphor

and rhymes romantic with perverse

not by chance the alchemy
of body and text
in the metaphysics of a kiss

nor by chance rowing upstream
with the supple verb
of who floats down
the current

the desire of unearthing
of all forms of delicacy

by chance, maybe, the vertigo
of the shore

of the poems we breathe

 

[normal jean]

It's 1202 and I'm missing you
and your modernist perceptions
of my rhymes. You see
I've waited and wondered
pondered and plundered
searched the net for signs
that you might be
up past noon, into the night
leaving such comments
as that;s wrong, that just right.
1201 might never come
around when I am here
just tell him I said hello
and the plums are ripe
inside the fridge, next to
the orange jello.

 

[bflagsst]

What fascinates the spirit world:
a breeze, wet handkerchiefs
graffiti and tattoos,
salty water and sun burn,
the things we choose
to pierce, frankly

There's a shadow on the wall
with the little light it's a miracle
we can see each other at all
and every spirit wrapping
their vacuous digits in our hair
and stroking our perspirant faces

 

[Remec]

Morning spiral

I wake, rolling my
covers over the
bed's unused half,

bones creaking on
the stretching walk
to the shower,

hot water,
rising fog,
sitting under
the stream,

Would it
matter
if I
stayed
here?

slight draft
breaks the
steamy
reverie

I am
toweling,
shaving,
dressing.

Thank god
for instant,

Bagels are
manna

Reciting mantra

"Today...."
-----

 

[JestTrash]

Her words are like oranges.

White bowl and close-woven tablecloth
Made into one little coddle of oranges

Stacked like cannonballs, like Hesperides,
Like her words. Like little clumps of sun.

 

[bflagsst]

..............

 

[pushkine]

For Richard Dawkins, Who Wouldn't Like It
Because There Is Some God Stuff. Sorry.

Love stirred into religion is
How virgins end up rapt in sin.
In Genesis one finds the cause;
His Selfish Gene explains its laws.



.

 

[WickedEve]

Floored (terzanelle)


An ant in the groove of Madam Pergo,
as if a tunnel in her crevice,
not tolerated by Sir Hugo.

She lies flat, void of her joy abyss.
Still he lays her long, limb to limb,
locking with care her narrow crevice.

No colony for posh Pergo The Prim,
so fingers joust with diminutive knight,
before laying Madam down, limb to limb.

Her finish marred by combat's blight,
Pergo is reduced to lesser desire,
in the opinion of Sir and Knight.

Even bruised, she is worth no cease-fire:
Ant marches through Hugo's red flow
toward Pergo, his not so less desire.

He crawls over her, like a small beau,
and back in the groove of Madam Pergo.
He marches her tunnels, wet with red flow.
Ant did not tolerate mighty Hugo.

 

[butters]

Floored (terzanelle)


An ant in the groove of Madam Pergo,
as if a tunnel in her crevice,
not tolerated by Sir Hugo.

She lies flat, void of her joy abyss.
Still he lays her long, limb to limb,
locking with care her narrow crevice.

No colony for posh Pergo The Prim,
so fingers joust with diminutive knight,
before laying Madam down, limb to limb.

Her finish marred by combat's blight,
Pergo is reduced to lesser desire,
in the opinion of Sir and Knight.

Even bruised, she is worth no cease-fire:
Ant marches through Hugo's red flow
toward Pergo, his not so less desire.

He crawls over her, like a small beau,
and back in the groove of Madam Pergo.
He marches her tunnels, wet with red flow.
Ant did not tolerate mighty Hugo.

and that was one off the cuff, so to speak?

i am deeply impressed, and never even heard of a terzanelle before - embarrassed as i am to admit it

 

[butters]

she's cupped
in the white bowl of his thoughts

melting sowly
white on white

stirs her with a lazy finger
brings it to his lips

then sighs
bored with vanilla

if only he'd added
some sauce to the occasion











actually, this lacks the fire of passion so maybe it should be another place. oh well.

 

[bflagsst]

When I'm old and age
and just a page past forgotten,
there'll be but the scraps and bits
and maybe a reprise for bookends,
as in bookends I promise to fit you better

It takes so long, you know
to write these little notes for you
in concept and theme and desiderata,
when it's so strange to grow
and go, and go again:

Krishna Krishna
Hare Rama
Rama Rama
Krishna Krishna

and to have kept it to a chant.

 

[WickedEve]

and that was one off the cuff, so to speak?
i am deeply impressed, and never even heard of a terzanelle before - embarrassed as i am to admit it

Off the cuff? Well, I sat down and kept writing from start to finish, but it did take an hour or two to finish. I write a lot of terzanelles -- similar to the villanelle. Google the form. They're interesting to play with.

 

[bflagsst]

Fun With Dante

Through orgiastic delight
me, I, mine tipped over
the ordained multitude of ordinals
waybread weighed against the transcendentals
into the fire, they kept marching
the grass was burnt, yet mellow
suffering against the sheet metal glow
city of consciousness, blooey
before I fell I gave witness
me, mine eye hath imperfection
nothing like a flawless argument
but for Principle of Sufficient Reason
eternal its causes,
things happen because they’re moved
were the Principle moved itself, it’d be
made to move of its own accord
and contain itself within, as an effect
I endure the argument out of time
endure I, with facial features of an Austen protagonist
eternally present in beauty as an irrational

 

[Epmd607]

I don't like having stories
in the four-forties,
I don't like most of mine
but I never take the time...

 

[Tzara]

Dogberry, Lyric Poet

I am unique and egoless,
Unless, of course, you count the stress
I place on how unique I am
(Which makes me out to be a ham,

But not one edible, although
I am quite fattening, you know).
I'm sensitive, without a doubt.
I drool emotions, write them out

And bare my soul so selflessly
My poems gleam with purity
Of Art! Of Feeling! Of Ennui!
I am quite perfect, can't you see?

Although astounded with my skill,
Yet no one understands me ( :sad: ).
The Envious write of me ill
And say my verse is really bad.

But care I not. My time will come,
For such a heart as mine—sublime
In subtleties of meter, rhyme,
Superior, in fact, to Donne's—

Will triumph, and then I'll laugh last.
Until then, Masters, call me Ass.
.

 

[champagne1982]

damp within past withered willows
where once a wallow waited impatient
for those nuzzles seeking truffles
and instead chill winds dessicate foliage
better found in more temperate climes
with soft light and regular showers

 

[Tzara]

To Poets, Sensitive, defending
Their often rather sloppy verse
From backhand compliments, pretending
That critics are great fools (or worse):

Hey, can you please stop all this carping?
It is pathetic; leaves me barfing.
Nor is it quite professional
To whine outside confessional.
If you're convinced your poem's stupendous
Then let the thing stand on its own,
For if it's good that will be shown,
Without you flogging it, by census.
You are a poet, after all,
Not boxer bruising for a brawl.

Your work may need some little fidgets
With its line breaks or word choice,
For poems are simply word-based widgets
And you are not James A. A. Joyce
(Though he was not much Poet, was he?
A poor example—limp and fuzzy.)
In any case, do not make light
Of comments. Simply be polite
And use what's useful, drift what isn't.
All comments can be helpful things,
Even, especially, one that stings.
(What worked for you, for others didn't.)

I'm through detailing this malaise.
Please comment, you. But make it praise.
.

 

[Many Feathers]

here here,,,

To Poets, Sensitive, defending
Their often rather sloppy verse
From backhand compliments, pretending
That critics are great fools (or worse):

Hey, can you please stop all this carping?
It is pathetic; leaves me barfing.
Nor is it quite professional
To whine outside confessional.
If you're convinced your poem's stupendous
Then let the thing stand on its own,
For if it's good that will be shown,
Without you flogging it, by census.
You are a poet, after all,
Not boxer bruising for a brawl.

Your work may need some little fidgets
With its line breaks or word choice,
For poems are simply word-based widgets
And you are not James A. A. Joyce
(Though he was not much Poet, was he?
A poor example—limp and fuzzy.)
In any case, do not make light
Of comments. Simply be polite
And use what's useful, drift what isn't.
All comments can be helpful things,
Even, especially, one that stings.
(What worked for you, for others didn't.)

I'm through detailing this malaise.
Please comment, you. But make it praise.
.

From one who doesn't write poetry very often (and perhaps for good reason( I couldn't agree more. I think its sad that so much has gone on for those who do write really good poetry. So this was very appropriate.

But thanks again to Wicked Eve for her comment on my latest. I appreciated what she said.

 

[champagne1982]

If your verse is all of that
and more than critique reveals
take to the great, wide word
to whom it may appeal

but brother don't dismay nor grouse
when your work and id's defamed
just take that New Yorker formed
response and put it in a frame

'Tis better to have MFA's reject
the work your soul has painted
than a dozen porno addicts
with their minds all smutly tainted.

If acclaim you need and fame you want
then hie on outta here
cause we'll tell you what we think
nice or not, I fear.

With harsh critique hanged stinking close,
spare not the poesy prose perfume
For gentle sensitivity results
in absinthe laced green-glowy gloom.

 

[PhaonsBrother]

Follow the warpwise spring line,
crooked from your navel onto mine,

press your belly your rope burned belly,
upon the salve of mine,

and along your hip, feel my ship
come home to safely passage

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poet's Revenge

To Poets, Sensitive, defending
Their often rather sloppy verse
From backhand compliments, pretending
That critics are great fools (or worse):

Hey, can you please stop all this carping?
It is pathetic; leaves me barfing.
Nor is it quite professional
To whine outside confessional.
If you're convinced your poem's stupendous
Then let the thing stand on its own,
For if it's good that will be shown,
Without you flogging it, by census.
You are a poet, after all,
Not boxer bruising for a brawl.

Your work may need some little fidgets
With its line breaks or word choice,
For poems are simply word-based widgets
And you are not James A. A. Joyce
(Though he was not much Poet, was he?
A poor example—limp and fuzzy.)
In any case, do not make light
Of comments. Simply be polite
And use what's useful, drift what isn't.
All comments can be helpful things,
Even, especially, one that stings.
(What worked for you, for others didn't.)

I'm through detailing this malaise.
Please comment, you. But make it praise.
.

Poet's Revenge

A critic is a know it all
Who doesn’t know it all
At all

A tall ego,
No a super
Ego idiot,
He she it
Or troll

Whose idiom
May be literate
Who may, alas,
Alliterate

Though he’ll never get it.

At least with mine, he never will.

 

[bflagsst]

do the lullabies still lull you
by the hole you call your home?
containing superficial flavors
vanity in overdose

your empty seat has emptied me
the bathtub's overflowed
the end deceit, a happy scene
there's just one thing I want you to know

a lovely tune, my baby my baby
here comes the spoon for you,
a lovely song, my sunshine my sunshine
just play along and soon
you'll be singing lalala lalalalala

well, you try to look so pretty but
something's dripping off your bib
is that a rattlesnake i see
or just a rattle in your crib?

your empty seat has emptied me
the bathtub's overflowed
the end deceit, a happy scene
there's just one thing I want you to know...

 

[neci]

good fucking lord
she collapsed to the floor
rolling her head about her

pick up the shoes
clean up the mess
back to work she runs

scatterbrained thoughts
clanging like pots
silence is over rated

take her to bed
sinfully wed
remember the things she asked for

tie her up tight
beat her just right
the heavens shall open for You tonight