International Poetry Writing Month - November Poems ONLY

[My Erotic Tale]

The Hurdle

lost since the moment I fell into your eyes,
swimming the currents of exhilarating thoughts
consumed in your radiant warmth
and burning with the pain of knowing
beyond this Hurdle is where my heart lives...
I never seem to take that leap.

the constilation of family and roots make my feet heavy
gazing in the distance for the light that shines
warmed by nothing more than a dot in the night sky
the memories that warm like a home movie
brushing off the chill of the distant miles between us
even when we sit together and take the leap

hands grasp each other in arms that wrap like a bow around you
tieing your focus to my lips movement
pulling each other into an exchange of pressing kisses
that run deeper than a body's length rooted into yesterdays
feeling your body within my lungs....
taking my breath away.

thoughts bloom like flowers now and then
the thoughts that are as different as the stars in the sky
a spectrum of emotions from images
cob webs grew on a few, making it hard to see clearly
blinded by my feelings has always been an obsticle...

...once again I 'stand' at the Hurdle.

...................( # 16 ).......................

 

[BooMerengue]

November 16th
#16

Winter Gifts

They come slowly to us the things that matter.
Age, the first that forces you to pause
now and then; to breathe deeper, to mull
not like wine, but rather as good cider
in the fall of years.
Love, so elusive in youth, most times
not even realized until it is lost to us;
that grows, and hurts, and mends all things
strengthening, hardening, like crust on new snow.
Wisdom, that is only born of time, and experience
sometimes unbearable, that chills us into the future
knowing that the pain and pleasure of life is inevitable.
And finally acceptance, the greatest of all,
the one that humbles us before the onslaught
of the day to day, and in the end brings us
through to spring, and the hope that fuels
the spark of life in all of us.​

 

[annaswirls]

15

I try to love these sparrows perched
on the branch of the large maple
outside my window

they are like dandelions
everywhere
aggressive, ragged

I try to find beauty in the scraggled appearance
the brown feathers
subtle stripes

they are designed to not be noticed

I try to love these birds
they are what I have here
not the red cardinals and blue jays,
no downy headed woodpeckers or tufted titmouse

My city sparrows travel in gangs
I pour cup after cup of seeds into the feeders.
They come to feast.
I try to pretend I want them here
I try try try
to be a better person

 

[eagleyez]

heavens blanket
a grey quilt
as if woven of
mirgrating black ducks
and junkos shaking
tambourines and sparrow
road crews staying put
on highways,

there, there, the sunbeams
the winnebago
deerhunters and Quebecers
speaking in tongues
while the day goes late
to the diner, only dive not boarded up
in the November half track,

the ocean of memory
a new roof on the sky
shingled and tarpapered
so far north of north
the ocean mirrors the
relentless slow turn,

migrating indeed
as if books burn with
pages cobwebs and the heater groans
in the wall.

 

[wildsweetone]

19. a late gift

(i)
Hunched shoulders
under a furrowed brow
winter winds strip
trees as the clock
hands face up
coffee steam curls
instant in silence
where laughter once bounced
off floor boards, the eyes’ surface
barely rippled
from the thrown stone.

(ii)
Each step bounces
a spring-loaded pogo stick
animated expressions
shine in spoken clarity
as day follows night.

 

[Guest]

17th

November harvest.

Clouds the colour
of drowned sailors' eyes
draped the mountain top
to hide its nakedness
affording some warmth
on this first-frost-dawn
first light brings geese
excited to be home
calling joyously recognising
familiar fields where
hidden gunmen wait
to drop them in their flight.

 

[annaswirls]

la-di-dah-di-da-di-NA
la-di-dah-di-da-di-NO
la-di-PO
la-di-MO
la-di-dah-di-da-di-NO

what is a word that rhymes with "ah"
god, help me, I do not know
"blah" you go
"spa?" oh no!
Stick to the free verse...go go go!


god it does not even fit the la di da sound

ha

ha hee ha hee see me ha!
skip me trip me watch me go
down so low
stub my toe
tra la lee la hol' de do'r

omg this is like the hairshirt of my existence
some one get a razor
smooth this stubble from my clothes
sand down my bed of nails
if you must throw fruit please make it ripe

 

[annaswirls]

November 17

The Longing Call of Distance

We sink into warm caves of confession,
hum below the sounds of a canary barely holding on.
It has been so long with door closed.

There!
Sketched onto the walls--
the story of the absent muse,
away, away.

She sits on the bed cross-legged
on the unmade hotel bed.
She is blurred into the background
of the photo, your sharp focus
typewriter and forgotten cigarette
are foremost. Your eyes pass over
the London streets, across the ocean
watching for motion.

Some night just like this,
another warm body will wait on your bed
at the Chelsea,
but you will listen for those pointed shoes
that clicked down London streets
and up hardwood floors.

I have changed my mind,
changed my prayer, Lord
don’t take this longing,
please don’t take this longing
it is all I have.

She watches the back of your head
wonders what you are looking for now
as another cigarette burns into ash.


~

 

[My Erotic Tale]

why does a man stand on the edge of the sidewalk
wiggling his toes in the grass
looking into the woods as if it were home
while leaning against a speed limit sign

tucking in his shirt and fixing his collar
reaching down and plucking a flower
just for a closer view
whistling at beauty as though it were fresh meat
as a hunger arose

to look in the forest with eyes of a lion
then down the sidewalk purring like a kitten
slipping back on his shoes and walking into the woods
just to let his zipper fall

..........( # 17 )...........

 

[wildsweetone]

20. untitled

She rocks
on the bed
back and forth
with a mind vacant
of memories and vague
notions that niggle.
Her tanned skin hangs
like lace dangles
from the bra fence
as her heart beats strong
inside its whittled trunk
and her mind breaks
like brittle glass.
She lingers in life
without life
to harass and spin
guilty webs
silken cocoons
pulled tight
to taunt.

 

[BooMerengue]

November 18th
#17

Home

As she walked from room to room
her hands brushing the walls, she said

"Others have lived here, I smell
their poverty, and their pain. I
feel them here, still.
A baby born in this front room,
maybe more than one. Sickly,
not long for this earth.
This room should be grey,
soft like doves wings,
as if evening lived here.

Look. See the stains in this sink,
of all the meals of beans and cornbread,
sometimes a ham for a holiday.
The pattern is gone from the linoleum,
scrubbed by gnarled hands as if
it were a grand foyer. A table,
under the window, I think
This room should be a soft yellow
to greet the morning sun;
to start the day's prayers
on lighthearted wings.

Back here, this little room, big enough for a desk
a chair, walls of books to keep the night
at bay. Big enough for the words
to roam and stretch and grow
before putting pen to paper
There should be a fireplace."

She stood on the back porch
and watched the clouds pass
over a patch of woods
and smoked and said

"I'll take it."​

 

[Liar]

XVI

It's been three months,
eleven days,
nine hours,
sixteen minutes
and four seconds,

give or take
a sigh or two,

(and I don't know
if daylight saving
is accounted for)

since I dug my toes
into warm, dry sand,

Sometimes,
if not most of the times,
it's the little things.

 

[Liar]

XVII

Here goes a ramble, a dissassembled diatribe-esque juggle, for a black rum Friday afternoon rush on spun sugar kisses and cheapo coolers, with Poe on my mind, smells like teen spirit flown forever blaring, conversation pumps like purified blow, flows from lips to brain without passing the ether, grit, spit, hollers and hello, we tug it back and forth and Poe is on my mind, my heart is pumping, drowning all discord, everything but the voice the voice the voice that wraps syrup, sweet, sickenly sweet, around my perception, thank heaven, the crisis, the danger is blasted from my skin and no muscle I move as I fall, into this bliss so blind and Poe is Poe is Poe, and on my mind, quote the raven, holy fuck, or so it seems, a still life hysteria dream within a dream.

 

[annaswirls]

seeing myself in his dream

I always dreamed of a charcoal background
nothing to distract me from your presence
the low strum of thick wires
loose hair pulled up off my neck.

The windows are frosted
not even a glare can catch my eye
and pull me from your stare.

The watchmaker stops in the bakery aisle
he has forgotten his coppers,
he has forgotten his list,
he is paralyzed by the flour dust
that rises from her hips.
She opens the oven and three strands of hair
rise in the hot air
everything else disappears.

~

 

[My Erotic Tale]

I man the dam
like a beaver in a stream
spending most of my time
gathering and placing barriers
insuring stability and strength
of that which will contain
a flooding of feelings

Memories spill and trickle
like a swollen pool of water
some pose no threat
for they're simple drips a thought here and there
but others press against the wall
with force and pressure
bursting
the dam of emotions

..........( # 18 )..........

 

[wildsweetone]

21. Unsettled

A new moon
lights the page blue

when clouds corrupt
night's beauty

in a room
where the rocking chair
once enlivened

by laughter, play
and babe at the breast
now sits empty

a child’s carved star on the arm
testimony to triumphs
when dust did not settle.

 

[Liar]

XVIII

the world
is white now

no wishes
to get it over with
was granted

nectar turns to stasis
orange shimmer with low
kelvin gloss hums in the
morning rays

more tangible now than ever
dawn greets with cyan
and dusk with fire

because they dare not
remind us of the other,
do all they can to fuel
the antithesis

as if dueling
could grant them any other
purpose than ticks
in our imagination,
our illusion of concept

it will be all right tomorrow

but everything is analog
process, not pulse
propels us

everything is white now
it suspends our disbelief
but amounts to nothing
but yet annother
earth bound
perspective's folly

 

[Liar]

XIX

At four she wished:
Kisses.
Pretty shoes.
A baby brother... or a doll.

At eight she wrote:
Dear Santa,
I want skates,
a less annoying brother,
and dad to come home again.

At twelve, pen in hand:
Dear Santa,
if you're really there…probably not
but it can’t hurt to try. I wish
I was beautiful, or at least
that somebody would say so,
and maybe listen to
what I have to say
once in a while.
But if you want specifics… a bra,
and something to put in it.

At sixteen:
Don't believe,
don't wish,
don't care,
don’t wanna,
don’t look at me.

At twenty, once again:
Whoever you are, God in a red hat, so this is a prayer, right?
Give me yesterday back.
It's not my fault,
give me mom like she was, not looking at me like that,
but smiling because she means it.
Give me days like once, a summer like then,
a rewind to erase it all, and summon
my fucking innocence back.

At twenty-four, and counting:
Give me something
to mark the passing of bygones,
a token of proof that draws a line
between who I was, and who I try to be.
Give me courage to hold on,
patience to hold out,
and a miracle,
just one,
kisses,
pretty shoes
and a baby.

 

[My Erotic Tale]

camouflaged~

Green leaves flourish over twigs under the trunk that conceals you
rugged brown bark biting into my thoughts
exposed roots sinking into the depths of earth's tones
the wind mingles the colors then leaves like memories of you

I know you are blue but your standing in front of an ocean
or on a mountain top and blending with the sky
I can't see you and don't know why
you have a chameleon personality

you easily become lost in a crowd with your celebrity status
and when were alone I see only parts of you
your passion, your Grey and the same Ole pattern
patches of our lives painted to blend with our terrain

if you were standing on a field of snow, I would then know
for red blends best with a sleeping bag of painted leaves and limbs
grasping each other like vines hold a tree, wrapping and gripping tightly
and other times you're there but I just can't see all of you because...

...you're camouflaged.


....................( # 19 ).......................

 

[annaswirls]

November 19

November 19

tinsel aisle intersects with plastic
crystal beautiful one year lasts forever
how much is that doggie in the window?
we are distracted by shiny objects
lifesized snowglobes forecast: styrofoam

 

[annaswirls]

I want you to lay your hands
on my anthology
laid out on the table
glossy, open to the page
where boy finds girl
in a temporary state of paralysis
he licks his thumb
opens her pages she pretends
there is nothing she can do

I want you to lay your hands
on my anthology
browse through the introductions
I will hum for you when you get to the good parts
where she gets it
she gets it good
until I tire of metaphor and pull your shoulders down
squeeze you with my thighs
wrap you in tighter with my calves and tell you
this is all there is
this page
this page
where you fuck me until my spine cracks
and something tears--
but not this page,
not us- fuck me like we are the only story
in this collection

 

[wildsweetone]

22. Morning

No one is here
to see the sky blush
as the arms of dawn
stretch like gum between a shoe
and hot pavement,
except the wrinkled man
with chin lifted
to morning fingers that stroke
his face and he smiles
like the belly-rubbed cat
that lies on the carpet
in the only patch of sunshine
in a room with one window.

 

[eagleyez]

The Sundays
Wrongly named
Grey as a gulls wing
The prolific quilted sky
Waiting for the snow's descent
Waiting for Prokofiev's desert
The east, the north,
The perfect fifth, a
Symphonic dream
Its dawning under
Lonesome days
Concerto moves
Like the settling sun
When its done
And she has come,

The Sundays
Yawning under
A dark day
Stretching to meet
The shadow door,
Talking to myself
Until she arrives
Once more.

 

[Liar]

XX

ramen poem
3 minutes tick tick down til
all is soggy and spiced up
primed for late night
consumption

ramen mind today
all noodly and soft
in a luke warm bowl
of indecicion

ramen day
started too late
a blink of an eye
to get going
and over in a minute
just like that

 

[annaswirls]

take my eyes lover
take them away from the east
I have traveled down river to find you
Take my eyes lover,
they have seen too much.