International Poetry Writing Month - November Poems ONLY

[wildsweetone]

30. Fallen Plaque

Numbers and letters printed
on a plaque that lies
on the ground half-buried
in the rose garden
among ashes
of forgotten dead.
Dates and three names that belong
to one man who once stood
tall and sure on ships at sea, reduced
to names and letters
printed on a plaque, glued
to a cemetery wall, bricks
that overlook roses
green land and the ocean. A plaque
on bricks, bones and tobacco emotions
on the mantle no more, a wind-tossed
plaque buried in dirt.
A blood rose border.

 

[babydoll2u]

I have a dog named Buford
who has a sense of humor.
He barks at the leaves,
he barks at the trees,
yesterday he growled at the roofer.

When I leave the house he goes crazy
most of the day, he's just plain lazy
He sleeps all day,
and eats all night,
I try not to let his silliness faze me.

For he's my little boys' dog, you see
he protects him from all but me
He's as big as a horse
if you come near us, of course
he'll chase you down the street!

 

[Liar]

XXVII


the peculiar loss
at the end
knowing you have
to let go of nothing
but a construct
and close the band
on a universe in arcadia

it is the reader's curse
to say goodbye
just when you wish
to reap the harvest
of the tribulations

to never embrace
the happily ever after
but turn to other
interresting times

 

[My Erotic Tale]

strip tease

she moved like water soft and slow
standing before me in an alluring flow

swaying her hips while raising her arms
pulling her hair behind her head
then letting it fall as she leaned in
wearing nothing but a wicked grin

eyes painted dark to match the night
lips bright red a tantalizing sight
she'll spin like a whirl wind
and let her wild hair flare

dance a step or two in a seductive glide
sit in my lap and start to sway
hips that grind and find
movement in some sort of way

small of her back in my face
watching curves shift and sway
she spun around and then went down
her head between my knees
hands on my thighs


ascending nose to nose
hot breath on my cheek
as a kiss is laid
the music fades away


.....( # 28 ).......

 

[annaswirls]

November

will this month never end?
my dreams bleed into December flurries
wish lists
needles on the floor.

 

[wildsweetone]

31. untitled

They slink in shadows, work
dirty at night, on a silent
breeze, united when boldness
overcomes fear. They move
together, fire in their eyes
and hands as they touch
lit torches to buildings, voices
of hate burn holes in the mind
as bitterness taints the air. Screams
and scorched skin flail the night,
sparks surge high, lifted and carried
along to warn the plight
of others. And they leave,
burnt bodies buried,
white ashes of crumbled dust,
with black hope risen
on a mound of debris.

 

[BooMerengue]

for WSO

The Only Song Thats Left

I see them standing tall,
those icons of black and white
like statues in a park
named Dogma.
You see them everywhere
elected, revered, pillars
of all we hold dear
The Ones Who Know.
But you and I?
We know something else
We know that swirling around
those icons in a grey mist
are souls who didn't know.
The ones who felt, instead
of heard, The Dogma
and knew it false.
We know them.
We know them
as if they were us.
We have their voices.
We speak for them.

You and I.​

 

[annaswirls]

chameleon whore
paints on red

 

[wildsweetone]

for WSO

The Only Song Thats Left

I see them standing tall,
those icons of black and white
like statues in a park
named Dogma.
You see them everywhere
elected, revered, pillars
of all we hold dear
The Ones Who Know.
But you and I?
We know something else
We know that swirling around
those icons in a grey mist
are souls who didn't know.
The ones who felt, instead
of heard, The Dogma
and knew it false.
We know them.
We know them
as if they were us.
We have their voices.
We speak for them.

You and I.​

from my soul. i have printed this and will keep it close. thank you.
we understand.

 

[Liar]

XXVIII

no, it doesn't mean
you have to raise
white mural walls
and paint black roses
at the base
kneel behind a veil
and weep

you walk your own wire
and the first sign of slipping
will serve you a hand in blance
you know that

it will come to you
in it's own time
it's own way
and don't feel guilt
for not being the first
to stumble

 

[My Erotic Tale]

Buford Puttlebutton

Buford Puttlebutton has been stealing for years
and there is nothing that any one can do about it

oh quite right
there is one thing
but then that would be committing a crime to stop a crime and the justice department will not let murder over ride theft.

It is not that Buford has a small mind
its just that he chooses not to use it
of course Buford has brain farts like most people have hic-ups and who you going to blame for that?

I am sure that if you asked him
he would say that he is not a theif
it is free!

well then we might as well be at a 'Wake'
and the FREE food is gobbled up by
yep you guessed it...
Buford Puttle-button

there-fore the shear energy
that could have fueled some motivation, is wasted on a 'huge' waste line or maybe it is just enough energy for him to make it to the super market's free sample isle.

the word "free" and Buford Puttle-button ...

...well that is like the carpet coming to life
extending out a seductive stocking covered arm reaching out with a tantalizing, curling finger gesting him to come closer and closer till the carpet whispers seductively, "Clean me you big, handsome, vacumm cleaner. Free dirt, all you want. Suck me dry."

That is like offering him a lake to drink from
"its free"
so what does Buford do?
He takes a cupping hand and sips the water
then he 'pisses in it'
and you can't say that he is insensitive because he said he 'didn't want to kill the grass'
I said, "You know, you probably just gave somebody a golden shower, down stream."
and he said, "Well, I don't know about that... but that little minnow sure did run like hell."

and look
there he goes again
just sitting there
doing nothing
but breathing
not even thinking
his brain does not make adequit use of the oxygen that he takes in, gulping air and shooting it out his exhaust, creating a very fowl oder

there-fore the talk around town is that...
Buford Puttle-button is an enviormental hazard to the eco system and an oxygen theif and there is nothing anyone can do about it



........( # 29 )..............

 

[wildsweetone]

32.

i)

Shades of Grey (Shades of fake Mother of Pearl)

Water surged, swallowed a man
and in grief she turned to another
to be used, discarded
left empty like a rusted
freight train, abandoned
judged useless, scrapped
then platter-ed to the next bidder
easy prey in a day
where others stood alone
left her to stand alone
among decisions with repercussions
that follow her shadow
haunt her thoughts
and taunt her mind
to death.

Black

She sold her body
when grief through loss
destroyed her mind, left
her paralysed
to participate in a world
without the column of attention
she knew. She gave her baby
away when responsibility weighed
thoughts like a thrown anchor
and threatened life, parties
and popularity.

White

Love was lost
when an artist died. His words
became mist-clothed water, his mind
drowned with the future
he offered, his ring
pocketed, unworn.
A promise not fulfilled
yet never forgotten. Memories
kept behind a framed photo,
a letter of love
filled with words
of a mist above water
and secrets of stolen kisses
along the way.

 

[Liar]

XXIX

Welcome home, Joanna.
To the milky thistle stems from cracks in Uphill Oldie's.
To the dandelions playing zombie hands in June asphalt.
To the lonesome whine of abandoned swings beyond the trees.
To the echo in the underpass.
To the birdhouse of squatting squirrels.
To tuesday afternoons.
To the pavement you chalked blue.
To the pavement I chalked green.
To every step you took.
To me.

Welcome home, Joanna.
To saturday nights of not daring to drift.
To ears sharpened for creaking boards.
To scents no nine year old should feel.
To scars nobody should wear.
To sirens, to spit, to screams.

Welcome home, Joanna.
From a two decade exodus.
From climbing a mountain in bare, bloody feet.
From scorching your clay to ceramic.
From finaly getting a jittery sleep.

Welcome home, Joanna.
To close the casket on what you never cut free.
To finally, an honest dot in the diary.
To how it should be.

 

[annaswirls]

I already have about 30 poems about these hands
and this room
the things on the floor of this room

my mind has already gone
and my heart has been out
for about 2 months now

I might pick something else
that sticks out
and butter it like a roll
but I will need a partner
for that endeavor

certainly I can write
and write and write it is all I do

about how so many women
in my church kept their last name
and in my friends house
there are three
and oh how ordinary this life
this name
this domesticated existence

I need an adventure.

 

[My Erotic Tale]

when the maid cums


About one month ago
Hank told me I had a heart of Gold!
Just before he asked me for a place to live.

"What happen to you and your wife?"
"She's mad as hell and threw me out!"
Hank went home and I didn't hear from him till the very next day

"How is things with you and your wife?"
I had to ask.

"What do you mean? Everythings fine."
he acted like nothing ever happened.

a week later I get a call
Yep, it is Hank
"I need a place to stay for the night,
I am having a fight with my wife."

"Okay!"
He never made it. I didn't 'wait up' either <grin>
next day at work.
"What happen with you and your wife?"
I had to ask.
"Nothing, we patched it up." He proclaimed.

A knock at the door late one night
yep it is Hank crying a puddle of tears.
"Okay Hank, I'll let you stay a couple days till you find a place
because I want my tranquility and serenity
I do not want a room mate

one hour later comes a knock at the door
"Hank here?"
"Sure, come in. You must be Mrs. Hank. Nice to meet you."
I just had to say."

"Oh, I am not mrs. Hank, I'm Bonnie. Nice to meet you too."
She had a smile that could suck a man into a dream.
Well she sucked Hank into the spare bedroom
and it sounded as though they were rearranging it

I was just about to knock and ask if I could speak with Hank
when a knock came at the door
I answered it and it was my maid 'Maria'

"Where shall I begin?" she asked while taking off her jacket
hanging it by the door and adjusting her ...
short, black french maid outfit.

"The bedroom," I said with a mischievious grin.
I explained my guest while on my quest
to the sea of satin sheets and love
'Maria' doesn't make a meal well in the kitchen
but in the bedroom she is 'Cooking'

The next day at work
Hank said he and his wife were back together
I said, "Better keep it that way because
I am having the spare bedroom, removed permenantly"

Life went back to normal
my tranquility and serenity restored
sitting here bored
writing a poem
waiting on saturday
when the maid cums


.........( # 30 )..........

 

[annaswirls]

written early Nov, forgot to post it


I pull the blinds closed,
the slats painted into the shut position
someone painted over the dust in their corners
someone painted over the hole where the latch used to be

I close them to the street
it is Saturday night
I sit in my red glow
in my blue orange yellow glow of the
silver tentacle lamp creature
I am typing
and
typing

Neighbors walk the sidewalks
boys in white t-shirts hands tucked way down baggy jeans
damn it is cold
cars drive for dinner
a helicopter searches the grounds

It is Saturday night
I close myself in behind painted wood
I know they think I must be some
internet pervert
sitting here in the wee hours
messing with their kin
snappin' titty pictures for the boys

damn I am gettin' out of here
maybe time better spent
maybe paint some dust into the corners

 

[annaswirls]

No Love,

11.14 (filling inthe gaps-- finding ones I wrote but forgot to post)

you left a note on my door
I recognized the squared letters
and college ruled paper

possibilities flew by
like they were riding one of those magnitic levitation trains
and my heart raced
as if it were on old fashioned rails
which are fast enough

and I opened the note
and it was signed
"sincerely"

 

[Liar]

and finally,


XXX

Just like a new york
romantic comedy showdown xerox,
ever so slightly out of sync with
any reality we could digest
as such, she tore up a scene of silly,
as the smarted subway virtuoso
with an open palm hat
struck up another bloody polka.

For passer by's a blink
in the zap of bend after bend,
for eyes numbed by familiar plaster
and one-step-behind blues,
just a nuicanse, a nagging dust iota
in the corner of the eye.

For two fresh eyes
a dance that lures out
the most loop shattering smile.

For a moment connected,
a link of giddy from face to face,
a dance that stays a little longer.