NaPoWriMo Challenge - April 1 - April 30

[Lyricalli]

8/30

Mom didn't like white azaleas
said they looked dirty
when the blossoms died

She was right

My house came with white azaleas
which weren't blooming that winter
when it was bought

They showed themselves in spring
she never saw them
don't think I ever told
though you talk about so many trivial things
sitting by a hospital bed

And those damn flowers
looked so dirty when they died

A decade gone by
a palette of pink, red, and peach
has long replaced the white
and maybe, from somewhere, she sees

 

[todski28]

8-30

Two birds sit astride
the words
“If you feel uncomfortable,
We’re here to listen”

the dark blue chair next to
the light blue chair

a chain hangs beaded to
roll up the blinds

the clutter of a trolley
orange juice
that has the texture of glue
slides down my clamped throat

the rattle of a lid turning
on a thread

the beep of machines
you mutter deep
in opioid dreams

 

[Levitating_Bed]

7/30

poem for david berman

I was mad and sad and hurt about it.
We didn't know each other
and I don't think it would have mattered
if we had.

I still read your blog sometimes
the way those last entires
are full of Bernhard... Well, it's funny -

Part of me groans, and my eyes even
want to roll at the triteness. How it's
obligatory and cliche. Instead, I sigh.

part of me wants a time machine so I
could go back and pop out of space right
in front of that gloomy bastard and
beat him up.

Such an ironic and hilarious
misappropriation of my anger
wouldn't change anything.
But it would feel good

and I like to think you'd think it was funny.

Do you know I still try and make people read
The Charm of 5:30? I mean, it's not like I keep it
in my back pocket, like The Watchtower or
anything like that.

But whenever I get
a chance and they're the right sort of person -
you know what I mean - I'll say something like

you know what's a good poem?

Because I want them to have the same feeling I had
the first time I read it. Because that's one of the best
feelings a person can have.

I think a lot about everything that goes into us
and then what comes back out. I think about
what we do and don't do with that. I think about

the way that what goes wrong piles up
in a way that what goes right doesn't.

Sometimes I don't know how to make that okay either.

Now that I've gotten to the end of this poem
I know that I've got no good ending
and that's a bitter laugh too.

But I know I didn't just write it for you.
And I know I never want anyone
to write one like it for me.

 

[Lyricalli]

Oops... wrong thread

 

[Moochienanu]

8April2021

They are Gone

My best breast years are gone -
They were wasted on my youth,
When my perky, pointed beauties
Didn’t need extra support built into a bra

My best breast years are gone -
They were fleeting and full,
When days of low-cut tops with push-ups
Brimmed over into the nights of dancing

My best breast years are gone -
They were sadly unadventurous,
When even the thought of licking, twisting, biting,
Would elicit a blush and cover

My best breast years are gone -
They were before baby,
When her cry inflated them with milk
The life was sucked from their limp leftovers

My best breast years are gone -
They were
When
You hadn’t found me yet

My best breast years are gone -
But you can have all that they have left.

 

[Piscator]

VIII/XXX

We all have Tarnished Heroes

That bright young President shot down in Dallas
who turned out to be a philanderer.
That hundred meter runner who held the Olympic record
overnight until his pee tested positive.
That cohort of home run hitters who demolished Maris’
record who now are in the Hall of Infamy.
That Buffalo back who still holds rushing records but
may have gone Scot-free for murder.
That person you though you could become who
became the person you are.

 

[Levitating_Bed]

8/30

Con Cup Science

I want to kiss her boo boos
and make her come.

Not necessarily in that order
(Unless, in this case, boo boo
is a euphemism for clitoris),

and not just incidental booboos
resultant from passionate moments
(elbows and knees not liking carpets)
or life's other routine and minor abrasions.

But the deeper ones, the kind
that maybe haven't left a mark or
obvious scar, those invisible

except to the sort of
intimacy, attention, and time
requisite for a good kiss.

I want to kiss her boo boos
and make her come.

And isn't it interesting

the way we sometimes offer to others
the things we want for ourselves.

 

[Tzara]

8

Relic

It's an old photograph,
a Polaroid I found stuck in a book
of poems I had been reading

to her each night in bed.
She's lying on her side, relaxed,
as if we'd just finished

making love. She would hate
that it displays her right breast,
the slightly larger one, unclothed,

exposed to the camera.
I suppose it was a kind of joke,
a spur of the moment thing—

like how nowadays, you'd snatch
a quick shot with your phone.
She probably doesn't remember

that it still exists, that it ever did. Even
holding this picture, I'm not really quite sure
she wasn't just a melancholic dream.

 

[champagne1982]

Longing 8/30

Is there a euphemism
for I miss you?
How about a synonym?
Maybe I don't need to say
how much I do out loud.
My heart, though, thinks
otherwise. I need to say
how much I yearn for you.
So much, I ache, I feel
hollow to the core without
your hand holding mine
in companionable silence.
We can talk and we do,
but my favourite times
are when we don't need
to fill awkward emptiness
with meaningless noise.
Not that all we say
is profound; just apt,
sometimes funny, and true.
I love you seems to slip
into the gaps to fill each
void with perfection.
This is how your lover's
voice should be heard.

 

[Tzara]

9

Thin Kimono

You don
its unlined silk

after our sweat
has dried.

That you leave it open,
no obi, untied,

tells me you're not
through with my body

as yet tonight.
You offer me tea,

or warmed sake,
but the only drink

I desire
is the moisture

on those red lips
I kiss

before descending
to tongue

your peaked nipples,
straining

the stenciled fabric
draped over your breasts.

Later, lower,
I fear we will stain

this immaculate cloth,
because

you are so beautiful,
and I am always, always too eager.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

9/30

Gentle rhythmic knocks
on windowsills,
old man's beard
on grassland's face,
cannot overhear
Winter's song
"It ain't over, until it's over"

But beyond glass,
curtained limitations,
and March's end,
silk and lace avalanches
down smooth-cliffed peaks
along plains and ridges
chasing temerarious skiers
on their winding way valewards
where meltwater streams
susurrate melodies
of spring straining to release

in an underground palace
digital geologists may come to feel
and detect the echoes of magma
boiling in Gaia's kettle

Unheard in the depths
sparsely covered
mountain pastures recite
Summer will come

 

[Angeline]

8-30

Things We Do For Love

I sent Lil Silky,
(so named by you),
a green thong, forest
dark and wispy that per
agreement lived in me
for a night before
being wrapped in tissue,
tied with grosgrain ribbon,
(my idea), and mailed north
of north to your eager hands.

Even now
I blush thinking
I did that, wondering
did my sea scent
somehow escape
my careful packaging,
Silky's perfume redolent
on some mailman's fingers?

Silky arrived. She lived
mostly in your pocket
until the day she slipped out
in a surprise appearance
at Home Depot. Oops.

Thank heavens
I moved north to your bed.
Lil Silky retired to your bureau
drawer and you could play
with my panties and me
whenever you wished.

 

[todski28]

9-30

Look down
as you get ready to
fuck my face with all the self
control of the ocean being pulled
toward the moon

Watch my stroking tongue
the muscles in my shoulder and back
as I slide two fingers deep
watch me fascinated
by the mess you make
as I strive to move and taste
your writhing body
as I hunger
and urge you to
make me starve

bury your hands in my hair
force me down and up
and around
as I terrorise your slick wet
clit my tongue darting in and out
your hamstrings resting on my shoulders
hear me groan along with you

watch as I paint dark lust
on the sheets as a precursor
to slamming my self into your
devouring centre

look down and see me
breathlessly
watch your stomach tense
feel the grip of you
on my fingers

look down as your
wet Eros trickles from my chin
and I
claimed
your cum as my own

settle as I stroke your thighs
eyes alight with mischief

 

[Lyricalli]

9/30

I don't give a fuck
about anything
when I'm basking
in the gleam of your eyes
looking up at me
from between my thighs
like you've unlocked secrets
of the universe

Insecurities be damned
I am beauty
the Goddess of Chubby Tummies
and Round Asses
reveling in the grip of your hands
on fleshy, trembling limbs
controlling my greedy, immodest hips
your tongue worships
torments
demands

Throaty howls
and growling profanity
the essence of sex unleashed
covers your face
hungry lips meet mine
to share the taste of my passion

 

[Piscator]

IX/XXX

I like likes

I like likes,
almost takes him back
to I like Ike,
and the Eisenhower years
although to be truthful,
he doesn’t really remember
much as he was born the
year Ike was first elected.

But getting back to this
moment’s diversion he’d
liked likes as a form of positive
reinforcement, back when
social platforms first started
before counting likes and
friends morphed into a game
and social platforms became
social media, an echo chamb
-er to pat like thinking people
on the back and hurl insults
across the ideological void
which leaves him feeling
somewhat empty again
as he clicks on an ad for
that new fishing reel.

 

[champagne1982]

Love Leaves No Stain 9/30

Silk whispers sleek,
murmurs soft,
sighs strength,
and when love moves
power and impatience
to tug at trapped
cherry blossoms,
to lick delectable buds,
to pull fabric, and free
wet kisses waiting
for an eager mouth
to reply; no more secrets
stain the time between
two who come clad
in scanty; perfumed
with sweat and sex and tea.

 

[Moochienanu]

9April2021

Our Song

He’s the music playing as my eyes close
Soft strings plucking against my skin
The dreams of a feather’s silken path
A spine alight with moonbeams
Impatient kisses fallen upon neck, clavicle, breast,
Swelling crescendos of racing pulses,
Insistent palms drumming my soul somewhere deeper,
Dancing in three-quarter time
To those lyrics -
Our song.

 

[Tzara]

10

Double post.

 

[Tzara]

10

1972

We are lying on the back seat
of my father's old Polara

lips to lips and cheek to cheek,
shedding clothes like they're in flames

when I commence my hesitant
journey down the shivery

fish of your body, my fingers
finally finding your central sea

where I beckon come hither, come hither,
and suddenly you do

 

[champagne1982]

Tears 10/4

Just when imagination
gives a moment to believe
that there have been
enough tears, you remember.

You remember there are millions
affected by some aspect
of the world wars. The lessons still left
unlearned or worse, disregarded
in every generation since.

Each child, in their own relative
safety and peace takes a turn
at shouting, Peace!
No more war! No more struggles!

No more disenfranchised,
no more hungry, no more killed!
As if great-greats and greats
and grands and parents
hadn't shouted at God before.

If only the dead would be quiet
instead of reproaching the foolish
living with that despairing look.
You're right, we'll never learn.


(April 9th is Vimy Ridge Day in Canada. It marks the anniversary
of the Canadian victory at the Ypres salient in 1917.)

 

[Angeline]

9-30

Pentina

Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
~Noam Chomsky


Some days my sea is colorless
a foggy gray, no froggy green.
Do I need to think more? Ideas
are fickle birds that fly away. Sleep
is scant, though I dream furiously

and grasp at memories furiously
while my waking world is colorless,
brilliant only in dreaming sleep
with swaying willows lush and green.
I turn blue dreaming these ideas

and then plead turn off all ideas.
I rail against them furiously,
pray just for Innisfree, leafy greens,
silent swans, not even colorless
fogs that steal peace from my sleep.

So I daydream perchance to sleep
and flee the crowd of my ideas.
I hate my nows and heres, colorless
yet shot with memory tossing furiously,
relentless gray and little green.

There was a time that I loved green
and so did you. We'd sleep
in peace or roll together furiously
while jazz played on the radio. Ideas
slept too. Dawn was softly colorless.

Now my whole world is colorless
even in April's morass of green

and I must caution my ideas
to lay low while I sleep,
save me from dreaming furiously.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

10/30

It's as always
boys meets girl
sees a smile
and feels invited

and I?
did nothing
as always

silence was wrong
as always

ashamed of him
and myself
as always

silence is wrong
I am wrong
as always

...

 

[todski28]

10-30

She is a bass slap suicide
some how she made it to my decade
we took pills
clothes melted into a puddle
at her feet
her body a slow motion car crash
like Jackson Pollick kamikaze flew
into a Banksy

stardust vapour
the shortcuts she took to grown
flicker in her eyes
as she beckons me
to know her from the inside
to trace the calligraphy of her name
etch into my skin
so when we disconnect her memories are as fresh
in the mirror as they are with her
kneeling at my feet
coaxing me forward
sinking nervous tension
into a release of warmth and tongue...

the Ferris wheel spins slowly
her arms upright
she screams victory at the sky
slides my hand under her short skirt
moans sweet fucking flames in my ear

love is a funny thing
a forrest fire in trees that have been dry for centuries
the dangle of jewellery at her bellybutton
makes me ache to strip her naked
and try to paint her portrait with
my cock
her hips sashay and drag me under
a spell of dirt and sweat
while she bonnet surfed
slamming whiskey back
Flashing her tits at every woman that walked past

the denim button on her short shorts
tight against thighs that drip delicious
begs to be unbuttoned
later I manage with just one hand
her nipples slide beneath coarse fingers and
she taunts me to do it right
pretend She’s my instrument
and play like I’m the sleazy Bassist
fingers dancing on the strings
one hand curled around its neck

find myself chugging chlorine
with a brake fluid chaser
because the dark necessities
the thrum beneath her skin
excite the explosive destruction
of man
verbs and nouns collide with adjectives
and I’m tongue tied
spilling drinks down the front of my shirt
wondering if
if her heart’s open or if it’s shut
and I’m just the willing cock she found for the good time


chemical romances blast holes
in my self control
she stirs my blood
with a blender leaving me frothy
and thick
and waiting for another dose

scars taste like cocaine bingeing
my bloodied nose
leaking

Clare tattooed right there
just below my heart
she escaped
leaving me trapped
trying to crawl back to her

 

[Remec]

4/30

If It Only Worked as Well as Gaffer

Not sure what it was that day
that drew me in to actually
talk to you in those sort of quiet
tones that my British friends would
call “chatting up” someone,

We were both dressed for a work day,
standard uniform of denim jeans,
certainly blue originally but now sporting
the same sort of splatter tags
that our sturdy shoes had covering
black leather uppers and (especially)
the protective steel toes;

And I’m really not sure whatever
prompted you to actually respond,
not just a half-hearted smile and a
clipped couple of words meant to
both satisfy what I might have said to you
and yet shoo me off to leave you to
your painting or lamp hanging or
whatever you might have had that gaffer for;

About the only thing I am sure of
is that whatever it was got me talking
and you answering
and both of us spending more time at
dinner once we’d finished having work days
once they had moved on to tech rehearsals
and full dress
and the run of the show
until the cast party was over and we were
alone in either my apartment
or yours;

That whatever it was,
is something I hope comes around even
when we’ve no production in the works
other than making something out
of ourselves
together.

 

[Moochienanu]

10April2021

Wait

I love when He makes me wait,
Says, “almost” to my pleas
The strength in that single word
Like a dam holding back the flood
As I squirm, writhe with need
His smile like a badge I incur
“Not yet, Kitten”
Making the hair pulling,
Breast biting,
Wonderful pain
Guide me closer
Asking over and over
Waiting for Him to tell me
To allow me...

Because it is like nothing else
When He makes me








Wait.