2023 Poem-A-Week Challenge (Poems Only Thread)

[GuiltyPleasure]

The Howling (inspired by a poem by Philip Larkin)

A sound, clear and chilling,
close but years away,
carries through the mist,
through trees and time,
stopping breath en route.

After, in a silence more pure
than before, heartbeats
drum against bone.

Distance expands,
yet wilderness draws closer
and I, city-bred and jaded,
new to this,
feel like a child discovering
a secret long hidden and,
knowing it was mine alone,
start to be happy.

 

[OtherMan]

What price is pain in glory’s hand
if freedom’s fanned and heaven’s gained?
What cost the loss in honor’s band
if meat is manned and hell is reigned?

The bill is filled with flesh in vice
and spinning spits above the pyres
and needs the bleed of sacrifice
that death demands - that life requires.

4/16/23

#24

 

[Tzara]

Writing a Poem once a week seems like an easy thing, right?

Well, life interferes, and if you have a life that isn't all poetry, all the time, there are times you reach for one of poetry's lifelines--silly poems. So do I reach, humbly, this week while I'm trying to write an exam on Plato's Republic (not an easy thing, folks), to the often despised limerick. Like this:

From Tzara's Secret Archive
of Very Bad Limericks: #57

There was one young woman at uni
Who drove my libido quite loony.
I imagined her nude,
And although that was rude,
It made me quite hard, pretty sooney.​

(Cough.)

Inspired (not her fault) by GP's much better poem. Read that one. Please.

Week 16: Poem 1: Total 26

 

[Angeline]

Studio 61*

Ahmad has long hands
with slim elegant fingers
that flutter the keys
almost Baroque,
momentarily

but pull back,
take a wider view
of this smoky studio, circa 1960.
The young man, handsome features
and satiny dark skin is intent,
finding new paths into blues
but oh does he swing, foot pumping
while the bass man thumps
and the drummer slides brushes
shsssh shsssh on skins.

This is cool jazz
aborning as the century spins.

Dig this family, this closed society
listening to young blood soar,
Papa Jo nodding, transfixed,
and The Brute, that breathy tenor stylist
sits and smokes, cigarette motionless
between lips, one eye squinting.

All these giants and sidemen,
veterans of Duke and Count
ring the piano, prideful old lions
watching the young cat
move their music forward.

*In memory of Ahmad Jamal, 1930--2023



Week 16, Poem 1, Total 21

 

[Ambient4190]

a ballast vanquished
high foam gales waterdust billow
lea loosed by sea

 

[Ashesh9]

RETURNING
returning from Australian sojourn
my enforced absence from swimming pool
i badly did mourn
i am an underwater aerobics addicted fool
so now i contend : East or West
Mountain or Forest
wherever i go i will ne'er find Rest......
Sweet Mumbai is Best!!!!!

 

[OtherMan]

Spoken wishes breathe to want
and seethe to longer need.
Token kisses sheathe and taunt
and lead to hunger breed.

So lives in chest desire born
unwraps the willing call -
gives from breast respire torn
as gasps full, filling all.

4/19/23

#25

 

[Mrtenant]

Your Hand In Mine

Stepping across the shoreline
Sands in between my toes
Steady waves come and go
There you are right by my side

Your hand in mine
Wind in the trees
Singing softly
"Time After Time"

Feather light caresses
Across your hopeful face
Your sighs of pleasure
That open your thighs

Roadtrip on a lonely highway
Nameless faces driving cars
Speeding along to nowhere
There is only you and I

Chased out of the market
Like teens without a care
Your kisses sear into my soul
Running, laughing, as the seagulls cry

Gazing out the nighted window
Raindrops streaming down the panes
Whispering your name in the dark
Drifting into dreams of holding you tight

So I was stunned into a silence
Unspeakable words of awe
When you bared your heart to me
My soul touched way late at night

Happily you flit and dash
From art to pretty flowers
Singing your "Joy To The World"
Breathe deep beside me and sigh

Writing my songs and poems
Maybe you're my muse
Maybe you're my soulmate
Maybe you're the love of my life

I'm gonna love you to the end of my life
Read marvelous tales of our love story
Spoken aloud from your lips I've tasted
How has my heart lead me so wise

Turn up the radio again and again
There's another love song
And it's all about you and me
Like the one before, and coming nigh

Just know, my love, my darling
I really see you and all your cares
How blessed I must be to share
So much as time flies right by

Pouring forth for all to see
In the deeps of night
When our love was born
A love, like you, beautiful and fine

week 16, poem 1, total 21

 

[Piscator]

There are places

There are places
I don’t go
Although
It’s not the dark
That scares me
But the light.

 

[OtherMan]

A flip-flop and a kitchen mop
lay flotsam on the floor -
with greasy wraps, forgotten slop
dried just inside the door.

A glossy moss, splattered and tossed,
crawls carpeting the walls,
and glassy glitter litters, tossed
from shattered window falls.

And shredded, red blown curtains bloom
above a wetted bed
in what had been the lover’s room
where they had wedded pled.

Now sighs slide through all rotting holes -
what once was safe now parts -
as silence glides, time rotting, tolls
the absence of their hearts.

4/24/23

#26

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Spring

I saw a bumblebee today
unsteady in its flight.
maybe drunk from the sum
and the newborn warmth.

Young lily pads wait below
the surface of the pond,
soaking up that same novel heat.
No sign of fish, perhaps it is
too early or they were dinner
for a winter-hungry otter.

Somewhere, in a distant field,
lambs are doing a wobbly dance
and the yellow faces of dandelions
stretch towards the sun,
but nights are still cold,
shrugging off the ardency
of day as if to say,
“not quite yet”.

 

[Ashesh9]

Kookaburra sits on the old old wall.....
Kookaburra screeches out a harsh harsh call
Call: Kookaburra Call
Call: sitting on your Wall!!!
----ash9

 

[Mrtenant]

Portents

Travelling down dusty roads
In a land full of forgotten folks
It's eleven eleven again!
The same time twice a day

Like a shooting star across the sky
That you and I share
I look, and there you are
Laying with me in the green grass
Eyes on the night sky
A million stars all around
Your hand in mine

How can I ignore the pre-dawn call
Of the whipporwill in Springtime
Will it bring me to you?
It has to, it must

I may never come this way again
Birthday candles alit with hope
Perhaps that coin tossed in the well
How many times I've touched the color blue

It's eleven eleven again
Like a shooting star
There you are

week 17 poem 1, total 22

 

[Tzara]

Skagit Valley

There are tulips on my desk,
their blooms like
peach-colored fists

held up in defiance,
as if all flowers organized
unions, and agitated
for fair treatment
in a capitalist world.

Still, they are beautiful
and I want to cradle
each of them

though they have been left dying
in icewater vases,
because they looked so perfect

that we tried to bring them inside,
and as with anything wild
or natural,

well, finish that thought yourself.

Week 17: Poem 1: Total 27

 

[OtherMan]

I wake to find tracks left behind
like ghosts and glinted hints
that beckon mind and beg to find
and follow scented prints,

but there’s no need… for where they lead
to deer and where they bed
and where they feed and where they breed
is where all feet have led.

4/27/23

#27

 

[Angeline]

Coronation Clerihews *

Good King Charles Three
Finally made it, see
For now he heads "The Firm"
But probably not long term

*****

Camilla, Chaz's wife,
Has prevailed over strife
And she is now a queen
Which feels a bit obscene

*****

Prince William's tall and trim
His subjects wait for him
His eyes shine, his smile fair
He has everything but hair

*****

Prince Harry is an heir
Though sadly just the spare
He fled his own country
But hey at least he's free

*****

*Dear British friends do please
Accept apologies
For poems so short of zing
And may God save the King



Week 17, Poem 1, Total 22

 

[Ambient4190]

rose trellis climbed
a window
view sublime
snow capped mountains
cypress trees
lemons olives and vines

bell tower chimes
family over time
reapers scythe plowed
lace curtains bid addio
my sibling the path takes
photographs

all forsaken

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

After the Typhoon

Come back, Eromi,
the typhoon has passed.
It is safe once more.

The Bodhi tree shades the pilgrims
again and nature is every where.
At night there are as many stars
on the lake shore as in the sky.

Watchful, beautiful in their wariness.
A footfall, snapped twig or sudden cry
extinguishes the lake-borne stars.

It is black here at night without
your light and my loneliness is
complete.

Last night a jaguar
prowled in our garden but the
peacocks made his stealth useless,
he left only his footprints near the
pool,

Each day I find the most
beautiful flower to put in your hair
and keep the most lyrical birdsong
in my mind to play on my flute
for you when you return from Colombo.

Come home, Eromi,
everything means something else
and nothing makes sense without you.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

The Kiss*
(*comes with strings attached)



swaying from side to sight
his world looks upside down
the game has changed
dramatically
wrapped in almost anything
her eyes run along
these pretty wide lips

sucked from night to bright
his words, at last, ran out
the mask has fallen
now Spiderman
exposed in his own threads
her fingers spun
this pretty tied up

gone from fight to flight
his thoughts are trapped
as hours have passed
reluctantly
the fly gave in
her heels admiring
these pretty tight abs

stretching from bide to bite
her marks on him will last
the moment has come
eventually
it's one more promise
she's been waiting for
his petty knight's sup

 

[Mrtenant]

Shake it Off

Hugging her pillow oh so tight
On a day where nothing went right
Tears streaming that blur the sight
Way late in the middle of the night

Look to the east, the coming dawn
Flex your muscles, feel your brawn
Today is a new day, tears are gone
Love in your heart, again has won

Blessings and bounty of your dreams
Surround you, made by you, so it seems
Birds are singing near mountain streams
Perfect jewel of creation, how it gleams

Roll down the top, go for a drive
Do not suffer the day, do not strive
To do or do not, edge of the knive
I smile with you, watching you thrive

Come back here, home to your heart
Though we be so many miles apart
Think about it, how you must start
To channel, to create, do your part




week 18 poem 1, total 23

 

[Tzara]

Love, or Something

Thigh high black nylons
and nothing else

other than your willingness
to clasp

your body
tight to mine is all I ask.




That, and perhaps how you might see your way
to maybe advance
me some funds,

as I'm kind of short right now.
I'll pay you back promptly,
sugar.




Oh hey, now, don't look at me like that.

Week 18: Poem 1: Total 28

 

[Ashesh9]

Election Day Banner: seen in Bengaluru, Karnataka, India.
" Not voting is OH sooo Cooool"
' And You are an educated Bloooody Fool'!!!?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Energy

I have so much energy.

I feel I could jog for hours.
do exercises to Queen or slow dance
with you to Harry Allen, eyes closed.
But I can’t.

I would like to finish
those paintings that looked
so promising. I would weed
the garden, mend damaged
things with needle and thread,
hammer and nails and cook
gourmet dinners for eight again.
If I could.

I want to join those kids
across the street for a noisy game
of basketball. Perform a perfect
crawl in the sea or river again
and take the stairs two at a time..
But I can’t.

Instead, I thrive on memories
of when I could.
Of when I turned heads
as I passed, wore shoes
I never should have and
looked good doing it.
Spoke my mind, held my place,
and shared the joy.

So, yes I can.

 

[Angeline]

Poet in Black and White

Some time in the 1980s,
Seamus Heaney perches
between two branches
in a tree in Berkeley.

The branches in question
are close to the ground,
broad, crooked almost gesturing
in that way that invites
one to climb on
and get comfy.

Seamus looks pleased.
There's an openness
in his expression, the slight quirk
of a smile. His demeanor
seems to say I'm approachable.

A cigarette dangles
between two fingers and I wonder
is his mind running over words,
considering how he might compose
a line? Or maybe he's thinking
of County Derry or ancient bogs.

Maybe he's just waiting
for someone, anticipating
a colleague, friend, lover.

Isn't it funny how a photograph
can fire the imagination?
I've climbed many a tree,
known the singular pleasure
of daydreaming
from the crook of a branch.
I'm sure I've even smoked
a cigarette while hidden
in a leafy bower,

but I'll never be
as insouciant or cool as Seamus
looks in that photo.


Week 18, Poem 1, Total 23

 

[Wonderer67]

Writing About Not Being Able to Write

The words came outta me
Like a washcloth wrung dry
I wrote and wrote and wrote
Feverishly
And then wrote some more

At least it was a lot for me

Maybe ten - twelve poems in a week
They leaked outta my pores like sweat

None of it fit for human consumption
Ugly, nasty shit

I couldn’t help but write about
Iraq
Friends no longer with us
Me no longer with us
Hopelessness
Sleepless nights
Just bad, ugly shit

I wouldn’t share it with any fucking one

But now it’s all outta me
And I am wrung dry
I can only write words
Describing being wrung dry
I guess that’s what writers block is

I tried to write stuff about my wife
My daughter
Emerging flowers
Growing pumpkins
Costco blueberry bars
The slant of the sun at particularly beautiful moments
Coopalong creek
All the great things in my life
Or things that bring me joy
But it was forced and contrived
Clunky and awkaward
I wasn’t happy with any of it

I love them both and nature too
These are inspiring topics for me
But it is shit

So I find myself here
Wondering why I cant write about those things
And
Writing about not being able to write

I guess I’m mailing this one in…

17/52