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

[Wonderer67]

The Train From Berlin to Paris

Even this title sounds mysterious
I imagined myself a spy on this long train journey
In an Allan Furst or John Le Carre novel
Playing a dangerous game
Knowing that certain death would find me if caught
I fantasized that I was an agent with a secret to bring
A courier to contact
Ready for a secret rendezvous
A dead drop
A smoky train carriage
Filled with mysterious characters
Everything in black and white
Jack booted border guards
Like all good protagonists would I
Meet an exotic and beautiful woman?
Have a lusty affair when we arrive in Paris?
-----------
But sadly it was none of that…
My life was not in black and white
No Casablanca, no Dark Star, no Quiet American
Vivid color
No tearful goodbyes as the train pulled away
Just the bustle of the Berlin Huptpbanhof
Which looked more like a mall than a train station
I was late
I read the departure time wrong
Nearly missed the train
Literally, a few minutes to spare

No steam locomotive
A bullet looking train, the Intercity
Stark white and a red stripe
We hit speeds of up to 280kph
Everything was a blur going by
Green trees, blonde fields of wheat
Fields of corn and sorghum
I was surrounded by American kids
Spoiled and rich
I hardly needed to speak French

I had internet access
Was texting and bullshitting with my own immature friends back home
As if we were just a few miles away
But instead a giant ocean and six hours separated us

I looked out at the fields
Lost in the moment
So much agriculture in France
Fields of wheat streaking by
Blonde or tan, I wasn’t sure which
At one point we hit 296kph
We were absolutely fucking flying
We were running one minute and 38 seconds behind schedule
And I am sure the engineer wanted to be precise

My fantasy of international spy trade
Was crushed
No mysterious characters
Just teenage girls from California yapping
“Should we go to Amsterdam or Luxembourg City, next weekend”
I struck up a conversation with a German engineer
He was taking his executive assistant to Paris
As a gift for working for him for 15 years
That was as mysterious as it got

No femme fetale for me
No secret liaisons
No border guards to outsmart
No chases through the train cars
Or fistfights with bad guys on the roof of the train
No tunnels or overpasses looming in the distance
No outwitting the gestapo
I was no James Bond, or Capitaine de Milja
No George Smiley

We pulled into Gare du Est
It was old school – iron girders, rivets, brick and glass
What I had imagined a European train station should look like
Large open waiting areas
Marble floors
Vendors in the large open areas

Would secret agents be there?
Lurking? Waiting to tail me?

Instead, my niece greeted me at the front of the station
She texted me she was running a few minutes late
Caught in traffic
She’s lived there for seven years
I recognized her right away
Air kisses on each cheek
Very Parisian

But was it a signal?

32/52

 

[butters]

poem #28

when even the title eludes me

i sit
and i wonder
ponder and tap
tips against keys
seeking rays of inspiration
innovation
mitigation

should i slice myself
wide open
expose pulsating arteries
beyond layers of adipose flesh
and muscles forgetful of their purpose
for the benefit of strangers' eyes
vicarious pleasures?

or maybe take more measured steps
and softly slough thin layers of skin
listen to the phones that ring
sing on unmanned desks of complaint
as nerve-ends bitch, demand i switch
it up a notch and soothe their jangling
lines of pain direct to brain...

perhaps now's the time i'm meant to throw
out nods to names well-recognised
as rudimentary compliment and way to say
"indeed, i read and am well-read"...
and let's not forget to add a place
lest i disgrace myself: such locations
slip horizons, lend a gravitas and hint
at experiences i've never lived
*sighs*

should i mention weather, fruit
or feather? leather might be fun
but it's too hot and just the thought's enough
to move me closer to the fan
retreating in the knowledge that i am
unpoetised today
and fingers know this game of
scratch and sniff
where nothing's rendered auth-en-tic
so what the heck? done with it.
today.

 

[butters]

poem #29

jaded, but still capable of being surprised behind the car wash

all high-end accent/car/clothes, lush nails and dripping jewels
she baby-talks her designer dog as she sucks up its shit with the hose

 

[Tzara]

poem #28

when even the title eludes me

i sit
and i wonder
ponder and tap
tips against keys
seeking rays of inspiration
innovation
mitigation

should i slice myself
wide open
expose pulsating arteries
beyond layers of adipose flesh
and muscles forgetful of their purpose
for the benefit of strangers' eyes
vicarious pleasures?

or maybe take more measured steps
and softly slough thin layers of skin
listen to the phones that ring
sing on unmanned desks of complaint
as nerve-ends bitch, demand i switch
it up a notch and soothe their jangling
lines of pain direct to brain...

perhaps now's the time i'm meant to throw
out nods to names well-recognised
as rudimentary compliment and way to say
"indeed, i read and am well-read"...
and let's not forget to add a place
lest i disgrace myself: such locations
slip horizons, lend a gravitas and hint
at experiences i've never lived
*sighs*

should i mention weather, fruit
or feather? leather might be fun
but it's too hot and just the thought's enough
to move me closer to the fan
retreating in the knowledge that i am
unpoetised today
and fingers know this game of
scratch and sniff
where nothing's rendered auth-en-tic
so what the heck? done with it.
today.

In Which I Express My Solidarity
with butters' Post about the Difficulty
of Coming Up with a Weekly Poem

When, time to time, my muse lies sleeping
And I have nothing much to say,
I curse my weekly verse, that bleeping
Task that needs be done today.
I twist and thrash and rant and scribble
But damn few words are wont to dribble
From out my fingers, through my pen.
(Their sense mere koan--kinda Zen.)
Still I forge on, for Mistress Angie,
Our patron saint of weekly posts,
This thread's OP and gracious host,
Might haunt me, rhyming like a banshee.
So, randomly, I pick at keys
To finish something, if not please.

Week 33: Poem 1: Total 46

 

[Angeline]

The Banshee Speaks*

And now iambic bells will ding-a-ling.
Let's hope that I have something new to say
Cause fourteen liners haven't been my thing:
For some time now I've kept that urge at bay.
In truth I like the modern sonnets best;
Prefer it when I only hear the poem,
Not thinking of what is and isn't stressed,
Or if a near rhyme might make readers groan.
But I concur that free verse isn't free.
Forethought and care is what makes reading pop.
Though this poem's singy-songy as you see,
At least it's only two lines till I stop.
I hope you didn't mind this goofy song,
I've made my point so y'all just move along.



*I'm not adding this to my count because it's not new or even rewritten...well much. I just wanted to add my piece to the "my muse done failed me" file. And the title cause Tzara called me a banshee lol.

 

[goddessofglee]

#39

The joy of being Joy

Based upon a snippet
a friend wrote to me...
Here I present Joy,
a thought too hot
for all to see...

The jockey's jaw jutted, jeering,
"Just jerk off, Joy, and get it over with!"
The jester's jibes jabbed,
just like a heated rod,
"You're a joke, Joy,
a joke and a fraud!"

The judges' jeers judged, Joy's job done,
"Just jack off, Joy, and get out of here!"

Joy's jaw clenched, her face flushed,
"I'll show you all!" she said, with no lust.

She jumped on and straddled
the saddled horse, Jim,
The crowd cheered,
Joy was back, and they rode like the wind,

The crowd went wild,
Joy's Jim was about to win!
But then...
just as they were to jump over the finish line,
Jim's joy jibbed and Joy fell off of Jim.

The crowd jeered,
and the judges tittered,
was Joy a hoax?
a jab thought bitter.

The jerk, he did cum too quick,
And now the Joy is gone in a flick.
Did she choose the wrong horse... Jim,
And now she can't even replace him.

But Joy didn't care.
She knew that she had won!
She'd keep clear
of the uncles,
the daddies and the rogues!
and maybe
the neighbourhood Willy,
a puckish tinker,
certainly, she cannot be fooled!

She is Joy,
and she'll be back soon!

 

[butters]

poem #30

for the love of water

if you're intent on rocking the boat
make sure you can swim

 

[butters]

poem #31

a sad indictment
seems to me
such historic times
in American politics
should be elevated
by sheer gravitas
beyond these popcorn moments
but such is human nature
i find that i'm craving
a buttery bowl
hot, salty, finger-lickin'
waiting to hear
all the news

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Black Hole

Once upon a time
there was an aging star
like so many others
it wished to be the brightest
for all the nights to come
and so it grew and grew
bit by bit, a bite from its system
until the gravity of all that hunger
finally gave way, a catastrophe
for all so near, who'd thought so dear
of this attractive light for their endless night
they were the first, but not the last
because now the hunger is so vast
the call goes round and round
that all stars of every corner abound
and feed this singularity their matter
until this newly darkest point will shatter
all those beyond the event horizon
suck 'em in and spit 'em out
each gamma ray burst
is yet the worst
to miss

 

[butters]

poem #32

landlocked

how i long to shed this dusty skin
spring into the air then arc
a dive into the sweet clear blue
that calls me in its rolling tongue
of wet and foam and new

an oft' repeated phrase, i know
that rears its summered head each year
as i swell and sigh and sweat and ache
my inner mere-girl long denied
who walks on legs for true love's sake

 

[goddessofglee]

№40

Cock a doodle doo for Joy!

Hi Phil,
please pay a visit,
and improvise on this...
Joy, the little femme,
has a great passion
for your company again!
It's so jovial,
I'm in a pit of despair,
I'm so dolorous,
And in need of some repair.

Your presence would surely brighten my day,
It would chase away all my woes and fears,
So please, come join me to play,
I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa,
And we'll doodle de doh all day.

I remember you, sure do...
like the crow of a cock,
while the crow looks at you,
you look back eyes locked!

The girl called Joy,
whose poems did annoy,
She'd prattle and prattle,
and never be grateful,
so I told her to doodle de dum,
come on I said, let's hum!

She pouted and pouted,
And said, I should be put out,
But I just laughed and laughed,
And told her to prance about,
And doodle de dick,
another prickling prick!

So she stomped off in a huff,
and I don't see her again,
But I know she's out there,
Plotting her revenge,
and doodling de dim,
in her whimsy whim!

So down I went to stroll again,
a poem for you Joy,
down until you strike again...

Oh, Joy, you fill my heart with Glee,
Your smile is like a summer's day.
Your laugh is like a babbling brook,
So pure and free from any hook.

I loved to hear you prattle on,
With all your silly rhymes,
Your stories of the make-believe,
that take me to another time.

So please continue to be you,
be true, don't change for anyone.
The world needs more people like you!
A Joy, a Glee in the warm summer sun.

 

[Ashesh9]

Devastating it is to me
To visit the Library....
And find I have read/finished the entire stable
Each and every Killer Mitch Rapp fable:
Poor author Vince Flynn is unable
To feed
My insatiable greed
Of reading Thrillers: a gripping need.......
In lonely silence I sit.......
Since I cannot sew or knit
Time hangs heavy
But hey presto...maybe
The latest Bestseller
Is jus'round the Corner!!!!

 

[butters]

poem #33

blood on a wedding dress

they kept the dress
in a locked trunk
in the attic
gathering dust for decades
forgotten when they passed
away—one following the other
as is often the case—
and years slid by
till one bright day
new residents held a yard sale
and having no use
for the cracked old trunk
set it out
on the lawn
marked $5

 

[butters]

poem #34

not a poem about laundry

women know
there are stains
that never come out
in the wash

they may fade
grow almost invisible
but still
our fingers trace them

 

[Angeline]

It Begins In Lines

I.
It begins in lines
that wiggle, roll and wind
up and down from other lines,
cross or just end broke,
flat out going nowhere
but back.

Such a dizzy welter of lines
all colors too, black
green and plenty of blue.

Is it a hot mess, this mass
indistinguishable
from a child's scribble?
Is it indefinable unless
you pull back for a wider view
and reconsider, see a map?

II.
Isn't every map a treasure map,
a book of roads, rivers, tracks
ultimately our stories,
people who live near tracks,
on either side, those who stay
and those who leave insisting
they'll never come back?

These lines have power
of so many kinds--
to bring someone home
or take them away.

Maybe it's you
who is leaving. Maybe not
today but eventually
everyone gets in the weeds,
so believe me you're gonna
need a map.


Week 33, Poem 1, Total 39

 

[Wonderer67]

Mid-August

I feel the pull of longer nights now
The tug of SAD
My 5am mornings are no longer sunny and bright
They come in slowly, a dull blue daybreak

I check my pumpkin field before work
The vines are dying back
Green and orange orbs litter the field
A few yellow sunflower volunteers in the mix
Standing at attention

The last fiery day lily
Had her day a few days ago - August 13th
The black eyed Susan are drying and dying
Cone flower faded and bleached to a pale pink
Heliopsis crackling into tan paper

Roadsides, where ditch lilies once erupted
Are filled with new occupants of August
Pale blue chicory
Thorny Canadian thistle
The fine needlework of Queen Anne’s lace…

I looked for the Perseid meteor shower
Saturday night
It was at it’s peak
I got up at 330am
And thru the clouds I only saw two shooting stars
It was not great – ended up with a stiff neck to thank for it
It reminded me of the Billy Bragg song, “A New England”*
I swatted at mosquitoes buzzing in my ear
Biting my legs…
Forcing me inside earlier than I wanted

As the summer pulls to a close
I will miss the hazy, humid mornings
Jumping in the pool to cool off after my workout
Or my wife giving me a special shower
In the morning before work

I will miss those long, summer evenings out on the back patio
Waiting for the
Drunken loops of bats
The rising blue/green winks of lightning bugs
The big dipper slowly appearing and coming into focus
The rise of the soft, ivory moon
And the last orange licks of sunset

———————-

*“I saw two shooting stars last night
I wished on them – but they were only satellites
-Billy Bragg, A New England

33/52

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[Wonderer67]

I just wrote this, thinking, my last poem was overly negative.

Mid-August Yet Again

Don’t get me wrong
I am not melancholy about
The tilt of the earth
The shorter days
The impending winter solstice
The days only shorter
From here on in

No. It brings new beauties
Pale yellow woodland sunflower
Invasive AF, but I still don’t rip them out
The late black eyed susan take off
The garden is full and bloated with produce
The chives stand as straight as possible

Late August brings
The 4H fair
The races at Stafford and Thompson
Sweater weather
Saturday night bonfires
Montauk daisies
Reminds me of back to school
Coaching my maniacal girls soccer team
Lining the fields on cool Saturday mornings

No, I am not depressed
But I love the early and mid summer
I even love the winter
It’s a Friday night
I am drunk and high
And in love with everything

34/52

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[Tzara]

Late Summer

In our yard, the dahlias are blooming.
They've grown so tall they seem almost to elbow me
off stride, as I walk along the back garden path

toward the pond, where I often can find frogs,
snuggled down in the mud that rings the pool.
I have brought a hose, to dribble

water all about the edge, as it has been dry,
and I almost might want even the mosquitos
to live through this heat, if only they would agree not to bite.

Week 33: Poem 2: Total 47

 

[Ashesh9]

Will the mosquitos agree:
Not to Bite??????!
If one were a sexy girly mosquito:
They almost might!!!!!
But the fact that:
I'm a male
Will Not their
Teeth quail:
No matter how much
I swat@'em and fight!!!!!?

 

[Ambient4190]

on a cool clear evening
ever stare at the night sky
a shooting star
glowing streak
zips by
stars remain steadfast
they have seen it
all before
they twinkle beware
of the enchantment
the blazing rocks
ethereal beauty
burns
then fades
death is all that
remains

 

[OtherMan]

I do not see a single flaw
you see as many stars -
they blink out in our dawn in awe
and leave not any scars.

8/19/23

#44

 

[butters]

poem #35

where do we start...

to make amends to the world,
to voices in the wind
denied by closed windows,
to ghosts old and new
that fret and pick at loose threads,
to all the colours we never chose
to use, to crumbs forgotten
—discarded, un-swept
that fell between the cracks
to disappear but never really left,
to things we should have thought
or said but never did or
touches we ought to have spent?

and now i look at the curve of your back
and how light lines your shoulder
but doesn't reach your spine
so much shadow
in a deafening silence
spanning the gap between us
and wonder
where do we start?

 

[butters]

poem #36

when you're looking for the poet

pine won't do—
softwoods used
for stud or dowel—
nor, too, the redwood
slender, tall & meant
for being crowned
a star amongst bit-part players
a queen on the podium of beauty

refine the search: look instead
for the pitted & the gnarled
the scarred & broken
shadows left by burns
& carved initials
eroded bark exposing inner-skin
to elemental tempers
the attrition of insect & fungi
twisted bumps of galvanized staples
—past attempts to mend fences—
deep sunk, occluded nails
still seeping stains of rust
the empty sockets
holes that once held wild things...

it might not look like much
leafless in a pile of other stumps
or standing, still, in silent testament
but slice it through
define the living edge
reveal all its hidden wonders
warped rings of growth
knots, splits, burrows & burls
and know they signify
the colours of a life marked by living

this is your poet

 

[butters]

poem #37

and the pharaoh is exempt

It is known
Anubis stands ready
in the Hall of Two Truths
to weigh your human heart
against a feather

your soul, your ka
against the inner lightness
of truth and justice
balance, order, harmony,
honour and morality
in order to determine
your path in the afterlife

and that each successive pharaoh swears
their own decree of Maat:
from their own mouths as
their own hearts conceive it.
*
Hands up those surprised that when
the soon or later day arrives
a gilded pharaoh plays his hand
and names himself exempt?

 

[OtherMan]

I do not need agree with you
or see the world the same -
I simply feed the burning new…
and I do love that flame.

8/23/23

#45