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

[goddessofglee]

#36

rather, in a chatroom!

If thou dost seek for pictures, cam, or voice,
To sate thy lust and feed thy roving eye,
Then thou hast come to the wrong place,
I do say,
For I do not indulge in such a way.

Dick pictures from thee,
or watching thee on cam,
Doth not my fancy strike,
nor doth it jam,
For I do prefer to have it live, I swear,
Right beside me,
where I can touch and dare.

I only chat here,
in this one place,
No other realm,
no other space,
No web cam, no voice,
no pictures sent,
No demands that I shall ever bend.

So if thou'rt looking for such things, then go,
And find another room,
or even more,
For I am Glee,
and I am here to stay,
From another hemisphere, and for another day.

 

[Broken_paladin]

Monday comes heavy after the weekend of fun
Try to recall all the stupid shit I done
At this age should I really make choices so dumb?
We heal not as fast
As those days in the past
But my cock still gets hard
I woke up at full mast
Dreams of a girl with dark eyes and dark hair
Gave a piece of my heart with her I did share
I missed her so badly it seems so unfair
But she is beauty and chaos
A muse if you dare
Raise cups of strong coffee so rich and so bold
Wade into the office to see what the day holds

 

[goddessofglee]

#37
He said...
I find you beautiful within,
You are not trite
But I decline your invite
Until you give more in.

My reply...
**Invited, declined, with arrogance and spite**

You say you find me beautiful within,
But I am not so easily won.
I've seen your kind before, they all begin
With sweet words, but then they turn and run.

I'll keep my heart safe and sound,
I don't give in to just any around.
Not a prize to be won,
I'm a lady fair,
And I deserve to be treated with honour and care.

So don't even bother. I'm not interested.
I'm not going to waste my time on someone
Who's not willing to give me what I deserve?

Oh, you would flatter me with words so sweet,
But I am not a fool to be so easily deceived.
I know your kind, you are all the same,
You come with promises, but the delivery is lame.

So go on, tell me I am beautiful within,
But I will not believe you until you give in.
Give me more than just your words,
Just bend on your knees, yes, you've rightly heard.

Even then I may not consider your invite.
I will remain indifferent, in my own light.

I am too strong, too dominant, too arrogant.
I am not the kind of girl you can tame.

I am the queen, and you are but a pawn.
So come bow down before me.
or be mashed under my heel.

You say I'm beautiful within,
But I find you trite.

You offer me an invitation,
But I refuse to bite.

I'm not one to be trifled with,
I'm not one to be played.

I'm not one to be used and discarded,
I'm not one to be made.

 

[Wonderer67]

Ich komme auch aus Berlin (I too, am a Berliner)

I am from Jersey
But also a Berliner
A country boy
Drawn to this big city
Berlin is no longer ripped into East and West
But I think about and see her scars…
I am whole yet apart too
As I walked from Spittelmarkt in central Berlin to the northern neighborhoods
Where my cousin lives

The U-Bahn (subway) was closed for repairs anyway
So instead of taking an Uber
I decided to hoof it
A good Sunday morning walk…
An hour to exorcise my own ghosts
It thunderstormed last night
And it was a nice cool July morning

I crossed Alexanderplatz at 10am on a Sunday
The bells of St. Marienkirche (St Mary’s Church)
And the Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral)
Rang and rang
They didn’t want to stop
Ringing like there was no tomorrow
Perhaps there wouldn’t be one

I walked across Spandauer Straße
There are still bullet holes
And patches in the Humboldt Forum,
Now it’s a music conservatory
Thru an open window, I heard someone practicing
Or giving a lesson
I sensed the ghosts of the battle of Berlin
The city was leveled
I felt the breath of ghosts on my neck
Tugging at my heels
The peals of the bells, seemed almost deafening
I couldn’t shake the feeling of not being alone

I walked more
I passed the TV tower
A monstrosity
Lording over me
As I walked a street I’d never been on before
A bunch of rough looking characters
Were hanging at a kebab joint
Next to the s-Bahn train bridge at Alexanderplatz station
I fluffed my fur
Trying to look like I can still kick ass
Baring my tattoos like I’m some tough guy
(I’m not at all, I gave it up for Lent and never went back)
Nothing happened
It was all good

It was an otherwise beautiful morning
Sundays are slow
And peaceful in Germany
Almost nothing was open
Which I kind of like
A Sunday morning walk
Is a good cure for what ails me
An hour to exorcise my own ghosts
In my head
I say a silent prayer for
All of the dead
Those trying to cross the wall
Berlin is still a city divided
She has a vibe like no other city
An invisible wall now separating the haves and have-nots
Now the enemy is gentrification

I met my cousin for a late breakfast
Near the flea market in Prenzlauer
She is a country girl too
Who came to the big city
And never looked back
Attracted to the music
The energy
The people
Before this week
It had been 35 years since seeing one another
Her baby is gone now
In heaven

Both of us, a bit broken
Divided, having two halves
Like the rest of this city
We are connected by blood
Five, maybe six generations removed
No one can quite agree on the genealogy
Both of us are happy and also sad
Stable in our lives but also unsettled
Drinking a beer together on a late Sunday morning
Tearing apart a fresh loaf of bread
Like this city

31/52

https://twitter.com/x/status/1688669937521328128

 

[29wordsforsnow]

As the straw and hay grow
and the heys and bows die
the sky is painted black
ready to breakdown bitterly
the planet's sweet sweat

With summer storms aside
breathless days wind down
the green blades capitulated
and bend their twisted knees
for the Barbie-pink cornucopia

The garden queens' birth
surprisingly a second one
is the green-eyed morning talk
toe-deep in the teary grass
a titan's stone throw south of Berlin

Of course, I could break a neck
so easily a winner's tale at hand
to lay beside your resting place
but no palace for this royal plant
so better leave the thorns intact

A gallery instead I rob
for you to find unlocked
swipe silly screen secrets
and more folklore to the side
you know I've got nothing to hi-

Fortunately, I set the dustbin free
my digital me a phoenix on fire
all those pregnant poems will
nevermore make it to fifty-two
only for you my rose to see

 

[Ashesh9]

Sitting alone@night
Wallowing in solitary delight
Having watched serials/Soaps, news and a ...
Hockey match
I yawn and glance down
@my watch.....
Soon oblivious to the world
I'll be gently sliding into the Realm of Nod:
I'm just an ordinary, average sod......

 

[butters]

poem # 25


free range poets

roam the yards
flock to the sound
of an opening door
hoping for scraps
tossed our way
tasty, random, diverse

cluck and quibble
scrabble in life's compost pile
double-scratch for juicy tidbits
snatch ideas that wriggle
moist and twisty

before moving on
as a group
play follow-my-leader
across overgrown
unmown
meadowland
picking the winged
and the shiny
from lush stems

taking time to visit shrubs
glean soft-staining fruits
leave scattered, half-digested thoughts
to seed the soils or stick to souls...

now and again
we check the skies
for ominous, circling shadows
lay an egg
with much announcement
or hop up on the midden-heap
spread our wings
and crow

 

[Tzara]

Ars Sexualitatis

And the Mask of Tragedy over her pubic hair.
—Charles Simic

I am no Romeo. And though I long
for Macbeth's sexual connection
with his lady,

I am of woman born.
So, Hamlet—indecisive, conflicted,
oddly concerned about my mother

so much so that sweet Ophelia is left neglected,
even as she shivers
to death in an unheated bathtub.

All of this because sex
is not something I can handle
with more than one hand.

While I long for your body,
I don't seem to be able to offer
much more than desire,

the ability to quote Shelley and Keats,
and accept that my fate
is to die in Act V, belatedly recognizing

that had I paid more attention
to you and the promise of reproduction,
the curtain would not come down

for some three or four more decades,
not two weeks from Sunday
if the ticket sales hold up.


Week 32: Poem 1: Total 45

 

[butters]

poem #26


cosmic shit
as i lay in bed
aligned east-west
curtains drawn to form faux night
a constellation's born:
three new stars
burn bright and fierce
Coxa, Genu, Talos
in the cluster hence named
Faex​

 

[butters]

poem #27

he sits at his desk
writing poems in his head
stares out at the clouds
attempts to decode Nature's own
writ in dripping cyphers on the panes





(accepted for OAF FP publication Dec)

 

[Angeline]

Saturday Girls
(for Leslie)

That morning the backyard
was damp. Rain had beat lilacs
down, purple petals drifted,
wrought asunder. Roses
were open-mouthed, grass
leaning in untidy tufts.

We peek from the kitchen
out the screen door, waiting
for thunder to subside, to rumble
distantly. Then we emerge.

We're Saturday girls,

Mama's worker bees sharing
a heavy basket, draping sheets
and pinning them on a squeaky line.

We shout and play, race
through bleachy secret tunnels
when sheets billow in the breeze.
We look up, spy animals, ships,
fluffy white faces against the blue.
And when the Sun pokes golden rays
through the clouds like fingers
I say that must be God.

Later I'll sit on the green bench
by the rose trellis. I've cashew nuts
in a cracked pink bowl, a book
and time to read and dream.

Week 32, Poem 1, Total 38

 

[goddessofglee]

#38

The Queen, the rogue rook, the pious bishop,
The wanderer knight, and the slave pawn,
Stand poised for deadly combat,
The fate of the game depends on them.

The Queen, her regal head held high,
Surveys the board with a piercing cold eye.
She sees the rook, a rogue and a cheat,
Whose only aim is to scheme a defeat.

The Queen plans her moves with care,
The Rook, he charges with a roar,
The Bishop, has his faith laid bare
The Knight, he jousts for something more.

The roguish rook, with his wild mane of hair,
Is a dangerous foe, unpredictable, unafraid,
So brash, so bold, so laissez-faire
This one can strike from anywhere.

The bishop, pious and devout, stands ready to define the truth.
The conscientious one, with long, white beard, wise and cunning player there
He knows the game inside and out,
And will use his wit without a doubt.

The wanderer knight, his armour bright,
Is a fierce warrior, and a sight to delight.
His thoughts are crooked his moves are tight,
And he's never afraid to genuflect or fight.

The enslaved pawn, with his simple mind,
Is a tool to be used in the game, and he accepts without shame.
His only choice is to obey his Mistress command,
A simple tool, used, to relieve her stress.

The Pawn, he knows his place is low,
He's just a foil to be used and thrown,
Yet still, he fights, for he has hope
That one day he will be next to her throne.

The pawn moves forward, into the fray,
He knows this day may be his last,
But he does not care, he has but one task:
to worship his queen, come what may,
and to win the game, and save the day.

But the pawn, poor slave to the last,
Is sacrificed without fame nor caste.
But still, he fought, with courage and pride,
To protect his queen and his side.

The battle rages, the pieces clash,
The air is filled with smoke and flash,
And amidst all the chaos the dye is caste,
All fight on with fearless force to the last.
The fate of the game hangs in the balance,
And only one emerges to win this deadly dance.

Who will it be, all poised strategically?
The Queen? The rogue rook? The pious bishop?
The wanderer knight? Or the slave pawn nestled behind the queen?
Only time may tell, the outcome of this game,

And your guess is as good as mine.

 

[Ambient4190]

rest my eyes
yellow black elliptical
stares back
a mans face
flashes then turns
majestic scaled dragon
wings unfurled
soars into clouds
his mountain peak
sight unseen
i dream

 

[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

 

[Broken_paladin]

Come tell me your troubles
Come tell me your dreams
Come rest yourself upon me
Come anchor your heart beside me
Till the boatman comes for thee
Nurtured, loved and cherished
I promise you will be
By strength of hand or force will
Daddy grounds his babygirl
A solid force
A heart of gold
In darkest times will be so bold
I keep with me your secrets told
Come to me a morning kiss
Come to me the one I miss
Come to me and speak my name
You know it now my soul you claimed
With tempting body and beautiful brain
Are lives will never be the same

 

[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.