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

[butters]

poem #38

without our interference

they grew from seed
gathered from last season's crop

two to a pod
carefully nursed along

when beds were ready
planted deep, watered, tended

and when they grew tall enough
they embraced their wire cage supports

but then the heat
the broken mowers

and they grew
and grew

watered by torrential rains
baked by our daily star

and in their abundance, tangled & lush
they toppled their supports as weeds ran wild

turned from green to burnished red
broiling on the vine, & dined upon by small things

and still they grow
and still they fruit

drop to seed the rows with future vines
brave volunteers that thrive

without our interference

 

[goddessofglee]

№41

The muse hath gathered all my thoughts
And set them down in fair array.
But where they be I cannot say.
For lost was the key, along the way.

I search the attic, but it is in vain,
My basement tapes, in all the rooms;
The marginalia, looseleafs ta'en,
The rough-hewn blocks of verse and rhymes.

I am vexed in contemplation,
Of my accumulated stuff.
There's plenty with me,
To make it out of the rough!

But I've lost track of,
where they might be.
They be not in the attic shades,
nor in my basement tapes,
I don't know where they might be,
not 20,000 leagues under the sea!

Perhaps they're hidden in a chest,
Or buried deep within, at rest;
Or maybe they have flown away,
upon the wings of a raven's crest.

I know not where they may be found,
But I'll search until they come around,
The hidden treasure of my mind,
And then I'll share with all mankind.

 

[Tzara]

Architectural Rendering

They used to be hand-drawn or, better,
pale and gauzy watercolor washes—
a plaza filled with purposeful figures
before a dark granite monolith,
a park with young women pushing
strollers along leafy pristine paths,
a long, low house of redwood beams
over Corten planters and walls of glass.

A firm might even have a staff member
with a special talent with pigment and brush
to turn out paintings more beautiful
than any design could possibly be, actualized.
These idealizations helped the client see
what the designer saw, what he hoped
to raise on that scabby vacant lot, that
plot of land overgrown by alder and ferns.

Now, renderings are generated by software,
printed pixel by pixel by ink jets and lasers,
like street signs or newspapers, uniform
in their crisp, dull sameness. They are easy
to manipulate—swap out the garage, swap
in a pool—but the softness, the haze of life
lies locked in the architect's visual cortex,
laid to rest as if in a cardboard coffin.

This is what is often meant by "progress."

Week 34: Poem 1: Total 48

 

[Wonderer67]

Before the 4H Fair

The calm before the storm
No crying babies yet
Nor the rumble of rickety kid rollercoasters
The tractor pulls a few days out still

The day couldn’t have been any perfecter
73º and sunny
The grounds look so neat
Grass trimmed tightly
Haybale benches placed strategically
Near porta-a-johns and attractions
People moving with purpose
Rides being dangerously assembled
The gideon bible guy and the Italian ice lady
Getting their tents and food stands together
Farm kids moving cows
And goats and sheep into the livestock pavilion
(I still think it’s adorable that the kids sleep there overnight, tending to their animals)
Old and young timers
Bringing their antique tractors to the tractor building

Then there’s Rebecca and I:
Proud parents of plants
Entering our flowers, veggies and farm crops
High on the anticipation of winning
We’ve had the tallest sorghum in the county
For six consecutive years
Blue ribbons in our eyes
Anticipation
The feeling that anything is possible
We lug our pumpkins and gourds
Our largest beet and sunflower samples
A box full of our flower displays and other veggies
Painstakingly and gently crafted bouquets
Carefully washed, scrubbed and clipped veggies

We’re in the same tent as the honey and bee keepers
And the baking contest
I’d like to be a judge for that!
Right next to the farm crops
Timothy grass, Scutch grass and alfalfa samples hits my nostrils
I breathe in deep
The smell of fresh cut hay and grass
Sweetness
A nose orgasm

I am transported back to
Childhood

35/52

 

[Angeline]

On The Silver Meteor

A long train whooshes
through the night,
with a long, long load
and a throaty sigh--

It's a full house: passengers
and freight, silver cars
of sleepers and diners,
the convivial club,
a glass-topped dome,
all swaying corridors and hubs,
public and private cars roll by,

humanity packed in boxes
hooked together at reckless
clacking spaces in-between
where night wind blows
and wheels scream.

Who knows when a train rolls deep
down the line late at night?
Maybe an owl, a lone wolf
by a crossroads,
a sideways moon,
smirking through the trees.


Week 34, Poem 1, Total 40

 

[Ambient4190]

regret for spiderwebs swatted
this week

penitent for ignored calls from mother
this week

rueful for naughty stories read
this week

guilty of objectionable language every time
forced to restart laptop for a %@#! software update
this week

venial sins 'cept one unmentionable
nuthin' deserving of a whuppin' says I
this week

 

[Ashesh9]

To slain Wagner Boss:
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust......
If Ukraine doesn't get U
Putin must!!!!!!?

 

[butters]

poem #39

no smoke, no fire

maybe it's an excess of allergens
but my head swims
wobbles on its regular axis
at too sharp a turn
filled with red dust
of a familial planet
or is that australian heartland
with its stark heat
because my eyes
itch
and burn
but don't water?

no matter, since
thinking drops away
in the presence of wind ripples
and saltwater crocodiles
are many many miles away

 

[butters]

poem #40

the golden days of childhood memories

how we cling
like koalas in the eucalyptus
to days of bliss
days gilded by our ignorance
and limited perceptions

at 3 years old
i loved that worn-furred 'bear'
with its stumpy arms and legs
shining glassy stare
and plastic claws and nose
the cold round coin
of its 'genuine product of australia' tag

a child doesn't need forgiveness
for not understanding
the death of a living creature
the lopping of its forelimbs
its flaying, curing and value
as a commercial product for tourists
to render it a toy or talking piece
for visitors

i recall some sorrow
bafflement
as the skin shed more fur
and seams eventually wore
enough to start to spill the flattened straw
and its nose detached
as did one paw
but no doubt i moved on
with few delays
to other, small distractions

but now i'm grown, i know
and even though i'm horrified
a marsupial was murdered just for this—
a gift handed down from some obscure
and well-intended donor—
the joy of stroking its soft pelt
its form and colours and a
little child's invested interest
has me emotionally clinging
to those times of happy innocence

 

[Mrtenant]

Summer Rain

When the rain started falling
There was brutal heat in the air
August cicadas endlessly calling
All day every day without a care

When it was pouring rain outside
The wind had blown in from the north
Pierced the heat dome, pushed it aside
We all looked up as hope came forth

When the rains finally finally came
There was relief from the hell we'd made
We could forget for a moment our shame
Of the reckless care of our world unmade

When the rain fell for those few seconds
Such a brief fall, such joy, such love
Then it was gone, like a dream I reckon
Not even a call of the mourning dove

 

[Wonderer67]

A Nighttime March
Or Iraq and Back

The clock strikes 2:14am
It’s that time
The time of night that us soldiers
Crawl out of bed and stand in formation
Some of us are older
Graying beards, losing hair
Others younger, still in their 20’s
Fit… in their physical prime

Someone yells out, “In ca-DENce!”
Left foot first
I stay in step
Marching in the dead of night
With the rest of my platoon
My fingers curled, thumbs out
It’s zero dark thirty
Thirteen o’clock
2:19am now
We march a relentless march
Awake but also asleep
Vigilant: tired and wired
“Head on a swivel, boys”
I’m at the ready
Our regimental motto: semper paratus, Always Ready
For what, I ‘m not sure

These are nights when I wake at night
Killing dead time by walking my circuit:
Living room to dining room to kitchen to hallway and back to the living room in a darkened home
Rinse and repeat
The monotony, the familiarity is comforting in a way
Ready to report for a briefing at 0230
I look backwards in time
Western Baghdad
Ready to cross Route Cardinals
Tankers
Supporting teams that were making sweeps
Interdicting stockpiles of RPGs
Small arms
IED making equipment
Or teams under fire
In that corner of the world
We would lumber up in our tanks…Providing fire support

The shit show that was Route Huskies
A few clicks northwest of the airport
Smoke rising from somewhere in the city
They’d hit us again
Or maybe we hit them again
Who knows…
But we’d find out soon enough if given the order to move out
So close and far away from “the world”
Ready to do whatever they told us to do

On some of these awake-nights,
I see the a yellow haze
It fucking covered everything during sandstorms
The smell of Baghdad will never exit my nostrils
Exhaust, dust, excrement, food, industry, a burning something…
Fuck knows what else what was part of that smell
You got used to it, but it was always there
If I smelled it right now, I’d be instantly transported back
Thru time and space

It would take me back to
The concrete apartment buildings
Slammed together by some giant’s hands
A light, sandy brown in my memory
Cinderblock and ramshackle stalls in the marketplace
Corrugated rooftops and stalls and sheds
A maze of alleyways
The look in people’s eyes
The traffic
The hatred
The daytime bustle
The marketplace
The Bilady dairy complex
The crowded intersections
No sense of right-of-way
We were occupiers

We were off mission
Everyone fucking knew it
There was garbage everywhere
Perfect hiding places for IEDs
Insidious motherfuckers
Pucker five or six I’d say
I felt bad for the cav scouts
Deep in the shit
Dismounted or just in their humvees
I was a tanker
I was lucky to have really thick skin surrounding me
But this felt different
This was not a relentless drive up Highway 8
This was not NTC or a thunder run
This was not the North German plain
This was a revolution and insurgency
Fomenting, fermenting and forming all around us
Amorphous, but it still had a shape
Shiite clerics calling for and declaring jihad
Seemingly daily
You could feel it building right next to us
In the marketplace
In our guts
In our heads
In the populace

Or sometimes, in the stillness of the night
At Raider Base
Sometimes at Camp Victory North
I never thought of them as home
Looking up at the orange-colored Baghdad night sky
Nights when I couldn’t sleep
Or on LP/OP anyway
Or woken up by a mortar or rocket attack

I will never forget that early evening in April
It was still light out
And I could see the sun slanting across the upper floors of buildings
But below the roofs it was darker
A medium blue hue
Tougher to see
But I could see everything and everyone thru that thermal sight
I executed perfect z patterns
It almost felt like I was training

Outside of Routes Cardinals and Alaska, to me
Was always the boundary between “safe” and a no-go area
Those roads had real names, but they were given nicknames
Cross either one of those roads and it was
Pucker factor 5 or 6 just being there, IMO

Same when I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night
Tight gut… ass cheeks clenched
Fists balled tightly
Jaw clamped and one tooth aching
After this morning’s edition of shitty dreams
I try to put a number on it
Pucker 4 or Pucker 5? I ask myself
I begin my relentless nighttime march thru my house
Trying to unwind my mind
Stretching occasionally– focus on my breathing
Take a break from my nighttime march
Down on the floor in child’s pose
Stretching out that shitty back
Bowing to some god or the other
Cat/cow
Warrior one
Warrior two
(How fucking ironic)
Press ups
Cobra pose
Trying to clear my head
Focus
Pacing my breathing, deep breaths
My mantra:
In…I am right here.
Out… I am right now.
Fighting myself
Using every tool I know to calm down
Marching, walking to stay busy, and thoughts at bay
In circles around my house
Smoking some wedding cake to calm down
Or put me to sleep

Last year, my therapist tried to dissuade me from nighttime marching
It was a habit – a tough one to break it turned out
I thought it was healthy
Using awake energy
But she thought otherwise
“You have to create your own personal lullaby. You need to rest your mind.” She told me.
She got me to try just laying in bed
Preparing my body for sleep
Deep breathing
Left hand over heart
Right on my belly
Clearing my mind
I still march sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, but not nearly as much
Don’t tell my therapist

Early one March morning in 2022
My daughter was fighting for her life in the hospital
I was watching Russian tanks burn on Twitter
It was re-triggering
I really hadn’t had many ptsd episodes in years
But my mind was already fucking contaminated
With bad thoughts
And the spark of depleted uranium on steel
Or anti-tank guided missiles penetrating the top of T-72s, T-80s and T-90s
Flames shooting out of turret rings, open hatches and even gun tubes
Nothing left inside…
Ugly shit
Now I couldn’t stop recalling the curiosity of examining burnt out husks of tanks
Looking for entrance and exit holes
Morbid curiosity…
I couldn’t not look at them
And still now, I cannot unsee some of the things I saw
Guilt creeps in just writing this

One night around that same time
March or April of ‘22
I was marching in my house
In my circular route
In an awake-dream
I was barely conscious but walking…
The house was dark
My cat wanted some attention
I was annoyed with him and pushed him away
A year and a half later and I still feel bad about it
He’s such a loving cat
But I was tired and unable to sleep
Irritable af
Ptsd-ed out
My mind was going 96mph
I scrawled some lines on paper
In the pitch black of my living room
Which is now the last part of this poem

In my awake-dream, I saw myself from above
There I was
Not here but there
Not there
Or anywhere
Disassociation
I was looking down at myself, but in my dream
I was marching in formation with other soldiers…
A platoon: maybe 35 of us
Someone was calling out cadence
It was a black man’s voice
It had a rhythm and a beautiful lilt
It had soul, a poetry of it’s own…
Sergeant Williamson maybe?
Yo left…yo left, yo left, yo right…yo left.

I was marching
My fingers curled, thumb out in front
I tried keeping my shoulders level
I always struggled with that when marching
So had to really pay attention
Years ago, my old basic training Drill Sergeant used to always holler at me:
“Rogers! You bee-boppin’ again, son! Keep them GOT-damn shoulders level!”

The lines I scrawled down on a piece of paper in the darkness of that night was this:
“We are marching
In lock-step
A platoon of soldiers
Off to suicide”

 

[Ashesh9]

Trump ...indictment..... trollin'...
Drones.. Ukraine... Putin....
FIFA... Spain... Kissin'!!?
Info Tsunami:brain's overheatin'!!!

 

[butters]

poem #41

stop and smell the (poets)roses

when choosing shrubs to plant it's hard to miss
if picking out a rose to climb or form
a bushy rush of colour; such is bliss
when scented air becomes a garden's norm

from formal scheme to cloistered walk a-blush
from scrambling vines with shower heads of blooms
from open-faced to ruffled-petals' hush
from pots and trellis, roses make the rooms

with vibrant names—some dainty, some obscure
we populate each space, creating views;
by promises of more each pathway lures
as eyes delight in knowns whilst seeking news

and though the bees still ruffle every head
a rose without perfume is good as dead

 

[goddessofglee]

№42

Just a Jest?

If you wanna see me,
You've got to do more than this.
Just a jest,
or a feeling so zest,
won't cut it for me, I'm afraid.

I need something more,
things that will make hearts soar.
quirk that will make me feel alive,
something that will make me want to jive.

So come on,
show me what you've got.
Let me see your passion,
let me feel your love.

Jaunt me away John,
with your words, witty and fun.
Jangle my heartstrings,
with your touch
so gentle yet firm.

Just don't leave me hanging,
with your words so palaverous.
I need to have something real,
something to make me boisterous.

So, dear John...
I'm not asking for much,
If you wanna see me,
Don't be so jittery,
Let it ooze out,
In your words,
Let's just be together,
and write a poem...

Just like a Jazz band playing live.
Just a barbarous Jargon with J,
Jangle in an unmelodious Jive,
Just a jumpstart to your heart.
Just a Jaunt to the Jazz Joint,
Just a feeling like a first kiss,
Just a joke, or a Jaunty Jest,
Just a jump to the Jukebox,
Just show me some spunk.
Just a heart full of Joy ajar.
Just makes my heart flutter.
Just so Jolting, so Jarring,
Just like a Jelly, so Jiggly.
Just Journey to the Joint,
Just a whisper, so gentle,
Just a jar of Jelly beans,
Just a Jaunty invitation,
Just don't be so Jaded,
Just a feeling of bliss.
Just a little bit of love.
Join me in this dance.
Just a Jarring Jingle,
Just like you used to.
Jump to the chance,
Just like back then.
Just let it ooze out,
Just like old times,
Just say the word,
Just be yourself,
Jog my memory,
Just a little bit,
Just a feeling,
Jokingly flirt,
Just like that...
Just a kiss,
Just John!

 

[Tzara]

Rondeau for Gretchen

I don't know why it didn't work.
Perhaps my smile felt more a smirk?
Is that what made us fall apart,
Or that my kisses were too tart,
Or that I could be such a jerk?

I thought we really had the spark,
Emotionally rising arc,
But then all ended pain and hurt.
I don't know why.

Your sensitivity, my quirks,
Made everything go quite berserk
And rid our coupling of its art
That left us both with battered hearts
Our love left mired in dark and murk.
I don't know why.

Week 35: Poem 1: Total 49

 

[Angeline]

Private Cars

They ride first class
in soft, cushioned comfort.
It's 1940 and Edward Kennedy Ellington
has embraced his growing fame.

The Duke has relinquished uptown--
Harlem's famed Cotton Club,
left behind long-limbed dancers,
zoot suit dandies, glittering sophisticates
shiny-eyed with champagne
and taken his big sound,
that crazy blues totin' band
of soloists and sidemen,
on the road to conquer
greater America.

He meets the challenge
with his cool graceful smile
and debonair style.
He throws back his sculpted head
and laughs because they rolling baby--
these music men roll navigating
the money jungle in private cars
where dollars speak
louder than murderous Jim Crow,
and a train becomes a talisman
clacking down the miles.

And ain't those porters
proud to care for these
crazy braves headed south
like magi bearing gifts
that moan, growl, ring and blare
to strike at the heart
of ignorance to make feet pat,
heads nod and fingers snap
until every body jumps like those 88s,
jumps to forget the weary blues
circa 1940, jumps to a sound
that rolls like a train.


Week 35, Poem 1, Total 41

 

[Ambient4190]

back & forth
upside down
dancing on the jungle gym

higher higher
hair flyin'
idling away on the swing

roaming exploring
pedaling faster
in the streets

nightfall
house
eat maybe

next mornin'
escape outside
free
once again

 

[Angeline]

I Heard Audrey Hepburn Sing Moon River

When I begin to cry
I remember your arms,
so strong and comforting,
how they'd encircle me,
draw me close enough to bask
in the scent of skin and patchouli--
my wild hippie boy, guitar, lost dreams
and battered birkenstocks.
You'd say don't cry baby, everything
is fine.

I'll never understand grief.
I only know it's like the tides, pulled
perhaps by phases of the moon,
waxing and waning as years
roll on.

I wish my heart were an engine.
Maybe it could be taken apart
and put back together
minus the ache that settles in
with song and memory. Maybe
a tune up would make me run
right again.


Week 35, Poem 2, Total 42

 

[Duke9643]

#34
The Goddess's servant says...

Your pleasure is my pleasure,
My Goddess, I find.
The aching, longing, needing
Grows ever more kind.

For, if my pain is your pastime,
And your joy is mine,
Then my pain must be my pleasure,
As long as it brings you divine.

Your amusement is my pleasure, my Goddess.
I find more and more that the words ring even more true.
My heart aches, my body longs, my soul craves for you.

Your joy is my pleasure as well,
I know this now, and I welcome it.
For, if my pain is your delight,
And your pleasure is always right,
Then that must mean my pain is my happiness as well.

A rather startling correlation,
But one that binds our relation.
For I am yours, my Goddess,
And your pleasure is my greatest joy.


The Goddess replies:

My pleasure is your pleasure, my worshipper.
I know that you ache for me,
And I know you long for me as well.

Your pain is my pleasure,
For it is a sign of your devotion.
When you feel pain,
it means that you are truly alive,
And that you are truly enduring the full range of human emotions.

I welcome your pain,
For it is a gift that you give me.
It is a sign of your love,
And it is a sign of my power.

I am your Goddess,
And I am here to do as I please.
You are here to make me feel pleasure,
And I am here to make you feel alive.

So let your pain flow through to me,
And let it be remade
into my pleasure.
Let me take your heart away,
And let me give you the pain you deserve.

Remember my pet...
My pleasure is your pleasure,
My servant, I know.
Your pain is my pleasure,
For it brings me such woe.

But do not fear, my pet,
For your pain is my joy.
It is the fire that fuels me,
The fuel that makes me destroy.

So let your pain flow through you,
And let it course through my veins.
Let it be my pleasure,
Together, bound by chains.

Powerful

 

[OtherMan]

What actions are there
that aren’t first
spoken
in a language
untangled
in the mind
and then broken
in the heart…
a thirst… part woken
with the Word.

9/3/23

#46

 

[butters]

poem #42

science-light

just because we don't understand something
yet
shouldn't be reason to invent
gods and demons
ghosts and skinwalkers
supernatural tales

but we do
we do
we

word-weave primitive concepts
to wrap our primate brains around
to be spoken sotto voce
here, still, stuck
in our inevitable caves
trapped between a need
to feed the flames of knowledge
& lack of will to gather firewood—
still in fear
of what lies out there
in the dark

 

[butters]

poem #43

the irony of paranoid '50's America

little kids taught to duck and cover under desks
by the only nation to ever have used A-bombs

 

[Ashesh9]

The Execution
The Execution was scheduled at 6 A.M. sharp on Monday
A nuclear power plant exploded in city incinerating city at 12.03 A. M. sharp Sunday
Judge, Jury, Executioner, TV crews , Jailor, Warden and Condemned prisoner......
All simultaneously blasted to Doomsday....
Who lives......:
Who dies.....??.
Who Sentences.....:
Who cries....??..

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Playing

Kings and Queens of our Hearts
we're all just coins, two-faced
in a divine game of Strip Poker
flipped over onto our dark side
in the most inappropriate moment
losing our bet to the ones we hold
close and dear or away out of fear
true ourselves remain unknown
the cards pressed to our chests

 

[Wonderer67]

The White Horse in Austin

The music raw
Bombastic almost
Trebley as all get out
High Chapparal belting it out
The bass player twirling his bass
Getting on top of the ol
Doghouse as it were

Some originals I think
Occasionally an old standard
I recognized
A Waylon and a Johnny Horton number

Couples dancing the two-step
Smiling and gliding across the floor
Effortlessly
Two people gracefully intertwined
They all looked smooth
Well-oiled
Happy
It was artistry really
Rebecca and I got out there too
You can’t help but smile when
You two-step

A cowboy asked Rebecca to dance
Mid 30s with a short mustache
Cowboy boots, belt buckle
The real deal
They looked fantastic
He led her round the dance floor
Twirlin and a twistin and a two-steppin

When she was done
She said “that man was in more control than I’ve ever been.”
She said it sexually
Suggestively
Rolling then closing her eyes as if saying
Holy fuck, I’d have him.

I was gonna ask someone else to dance too
But I’m not light on my feet
Not much confidence
In that department
But Bex had a number of takers

Two dollar Lone Stars
Must’ve had eleventeen of em
I was a drunken NJ cowboy
By the end of it
I told Bex to saddle up
And we stumbled out to find
Our horse
(Not to worry, we took an Uber home)

Back at the hotel
It was
Just Rebecca and I
Making love

37/52

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