It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)

[Meekly_Anna]

Marriage...

Forever fond, fierce feelings for Seb,
Fervent fire, flickering, fading instead.
Her heart holds him, a haven of peace,
But hunger gnaws, granting no release.

Longing languishes, lightly repressed,
Love lingers, lovely, largely unblessed.
Passionate pulses, profoundly unpaced,
Pleasures postponed, painfully placed.

Soft sighs suppress secrets unspoken,
Sweet solace sought, sadly unbroken.
Warm whispers wane, wanting much more,
While wedded bliss waits, wanting no war.

Desire dissolves, deeply denied,
Dreaming dim deeds, discreetly implied.
Aching, alone, at alluring arms' length,
She yearns, yet yields, with waning strength.

 

[Lily1011]

I am not too much

I am not too much
for wanting to feel safe,
to rest in arms
that don’t let go
when the world gets rough.

I am not too much
for needing love,
not the kind that hides,
but the kind that says —
you matter, you belong.

I am not too much
for asking to be seen,
to be appreciated,
not for what I do,
but for who I am.

I am not too much
for craving connection,
for longing to hear:
I choose you, every day.

I am not too much
for hoping that effort
goes both ways,
that my heart
doesn’t always carry the weight alone.

I am not too much
for needing to know
that I am wanted,
desired,
fought for.

I am human.
And what I ask for
is not too much —
It is just enough
to feel whole.

I AM ENOUGH

 

[42BelowsBack]

What is Death?
-This: Constant pounding on the back of my neck,
What is Death: That shrouded Goddess in a black dress calls me,
What is Death: A life away from the madness of adrenaline,
A dropped clutch, the loss of tongue traction.
A spinning of wheels undercarriage.
The Guns Go OFF. In the after silence I wonder,

What is Death?
-Answer Me Damn it! By CROM:
By the Hawkes by the Ravens
by the flies walking over
the sightless seeing
the Ending of a Poet
on the battlefield
where poets are
ever alive. That
is Death!

1/52

 

[_Land]

[ ]

no title.
no entry.
no trace.

text deleted
before typed—
an error without message.

cursor blinks
into silence.
the screen forgets
there was ever
an attempt.


*

*

absence
spreads
like a slow fog
without scent
without warning
without
witness.

not lost—
never placed.

not silenced—
unspoken.

not erased—
unrecognized.


*

*

here lies
—

no name
no body
no grief

just the absence
owed
to a presence
that never
was.

**
45/46

 

[_Land]

The One-Minute Wonder

They queued the scene, lights hot with lust,
A boom mic dangling, thrust by thrust.
He strutted in—condom cocky, bold—
Ready to win the fucker’s gold.

But oh, poor lad, he didn't last,
His legacy shot way too fast.
Before she moaned or arched her back,
He'd fired off his final act.

No symphony, no screaming bed,
Just a sigh and drooping head.
Director groaned, “Cut! Again?”
While he searched for blood flow in vain.

Her face? Blank slate, a saint in pain.
She'd memorized her fakes again.
He whispered, “Sorry, it’s the thrill,”
She muttered, “God, just pop a pill.”

Stamina lost to nerves and shame,
In the blooper reel he earns his fame.
A solo act, a flash, a spark—
That barely left a watermark.

The script had called for steamy rage,
Not toddler tantrums on a stage.
No double angles, no slick flip—
Just early exit, half a tip.

So here’s to the films that cut too soon,
To crescendos drowned in a silent tune.
Next time, dear sir, breathe—relax.
Or stick to roles with climax fax.

Because in porn, the cruelest fate,
Is to finishing off before the slate.

46/52

 

[Kat90xx]

There once was a man called Todd
Who had a magnificent rod
When his mast was unfurled
It lured all the girls
Wanting a ride on his tripod

 

[Angeline]

Father's Day, Belated

You said memory is everything
so I gave you memories
knowing they couldn't last.

I fed you chocolate ice cream
and taped pictures of the children
to the hospital bed. You watched

them until your eyes closed.
Later I put them in your pocket
even though you couldn't see them.

Now I have those memories.
I like to think I keep them
for both of us, but I'd trade them

for some new ones with you.



Week 25, Poem 1, Total 23

 

[_Land]

Choir Boy

They said I had the voice of an angel.
So they put me in robes—
white as guilt,
tight at the neck,
a collar meant to silence.

I learned breath control
from the back of my throat,
tongue pressed flat,
lips parted—
not for vowels,
but for virtue’s counterfeit.

He never touched me
in rage.
That would have made it easier.
No,
he was gentle.
The kind of slow that teaches you
how to beg.

I didn’t cry.
Not once.
I thought that made me brave.
But I was just rehearsing
for all the men
who would one day
use me
as a vessel for their apologies.

He called it guidance.
I called it Thursday.
We didn’t speak about it—
only corrected posture,
pitch,
whether the tongue
was too stiff.

I stopped flinching by month three.
By month four,
I leaned in.
Not for him—
but for the stillness.
The quiet hum
between consent and collapse.

I told myself
I was in control.
That I was the one
doing the choosing,
even if all I ever chose
was which part of myself to lose
each time
his belt brushed tile.

Years later,
when men pressed against me
in bathrooms,
offices,
subways—
I gave them the same look
I gave him:
eyelids soft,
jaw slack,
spine arched
into usefulness.

Not seduction.
Not even surrender.
Just a boy
who learned to keep himself alive
by becoming
exactly what they wanted.

I learned to sing
with his cock
against the back of my throat,
notes swallowed,
not sung—
but the echo
remained in my marrow.

I don’t hate him.
That’s the real wound.
I hated the silence more,
the empty space
where no one told me
he was wrong.

Where no one told me
that surviving
shouldn’t feel
so much
like a skill.

I was the soloist.

But no one ever asked
why my voice
was so
goddamn
haunted.

47/52

 

[Melody_Lightdraft2]

The Scent Of You.


The scent of pheromones,
still stirs these old bones.

When a mare is willing,
who am I to refuse?

You stand there,
legs apart, tail bound.

I still have the will,
and the drive.

To service, mount,
till you’re satisfied.

I laugh at those,
puny humans.

My arms reach around,
to grasp your breasts.

My rump thrusts,
balls deep in you.

Once a stallion,
Always a stallion.

Centaur sex with
Centauride.

 

[42BelowsBack]

To pen, a poem; lost in translation on Walter Benjamin’s 1923 essay, The task of the translator. SCRAWLING ALONG DURING RUSH HOUR

To pen, a poem, lost in translation is to place Walter Benjamin in place time and space as a life he lived within me in my momentary thought bubble.

That I attempt so in a single read through Walter Bejamin
is in an evening hour rushing by obscene or absurd?

My face reflected I am outside looking in through the train evening‘s window, seeing myself in Walter Benjamin’s words ‘In appreciation of a work of art or an art form, consideration of the receiver never proves fruitful.’



2/52

 

[42BelowsBack]

As the fly flies and wings a
gruesome garden 3 some
secret.

There is a body in my garden.
We, you, I put the body there.

Legs hidden under the weeds
broad backed rotted shapely

now cracked, toes peel up,
where there were arms we

once linked in ours entwined
and unfurling as delightful as

the words shaping our mouths
in the physicality of that body

beneath us locked lustily with
us in the morning’s breath or

our unclenched teeth, midday
the press of three bodies one

that now lies hidden; behind
you, in my hope that one day

you will reconnect it all, hope,
light, feeling, sound harbinger

of buzzing bees beneath your
knees flowers in our garden

where the third unspoken body
must remain hidden in moments

we three spent connected forever
together momentarily you and I

and that once loving good ol bench
of mine, yours, ours now nobodies.


3/52

 

[goddessofglee]

A Dance with Time
(looking at him who watches me stumble)

You tried to waltz with Time, sweet boy,
All flair, no footwork, full of ploy.
Your words wore silk,
your thoughts wore lace —
But darling,
depth needs more than grace.

You dipped in dreams,
then missed the beat,
Left rhyme half-dressed and incomplete.
Cute try, my love —
but next you climb,
Don’t tease the clock… commit to Time.


№14 of 52

 

[butters]

insidious

A dog barks
a creature screams
we're worried something's out there
in the midnight forest

Surrounded by walls
gentle as comforting arms
we peer from blind windows
arm ourselves with pistol and flashlight

Certain in their protection
we step from our refuge
gravel's murmurs silence
only our breath in short clouds of sound

The beam's brilliant and focused
shadows dance sharply as we tread
imagination plays tag with itself
between bole and shrub

Fear's tendrils twine around ankles
and the night grows denser, wider, darker
beyond the light's unstable stare
the gun grows heavier, hands shake

yet, invested
still we cling

 

[LovelyLadyLicker]

The water cascades like piano keys
A whisker flits in the wind
Eyes narrowed
Watching, waiting
Songbirds stop singing
The air stops breathing
Quick! A shiny scale reflects
The unbearable sun
A swat of an eager paw
And the day is done
Dinner’s ready

 

[Tzara]

Tête-Bêche

is how we align
under our separate covers,
like inverted spoons
in the silverware drawer.

And while we are two
separate narratives,
we are bound to always nestle,
even if only back to back.

Week 26 : Poem 1 : Total 31

 

[42BelowsBack]

Antipodes

Your skin speaks the language of the sun
running through an endless summer

You call my lips back with a lick of salt
Hotshot tequila New Year

My eyes water blue Hot palms behind my neck
Hips in groove We ignore the drunken singing

In a monochrome, a lit beach, I hear the still cry
of midnight sizzling in the surf.

No4 of a hoped for 52.

 

[_Land]

Poetry of Pussy

She is where Troy burned.
Not for Helen’s face—
but for the wet promise between her thighs,
the way kingdoms buckle
when her hips tilt toward prophecy.

She is not Eve.
She is the apple
and the bloodied jaw that bit it.
Knowledge came tasting like her,
and the world never recovered.

Isis wept her back together—
not Osiris.
Every god reborn was scraped from her lining.
She stitched resurrection into the sinew of time.

In her, Cleopatra drowned Rome,
dragged empires into her cunt like a tide,
silk-wrapped and smiling
while men mistook her scent for strategy.

She is not a part of the body.
She is the body—
where breath originates,
where blood remembers its purpose.

Her thighs are guillotines.
Ask Henry’s wives
how surrender tastes
when sharpened by royalty.

She is not a flower.
She is the earth cracking open mid-harvest—
black soil steaming,
roots torn from sleep,
the scent of something ancient resurfacing.

No soldier survived her.
They returned from war
to lie between her legs
and beg for a different kind of death.

She is the original altar.
Priests dipped their fingers in her
and called it communion.
Still, no scripture held her truth.

Even the moon
bleeds in reverence.

She is what gods hallucinate
when they masturbate in loneliness.
She is what the sea tries to mimic
when it storms.

Not a passage—
a furnace.
Not a cradle—
a crucible.
She does not receive—
she reclaims.

She is the ache that invented music.
She is the hush that follows collapse.
She is the reason men lie,
kneel,
build monuments,
and then forget how to speak.

But she is also
what rises
when the wreckage cools—

The soot-slick breath
after fire has had its feast.
The pulse in the rubble.
The ash-wet womb
where something impossible
begins again.

She does not love gently.
She brands.
She does not end wars—
she forges new nations
between her legs.

And those who enter
do not return
as they came.

They return
marked,
mute,
changed—

with her name
tattooed in bruises
across the soul’s inner walls.

She is not a part.
She is not a place.
She is
the event.
The origin.
The aftermath.

And she does not need your language—
only your surrender.


48/52

 

[_Land]

ODE TO MY COCK
a pub style song


I woke up hard and proud today—

Your dick again? Well, what’d it say?

No shame, no fear, just standing tall—

That troublemaker’s seen it all!


He’s pointed north, he’s pointed south—
He’s preached his truth from my damn mouth.
He’s led me wrong, he’s led me right—
But he’s always ready for a fight!


Raise a glass to the throbbing king!
The tales he told, the joy he brings!
He’s a devil, priest, and lover sweet,
With a pulsing hymn and a reckless beat!
He’s swung like steel, he’s rocked the bed—
Here’s to the cock that’s never dead

He’s danced in jeans, in robes, in lace,
He’s left his mark on time and space.
He’s woken ghosts in sheets and sin,
With just one thrust beneath the skin.

He’s pounded doors, he’s made ‘em shake,
He’s caused a moan in every quake.
He’s holy filth, he’s sweet disgrace—
And he’s not picky ‘bout the place!


Raise your pint to the rod of fate!
He’s the hammer of love, the swinging gate!
He’s made them howl, he’s made them swoon,
He’s howled at stars and kissed the moon!
With balls of brass and heart on fire—
Here’s to the shaft of raw desire!



They call him crude, obscene, too much—
But they don’t know that sacred touch.
He’s danced with gods, he’s healed my pride
He’s been the truth when hope had died.


Raise it high, this anthem loud—
For the dick we love, the one we're proud!
He’s thunder, heat, and joy complete—
My sword, my sin, my heartbeat's beat!
Let them judge, let preachers knock—
I’ll always praise…
MY GLORIOUS COCK!!

49/52

 

[goddessofglee]

a fall that paused... (but for how long?)

A hush fell sideways—
a song unfinished mid-bend,
like chords that shook the fretless night,
and chose not to descend.

A toe grazed air, unsure of time—
yet never kissed the stumble.
Graphite sighed its half-born rhyme,
each line too shy to fumble.

The birds forgot their gravity—
their cue dissolved in mist,
while one strange note,
unclaimed by tune,
was something but a kiss.

An eagle, barbed in appetite,
sliced noon with wings of shear.
It stole my snack (and something more),
then vanished into smear.

And I—
still holding
a pause too wide to fold,
with pencil-heel mid-skid
on paper far too bold—

stood where the breath had vanished,
a candle’s flicker caught
beneath the throat of silence,
just before it could be taught.

Leaves craned their stems
to where the sun
should’ve broken glass—
but didn’t.

And somewhere in the hush that leaned,
where echoes dress as strangers,
a spiral flickered—dream-adjacent,
threaded close to danger.

The ink—
it waits at cliff’s own edge,
not spilled, but near collapse.
A story paused with wings half-penned,
and time between the gaps.

Was it memory dreaming me?
Or I, redrawn in seam—
a rhythm dancing out of key,
but barely still in theme?


№15 of 52

 

[_Land]

Neurotic Erotic

I alphabetize my orgasms—
catalogued by sigh strength
and the exact time the ceiling fan blinked.

I know
how many steps it takes
from the door to your mouth,
how many degrees your pupils dilate
when I whisper "again."

The bedframe ticks
in Morse code warnings:
too much, too soon,
but I am already counting
the sweat beads on your collarbone
like rosary pearls—
and I pray with my teeth.

My tongue is a ticking metronome
measuring the tempo of collapse.
I climax in triplets.
I moan in iambs.
I check the lock—twice—
between kisses,
just in case love
wants to sneak out the window.

Your moan triggers an itch
I can only scratch
by rearranging the pillows
in Fibonacci sequence
and biting your earlobe
until symmetry cries.

I fuck like a fire drill,
never sure if it’s a test
or the real thing—
but I’m grabbing the valuables
off your body either way.

I want you—
but only if you want me
like a missed dosage,
like a panic attack
in a silk robe,
like the tremor that follows
truth.

Because darling—
this isn’t foreplay,
it’s a full-blown
emotional evacuation.

And I
am already
coming
undone.


50/52

 

[_Land]

Hi, My Name Is G. Spot
(but you can call me G... if you can find me)

Hi.
My name is G. Spot.
And I’m so tired of being your imaginary friend.

I live here.
Third knuckle deep.
Front wall.
Up.
Yes, UP—like ambition,
not in-out like you’re checking oil.

No, Chad.
I’m not in her tonsils.
And no, Brad,
I’m not scared of your enthusiasm,
just your GPS settings.

I don’t hide.
I wait.
For precision.
For rhythm.
For someone who knows the difference
between a love song
and a jackhammer.

I’ve been blamed
for her not coming.
For her faking it.
For her sighing afterward like you just folded her laundry wrong.

You think I’m hard to find?
Bitch, I am impatiently obvious
to anyone who listens with their hands.

You don’t need a compass.
You need to shut up, slow down,
and read the room.

I respond to curve,
consistency,
and consent.
(Not your magic tongue trick you learned from porn at sixteen.)

I’m not a riddle.
I’m a button.
But only if you treat me
like the launch sequence
to something nuclear.

Some have reached me—
usually by accident,
and I applaud their humility.
They cried a little.
One man needed a snack after.
Another saw his reflection in her pleasure
and started writing poetry.

But you?
You’re still spelling my name wrong
with your ego.

So hi—again.
My name is G.
Spot.
Capital G.
Period.
Emphasis on the period,
because if she’s bleeding
and you still think now’s the time,
we need to talk.


51/52

 

[_Land]

Making It Rain
(A PSA from G. Spot: Bring Towels)

You wanted a storm,
and then blamed the flood.
Don’t act surprised now—
you were the one who knocked
on the dam
with two fingers
and too much confidence.

This ain’t a sprinkle.
This ain’t a light mist of approval.
This is Category Wet.
This is towels-on-the-floor,
"Did we ruin the bed?"
type rain.

You found me.
Somehow.
Most likely luck
Not skill—
but let’s not ruin the moment.

I clenched,
you gasped,
and then it happened.
That internal faucet
you thought was folklore
turned Niagara
and now your ego’s soaked.

Oh, now you’re panicking?
Asking if she peed?
No baby,
she released the Kraken.
She baptized your sheets.
She made it rain
and you’re still stuck
trying to forecast what the hell just happened.

Here's the forecast:
Moist with a chance of holy shit.
Humidity?
Dripping.
Floor?
Dangerously slippery.
Emotions?
Ranging from primal to teary-eyed gratitude.

You want to know how to get that again?
Stop pounding like rent’s due
and start listening like
her body’s the damn weather report.
Pressure rising? Good.
Back off? Better.
Stay tuned for scattered moans
and occasional tremors.

Making it rain
isn't about power—
it's about presence.
She doesn’t gush
because you conquered her.
She gushes
because you finally shut up
and let her sky break open.

So next time—
if you’re lucky enough
to find yourself underwater again—
don’t reach for the umbrella.

Lean back.
Close your eyes.
And let it rain.

52/52

 

[Kat90xx]

There once was a man from near Brum
Who stuck it straight into my bum
He pummelled and pumped
Till a big load he dumped
Right into my poor battered tum!

 

[Tzara]

Poems
After Billy Collins

Mine often seem
like Post-It notes, stuck

on the various random surfaces
I touch during the day—

the bathroom mirror when shaving,
the refrigerator

looking for ice for my Coke.
Or perhaps seeking milk for the wheat flakes

I eat each morning while reading
about the latest disaster

or why I'm cold all the time
(anemia?). They are not so much letters

as little reminders to myself
to pay closer attention

as I wander idly about
the phenomenology of this,

my once, my only, world.

Week 27 : Poem 1 : Total 32

 

[MrMrsMrsMr]

Big Beautiful
national facade
in the streets
wooded batons
fatten billionaire
snow flakes.

15/52