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

[Tzara]

All Hallows' Eve

A day to celebrate the dead,
the grave, the way our lives all end.
Weird costumes, filling all with dread—
this day that celebrates the dead
might warn us how our lives are led
and caution us to make amends
before that day we too are dead
and laid in graves, our lives at end.

Week 41 : Poem 1 : Total 54

 

[Angeline]

On Buckingham Mountain

When Mar and I drove up
the twisty road it was late
afternoon and a bit chilly.
Wind was blowing the last

brown leaves to the ground.
They skittered, brushed past
my bare arm like crawly things,
but it's silly to psych myself

even if it was almost Samhain,
beginning of the dark time
when the veil between worlds
is thin. Still it was lovely

on the mountaintop with fields
and woods spread below us
and the Sun starting to dip
toward the trees. Peaceful.

We shared a joint and Mar said Look,
doesn't the old chapel look a lot
like the one in Night of the Living Dead?
Jesus it did as did the small graveyard

with its Revolution-era stones, broken
as a jagged, smirking smile. Oh my
paranoia does strike deep and Mama
always said don't tempt fate, so yeah

we ran like fools for the car,
made like two bananas and split,
careening down the mountain.




Week 41, Poem 1, Total 48

 

[_Land]

Photosynthesis of the Dead

It begins in the wiring,
a hum behind the eyes,
a voltage that keeps breathing
after the power has gone out.

I keep rearranging the static.
It blooms in the corners of mirrors,
petal of reflection,
thorn of recall.

What grows here has no chlorophyll,
only memory’s light,
that false sun that warms nothing
but the ache to be touched.

I water it with screen glow.
Its roots live in my pulse,
my blood the conduit,
my breath a kind of soil.

Some nights the vines wake early,
climb the scaffolds of thought,
wrap the nerves in their quiet hunger,
only reminding me
what persistence costs.

If you listen closely,
you can hear the stems clicking,
trying to translate loss
into something that will stay.

 

[Bn2f]

HAND OF GOD (HUSBAND)


A polite inquiry into the occupancy of an empty seat
My eyes not straying from the pages that engaged me
As I moved my purse over an inch
The shoulder to shoulder grazing
Annoyed me enough to grant you attention
Encountering a smile that caused my very soul to flinch

Lying in bed on a bright Spring morn
We watched a butterfly breach its cocoon
To kiss the sun’s shine and spread its wings
You blew your breath across my chest
Teasing hard my nipples in declaring
Beauty in life can often arise from the most simplest of things

The worst day of my existence was at St. Luke’s Hospice
You stood over me and caressed my shoulders
As I saw the last moments of my father fade away
Not a word was uttered as my dad’s eyes fluttered
Room 232 the presence of your soul was what was needed
Though not for which I prayed

How my short time here
Would be so cheapened
Had you not graced me with your calm
There’ve been moments of you in my life worth repeating
Where I’ve felt my very being soothed
By the loving touch of a God

 

[Bn2f]

YOUR I LOVE YOU’S


It’s the quiet nights like these
When I’m all alone
With the rays of the moon
Spray painting graffiti
On my ceiling and walls
That’s when…
That’s when
I search between the folds of the sheets
For wayward strands of your dark hair

Desperate for your touch
Aching for the feels of you
To be oh so close
I raise my hands into the air
Ask sleep to levitate me
Off this cold mattress
And unto an island
Of contented dreams
Where your soft kisses
Are still sweet treasures to be found
Laying atop the pillow next to me

I bring the covers over
My head and eyes to hide
The moon’s unwanted
Act of vandalism
Flashing on and off
Lighting up my room like
The vacancy notice
Of a desert motel’s
Broken neon sign:

She’s NOT coming back
(you’re coming back)
She’s NOT coming back

 

[Bn2f]

THE LONELY TUBA


My tuba is as awkward
And as heavy to carry as
You would imagine it to be
What could a trumpet player
Ever show you
About the strength of love?

I lay my instrument down
And rub the aching muscles
Of my shoulder and neck
And watch as he makes his way
Towards you,
Flirting with the flautists,
Flouting his good looks.
What could a trumpet player
Even know of keeping
The rhythm and the beat
To any measure
Of your wild heart?

My deep, rich tones
Long to pair in a soulful duet
With someone like you
As a high trilled laugh comes from
Your flaunting trumpet player, asking:
Who could a tubist
Hope to impress with
A lumbering tune?

It’s true…

Oom Pah Pah Oom Pah
John Phillip Sousa
Oom Pah Pah Oom Pah
Wrote no rousing notes for a tuba

So I again lift up my burdens,
Wipe the stinging truth from my eyes,
Take my place behind
The flagline and bass drums.
The biggest and loudest
Heart in the band,
Huffing and puffing,
Oom Pah Pah Oom Pah
My lonely love song
Oom Pah Pah Oom Pah
That's heard by none
Oom Pah Pah Oom Pah
Oom Pah Pah Oom…
Pah…
Pum.

 

[Bn2f]

THE DAYS OF MY LIFE


I was born in the year of our Lord 1963
In the great city of Dallas
At Parkland Memorial Hospital
In the early morning hours of November 22nd.
Mama was so excited at the timing of me coming
That she proudly blessed me
With the stately name of
Kennedy Dakota Evans.

When I was 4, Dad picked me up,
Held me tight in his arms and cried
Saying some terrible disease had
Come taken mom and she was gone.
The day was April 4th
And it seemed to young me
That the whole world had stopped,
Took notice and mourned.

“I choose to do this, not because it is easy,
But because it is hard,” is what I said
Repeatedly on the day of July 21, 1969.
And I ripped the bandages off
My skinned knees and giddily
Rode my bike without aid of training wheels
Down the street for the first time.

In the fall of '89, after nipping at my heels like a puppy
Through all of high school and college,
John Francis took a hammer
To all the protective defenses around my heart
That I had carefully set
And on the 9th of November, a day I won't forget,
Got down on his knees and handed me a ring
Pledging his undying love in exchange for a yes.

We packed our belongings in the trunk of a sedan
And moved to Houston with hopes of starting a family.
I remember sitting across from a slick haired lawyer
In 2003, using Evans as my signature that February first,
And walked away with tears from the failed challenge
Of our disintegrated marriage
Crashing back down to earth.

I'm no psychic and won’t ever pretend
To predicting my coming future
As I continue growing old
And look back at the days of my past
And take notice in the coincidence
Of all my circled calendar marked events,
That this life was lived most between the days
That I either laughed hardest or sobbingly wept.

 

[Bn2f]

SCORCHED HEART


My solution
To all attempts of outreach by love
Was to sabotage, deny
Push it into a pit of flames
And watch
As the request burned
Curling into lithe wisps and was consumed

Nice try
I taunted
You failed to nail claim
Tame
As the other women have faltered
Every time
Before you

Undeterred
Sifting through charred remains
You covered me
With a handful of soot and ash
And watched
As seed took root
Cracking the edges of my stone heart
Forming a flower in bloom

 

[Xenofidelity78]

sometimes you have to look

for what you 'know' isn't there

to prove that you can

to prove that you care



that something could happen

something you didn't expect

maybe you even surprise yourself

and end up incorrect



because we live life like an algorithm

working out the variables and the noise

but life's supposed to be a little crazy

and sometimes you gotta take out all the toys



how else do you know what you can play with?

and, how else will you learn if you even should?

just because you can isn't a good enough reason

to break or change it just because you could



So we look because we hope

and we hope because we dare

we dare ourselves to be wrong

and so we look for what isn't there.

 

[Tzara]

On Indecent Kisses
—After the title of an ancient book by Philaneis

To begin, choose which lips
with which you wish to be indecent:
oral or labial (majora or minora),
any of them fine options to explore
with press of mouth or wash of tongue.
Even a gentle toothy nip might make
a delightful variation for kisser and kissee,
provided the mood is right and the intent pure.
A little audio accompaniment, a hum
or moan, solo or in harmony, can enrich
and intensify the mere tactile sensations
which, while thoroughly pleasurable,
might benefit from additional hedonic
channels. Diversify one's actions. Try
swirls, sips, sucks, licks, laves, all
with love, need, greed, and generosity
mushed together as one segues between
and among them. Above all, remember that
"indecent" here is in no way pejorative.
Rather, pursue and celebrate your talents
to make her body feel cherished, feel good.

Week 41 : Poem 2 : Total 55

 

[Mrtenant]

Lovers Meeting

Overcast sky, softly gray and cool
Street cobbles glazed misty wet
Yellow bus taking them off to school
Morning traffic inevitable and yet

That song echoing in my head
Streetlights sighing with the day
Red, then green, walk now it said
Hands in my pockets, its this way

To the old 1418 and its hearty brews
Dark steaming coffee and scones
Dim corners resting my weary shoes
People talking, fiddling with their phones

Steaming cup and its earthy aroma
Awakens me to what may might be
Mists melting by the sunrise corona
There in the doorway, looking for me

 

[Wonderer67]

Goddam, I wish

I had a picture
To capture this perfect moment

Fat harvest moon rising
Ginormous
A super(b) moon
Orange over a field at twilight
Sun setting and
Moon rising
Over the cow pasture

Not quite night
But not daylight any longer either
Orange of the rising
Harvest moon
Behind Brahman grey and
Holstein B&W

The air still
Just a hint of needed rain to cum
The dry grass thirsty and
Trees turning brown

A few swirly high orange clouds
Airbrushed or water-colored
For whoever’s canvas this is
Catching the setting sun just perfectly

A plane’s contrail
Bisecting the perfect autumn evening
The straightest orange paintbrush
I’ve ever seen

37/52

 

[_Land]

Imagine If He’d Stayed
By Bear Sage
on what would have been John Lennon’s 85th

You gave the world
a chorus for peace
that still hums through headphones
on cracked subway walls.
A boy from Woolton,
sharp-tongued and unshaven,
trading fists for phrasing,
anger for anthems.

You weren’t always kind.
And maybe that’s what made the music true.
You bruised as much as you blessed.
Yoko saw it.
So did the silence
that followed your bullet.

We lit candles,
not because you were perfect,
but because you were unfinished.

Would you have stayed wild
or grown quieter,
grandfathered into revolution
with a softer edge?
Would you have dropped “Imagine”
into TikTok reels
or railed against the scroll
in a flurry of handwritten protests?

Would Paul still call
on your birthday?
Would you have laughed
at the imitators
singing peace like a password
while selling shoes?

Would you have said more
about fathers and sons
than you ever could in "Beautiful Boy"?

Or maybe you’d have wandered
into some obscure art phase
in Iceland
wearing a coat nobody understood,
finally content
to leave the screaming behind.

Whatever you might’ve been
is less than what you were
and more.

You left
mid-verse
mid-question
mid-change.

And the world
still sings you
in present tense.

 

[amitheotherone]

Others words and claims


Oh they have felt the same


Bled the same


Knew the way


But drip like wax, and melt


From the heat you see


Leaving me to be


Forged, annealed


Free and unseen

 

[Ash999]

In Gaza....ceasefire begins
In Chicago....Trumpian Natl. Guard wins
Machado Trumps Maduro...
As Norway decides NobelO!!!
Generics R spared from Tariff:
Alt. Wud be a Costly ' What if'???!
IDF withdraws to 51%
NATO counts every cent!!?

 

[SpermFactory]

Nuclear Kings pee
glitter-fully all over
the world.

Nostalgia-dramas predicted that:
nobody would know he was fucking
the future with the past. No body knew
that in his tiny tight underwear hid a rare
orgasm one button away from unravelling
the free world from its navel to its hairy
chesticles.


.(36).

 

[_Land]

A Bear Born in November
By Bear Sage

I was born
where the year limps
into its dying breath
when trees shake loose
what no longer serves
and the sky
smells of spent matches.

°

They say I arrived
arrow-nocked and laughing
a blaze behind the eyes
too wild to name.
The stars bent sideways
to make room
for a fire sign
in a frostbit month.

°

My birth certificate
says November
but I was forged
in Jupiter’s ribcage
truth drunk
vision stung
kicking at fences
long before I could walk.

°

The cradle was kindling.
I slept with sparks
tucked behind my ears.
Dreamed of galloping
straight through the rules
they stapled to my chest
and called direction.

°

Some called it defiance
but even the archer
must aim at something.

°

I aim
for what can’t be tamed
for what won’t kneel
just to be called good.
I aim
for the scarred truths
the holy wreckage
the joke so sharp
it draws blood
and clarity.

°

There are no candles
on my birthday cake
only torches.
And I do not blow them out.
I carry them.

°

The wind in me
knows the language of leaves
not when to fall
but how to fall
on fire.

 

[Ash999]

When she squeezeth
Mine testicles....
Gently, girlishly....nay:
Slavegirlishly....!!!?
My Organ
My Lingam
My Joy

Erects in Untramelled
Machismo!!!!!
I am:
Thus i Erect!!!!

 

[SpermFactory]

in THE PROMISED LAND OF THE BRAVE!

In IDon’tknow, Air Force One touches down at base Ass-I’m-a-licking.


Kiss my ass Guitar(ies)-(37)- Woman fetch my shield and loin cloth THIS IS SPARTA!

 

[Bn2f]

THE BITCH NOT TO FUCK


I think ur poetry sucks
There, I said it and I said it out loud
Please, do NOT take my criticism as constructive
UR incapable of writing something relatable that stands out from the crowd

What? U want more?
Well… UR writing is repetitive, trite, and many times numbingly dull
What U really need is a man’s man throwing U some cock
Giving U the learned experience 2 truly write what it feels like 2 cum

__________

Thank you, I appreciate hearing feedback from my readers
Especially the ones who disapprove and are honest critics
Tho, I am going to regrettably decline the offer from a man who likely has no clue
Where or what the female clit is

Rest your head peacefully and go now to sleep
I will reveal in writing soon how my name is made up
Read it, whisper it, scream it in the due time I reply in post
What Bn2f means is…

 

[Bn2f]

THE GIFTS YOU GAVE


I want to cry
For I miss you
Every day.
Every. Day.

The feeling of loss is so strong
That at moments beyond my control
It drops me to my knees
And I shake so hard
That I believe I have moved the world.

“Get up.”
Your words touch my shoulders
Gently lifting me back to my feet.
“Now move and continue on.”
And although I want to object
I understand.

You knew your time was narrow and fixed
Before any doctor coldly read you numbers from a chart.
You tasked the living seconds you had
Preparing me for this moment.

So I let your words lift me.
I understand now.

I carry on with your presence in my ear
My eyes still wet but focused.
I spread kindness.
I give my love to those accepting.
I take only what I need
And share my gratitude to those valued in my life.

These are the gifts you gave.
I unwrap them every day.
Every. Day.

 

[Bn2f]

NEEDING A MOMENT


The November leaves on the maples and birch
In the woods behind my house take no notice
Of the hours I stand staring from my window
Coffee cup in hand waiting.
Waiting for a breeze to move them.
I am envious of their beautiful
Red and gold deaths.

“Give breath! Write it all down,” you begged,
“Let your emotions dance in the release
Of ink to paper.”

Savior. Love. My lost friend.
I need you now for inspiration as the words
I once wrote that you supported like no one other
Have betrayed me
And the fluid ink flow has dried.

“No cries!” you said and promised,
“I’ll make the autumn wind tap your window
To remind you again that I am right here
With you in spirit when you stumble bemoaning
Gone bones and my flesh.”

The November trees of maple and birch
In the woods behind my house take no notice
Of the hours I stand staring from my window
Coffee cup in hand waiting.
Waiting for a breeze to move them.
I am in need of your moments.

 

[_Land]

Mayonnaise, Not Miracle Whip
°


Let’s get one thing straight:
if you say “salad dressing” and mean that jar,
we can’t break bread together.
Miracle Whip is chaos in a condiment,
a tangy betrayal,
the bastard child of sugar and regret.

°

Mayonnaise is quiet competence.
It doesn’t shout; it emulsifies.
It binds potato, holds the tuna,
keeps the coleslaw faithful.
It’s the mortar of every church potluck sandwich,
a stoic custodian of creaminess.

°

Miracle Whip, meanwhile,
tastes like someone tried to invent joy in a lab
and forgot to consult a single grandmother.
It’s what optimism tastes like
when it’s been left in the sun.
Slick. Sweet. Slightly suspicious.

°

Mayonnaise knows restraint
egg, oil, acid, salt.
Four humble truths in a world of confusion.
Miracle Whip?
Seven sins in one spoon.
High-fructose hubris. Artificial salvation.
The devil in a squeezable jar.

°

Miracle Whip pretends to be fun at parties,
shows up late,
and leaves your potato salad
tasting like betrayal and poor judgment.
Mayonnaise brings napkins and loyalty,
the reliable friend who’ll stay
to help scrape the casserole dish clean.

°

You can keep your “zing.”
I’ll take subtlety,
the kind that doesn’t require a trademark.
When the sandwich apocalypse comes
and the bread runs dry,
only one spread will be worth trading for.

°

So, call it preference if you must.
But when civilization crumbles
and we’re rebuilding sandwiches by candlelight,
you’ll wish you’d stocked the good stuff.
Real mayo. The white flag of reason.
Because some miracles
just shouldn’t whip.

 

[Tzara]

Hallowe'en

The thin slice of a crescent moon,
The howl of shifting winds,
The flickering of candlelight
Through toothy pumpkins' grins.

Small children, costumed, walk the streets.
Those older roam with friends.

Some sate the goblins' ire with sweets,
While others suffer papered trees
Or have their windows soaped with glee.
All Hallow's Eve is here again.

Week 42 : Poem 1 : Total 56

 

[Angeline]

Bite Me Blues

Bite me Drac baby, bite me slow and sweet.
Drink me in baby, let me share my heat.
Your skin is marble, you feel cold as ice.
Sink those fangs in deep. Doesn't that feel nice?

I've tossed all the garlic, don't have a cross,
So drink me up Vladie, show me who's boss.
Can't see your reflection but you ain't lost:
I can see those bright teeth. You must have flossed.

Drink my blood honey, but don't take it all.
I'm getting so weak now, don't want to fall.
Let me sip on you: I won't leave a mark.
We can hunt together while the night's dark.




Week 42, Poem 1, Total 49