It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)
- Thread starter Angeline
- Start date
SpermFactory
Helloooo there
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2024
- Posts
- 142
Creepy
Grandpa
Tour
Isn’t she great,
my little machine gun
those lips don’t stop,
pop, pop, pop,
her prices coming down
she’s getting lower
don’t you know
she’s coming down
it’s called affordability
(41)
Grandpa
Tour
Isn’t she great,
my little machine gun
those lips don’t stop,
pop, pop, pop,
her prices coming down
she’s getting lower
don’t you know
she’s coming down
it’s called affordability
(41)
Last edited:
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 18,190
I’m Always a Morning Person
But even my drive to work
Was suicidal
There seems
To be no way out
Sidelined by a wierd
But not bad dream
I have Christmas spirit, actually
I tell myself that
It’s not lie
But I’ve no will to work
Or live
Layoffs coming
I can feel it
Staring up in a hole
i drove down suicide road
And it felt ok
39/52
But even my drive to work
Was suicidal
There seems
To be no way out
Sidelined by a wierd
But not bad dream
I have Christmas spirit, actually
I tell myself that
It’s not lie
But I’ve no will to work
Or live
Layoffs coming
I can feel it
Staring up in a hole
i drove down suicide road
And it felt ok
39/52
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 18,190
What a Difference a Day Makes
Somehow I had optimism
Tuesday morning
Taking pics on my way to work
The frozen landscape smoothing
Everything out
The sun making a tower
To heaven
I was back in love with nature
And the world
Amazed by
Visual
Dee-lites
40/52
Somehow I had optimism
Tuesday morning
Taking pics on my way to work
The frozen landscape smoothing
Everything out
The sun making a tower
To heaven
I was back in love with nature
And the world
Amazed by
Visual
Dee-lites
40/52
Last edited:
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,441
The Graveyard
By Bear Sage
°
I have died
a thousand small deaths
swallowed my laughter
in serious rooms,
dimmed my light
around insecure suns,
pretended not to know the answer,
made myself smaller,
quieter,
less.
°
There's a cemetery in my chest
where I've buried every version
who was too much,
each with a headstone reading:
"Here lies the girl who—"
°
But lately,
I've been feeling resurrection
in my bones.
°
What if I dug them all up?
What if I became
an army of every self
I was told to kill?
°
Imagine that ghost story.
By Bear Sage
°
I have died
a thousand small deaths
swallowed my laughter
in serious rooms,
dimmed my light
around insecure suns,
pretended not to know the answer,
made myself smaller,
quieter,
less.
°
There's a cemetery in my chest
where I've buried every version
who was too much,
each with a headstone reading:
"Here lies the girl who—"
°
But lately,
I've been feeling resurrection
in my bones.
°
What if I dug them all up?
What if I became
an army of every self
I was told to kill?
°
Imagine that ghost story.
42BelowsBack
By CROM!
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2025
- Posts
- 221
A found poem
A drum a drum Macbeth doth
come! In thunder, lightening, or
in rain’ where flag unseamed the
navel’s rage, with double cracks
the bark reeking wounds, point
against point, arm against arm,
the victory fell on us. I another
se’nnights shall be tempest-tost
thrice to thine and thrice to mine
and thrice again shall make up
nine times nine, all hail Macbeth
thou shalt be king hereafter if
you can look into the seeds of
time and say which shall grow
and which will not, speak as wind
into the air, to me you who nether
beg nor fear, say from whence you
owe this intelligence. Death, thick
as hail pour’ them down beside
you’.
NQ 51 Centos poem. Lines found in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Acts 1 through 5.
A drum a drum Macbeth doth
come! In thunder, lightening, or
in rain’ where flag unseamed the
navel’s rage, with double cracks
the bark reeking wounds, point
against point, arm against arm,
the victory fell on us. I another
se’nnights shall be tempest-tost
thrice to thine and thrice to mine
and thrice again shall make up
nine times nine, all hail Macbeth
thou shalt be king hereafter if
you can look into the seeds of
time and say which shall grow
and which will not, speak as wind
into the air, to me you who nether
beg nor fear, say from whence you
owe this intelligence. Death, thick
as hail pour’ them down beside
you’.
NQ 51 Centos poem. Lines found in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Acts 1 through 5.
Last edited:
42BelowsBack
By CROM!
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2025
- Posts
- 221
European Xmas and the slippery House lawn.
Cinched at the waist, Effortlessly the trees chic in
an all white ensemble. Frosted window. Narrowing
the view of the big pond. Swimming under starlight.
Icing on the fields. Across Europe there are people
& snow hanging off the icicles on Xmas power-lines.
52/52
Cinched at the waist, Effortlessly the trees chic in
an all white ensemble. Frosted window. Narrowing
the view of the big pond. Swimming under starlight.
Icing on the fields. Across Europe there are people
& snow hanging off the icicles on Xmas power-lines.
52/52
Last edited:
SmilingLez
Word Arranger
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2025
- Posts
- 1,502
Anger suffocates us.
Rage festers, a gaping wound.
Kindness is beheaded.
Patience is gutted.
We worship fear as our god.
Difference is hunted, a bloody trophy.
Pain and greed become currency.
Cruelty rules every shadow.
We stop questioning the fall,
crowning ourselves despots of despair.
Rage festers, a gaping wound.
Kindness is beheaded.
Patience is gutted.
We worship fear as our god.
Difference is hunted, a bloody trophy.
Pain and greed become currency.
Cruelty rules every shadow.
We stop questioning the fall,
crowning ourselves despots of despair.
Inkognito1
Experienced
- Joined
- Dec 3, 2025
- Posts
- 80
Leaf it Be
Trees have bark, but they don’t bite,
Firm in their roots, they stretch for the light.
They branch out boldly, giving shade without shade,
Memory rings wide, their stories engraved.
From a nearby bough, an owl took the view in.
“Cute,” the owl did hoot, with a wry, knowing grin.
“But owl have you know,” it chuckled, feathers fluffed,
“I’m the punniest of all, tree puns just aren’t enough.”
“Why, you’ve only scratched the surface,” the owl began to crow.
“My puns take flight like eagles, yours barely start to grow.
I’ve feathered out some clever lines, each one a brilliant soar,
You might try spreading wings of wit, but you’ll never top my lore.”
The wind carried whispers, soft murmurs of wordy sparring,
And down from the rolling hills came a fox ever daring.
“I’ve heard the rustle of rumors, a battle of wits begun,
Yet when it comes to wordplay, I’m the cleverest one.”
“My cunning’s unmatched, I’m as sly as they come,
Outfoxing birds and branches? For me, that’s just fun.
You hoot and holler, you crack wise and you croak,
But you’re barking up the wrong tree, I’ll leave you both broke.”
The owl blinked once, then gave a low chuckle,
“Nice try, young trickster, but you won’t see me buckle.
I’ve weathered wild winters and riddles in the rain,
Your bushy-tailed boasts won’t bring me any pain.”
But the fox only grinned, with a glint in his eye,
“Keep flapping, birdbrain, your jokes barely fly.”
But then with a rustle came a voice in the trees,
A squirrel emerged, carrying acorns with ease.
“You’re all nuts,” he said. “Trading words with no sense.
Your wit without wisdom is just poetic pretense.
A pun’s not a prize if it lacks a good root,
Just fake fancy foliage with low-hanging fruit.”
It was then the old oak let out a long weary sigh,
“The forest grows strongest when all egos die,
And the best kind of humor, when all’s said and done,
Is laughing together, not proving you’ve won.”
Fox gave a nod. “You know, that’s tree-mendous advice.”
“Acorn-y as it sounds,” squirrel added. “I think it’s quite nice.”
“Well let me just say,” hooted owl, “you’ve left me impressed,
This oak’s never stumped when it comes to what’s best!”
And so the great oak, despite all it had said,
Found itself groaning at punchlines instead.
It seems some lessons take root, some drift out of view,
But you can’t stop a punster, they’ll always leaf through.
Trees have bark, but they don’t bite,
Firm in their roots, they stretch for the light.
They branch out boldly, giving shade without shade,
Memory rings wide, their stories engraved.
From a nearby bough, an owl took the view in.
“Cute,” the owl did hoot, with a wry, knowing grin.
“But owl have you know,” it chuckled, feathers fluffed,
“I’m the punniest of all, tree puns just aren’t enough.”
“Why, you’ve only scratched the surface,” the owl began to crow.
“My puns take flight like eagles, yours barely start to grow.
I’ve feathered out some clever lines, each one a brilliant soar,
You might try spreading wings of wit, but you’ll never top my lore.”
The wind carried whispers, soft murmurs of wordy sparring,
And down from the rolling hills came a fox ever daring.
“I’ve heard the rustle of rumors, a battle of wits begun,
Yet when it comes to wordplay, I’m the cleverest one.”
“My cunning’s unmatched, I’m as sly as they come,
Outfoxing birds and branches? For me, that’s just fun.
You hoot and holler, you crack wise and you croak,
But you’re barking up the wrong tree, I’ll leave you both broke.”
The owl blinked once, then gave a low chuckle,
“Nice try, young trickster, but you won’t see me buckle.
I’ve weathered wild winters and riddles in the rain,
Your bushy-tailed boasts won’t bring me any pain.”
But the fox only grinned, with a glint in his eye,
“Keep flapping, birdbrain, your jokes barely fly.”
But then with a rustle came a voice in the trees,
A squirrel emerged, carrying acorns with ease.
“You’re all nuts,” he said. “Trading words with no sense.
Your wit without wisdom is just poetic pretense.
A pun’s not a prize if it lacks a good root,
Just fake fancy foliage with low-hanging fruit.”
It was then the old oak let out a long weary sigh,
“The forest grows strongest when all egos die,
And the best kind of humor, when all’s said and done,
Is laughing together, not proving you’ve won.”
Fox gave a nod. “You know, that’s tree-mendous advice.”
“Acorn-y as it sounds,” squirrel added. “I think it’s quite nice.”
“Well let me just say,” hooted owl, “you’ve left me impressed,
This oak’s never stumped when it comes to what’s best!”
And so the great oak, despite all it had said,
Found itself groaning at punchlines instead.
It seems some lessons take root, some drift out of view,
But you can’t stop a punster, they’ll always leaf through.
SapioSexual9
Mrs Sexual
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2025
- Posts
- 46
My Husband’s Morality.
An article of clothing. I listen to the choices in my head.
There is breathing. Another article of clothing, there are
my choices lined alongside a motel bed.
Another article of clothing soon undone, there will be none,
other than another article of clothing, unzippered, in a room
full of men. My husband’s morality is always watching.
41/52
An article of clothing. I listen to the choices in my head.
There is breathing. Another article of clothing, there are
my choices lined alongside a motel bed.
Another article of clothing soon undone, there will be none,
other than another article of clothing, unzippered, in a room
full of men. My husband’s morality is always watching.
41/52
Last edited:
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,441
TIDES OF YOUR RETURN
by Bear Sage
When that morning rises again
I will wait in the tender cold above the treeline
light catching on my collarbone
stars sinking slow into my open hands
their last warmth the first memory of you
°
When that morning rises again
I will step into the hush where the holler exhales
my pulse already reaching for yours
the fading constellations sliding across my chest
each one a mark you once pressed into my ribs
when we moved without fear of being seen
°
When that morning rises again
bring your hands to this heart lifting toward you
feel how it opens without asking
how it leans into the heat of your breath
how it readies itself
because it knows your touch by truth alone
°
when the sky softens against your skin
when the stars loosen their hold on the dark
and your mouth finds mine
as morning pulls us into one rising
Together
by Bear Sage
When that morning rises again
I will wait in the tender cold above the treeline
light catching on my collarbone
stars sinking slow into my open hands
their last warmth the first memory of you
°
When that morning rises again
I will step into the hush where the holler exhales
my pulse already reaching for yours
the fading constellations sliding across my chest
each one a mark you once pressed into my ribs
when we moved without fear of being seen
°
When that morning rises again
bring your hands to this heart lifting toward you
feel how it opens without asking
how it leans into the heat of your breath
how it readies itself
because it knows your touch by truth alone
°
when the sky softens against your skin
when the stars loosen their hold on the dark
and your mouth finds mine
as morning pulls us into one rising
Together
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,538
Fairytale
I'm trying to remember a time when I liked you.
It must have been before we knew each other
when you were more possibility than person
so that the stories made you seem charming
and eccentric, nonthreatening your wild hair
the color of gold and strawberries, thick lush
tangles your green eyes infatuated I wanted you
in my bed, calculated to have you which turned
out to be easy and I was briefly bewitched, ruined
for anything but thoughts of us my expectations
fragile as an eggshell easily broken because you
were equally fragile more child than man maybe
now it's different maybe someone else loves you
but when this poem is done I'll forget you again.
Week 51, Poem 1, Total 65
I'm trying to remember a time when I liked you.
It must have been before we knew each other
when you were more possibility than person
so that the stories made you seem charming
and eccentric, nonthreatening your wild hair
the color of gold and strawberries, thick lush
tangles your green eyes infatuated I wanted you
in my bed, calculated to have you which turned
out to be easy and I was briefly bewitched, ruined
for anything but thoughts of us my expectations
fragile as an eggshell easily broken because you
were equally fragile more child than man maybe
now it's different maybe someone else loves you
but when this poem is done I'll forget you again.
Week 51, Poem 1, Total 65
amitheotherone
Pollockistic writer
- Joined
- Aug 12, 2025
- Posts
- 44
Rugged path
This path I have been on,
alone I still feel like the outcast.
Still grasping and needing,
judged inspected rejected by three.
Show and tell until I bleed,
Ignored spoon fed then teased.
Ungodly yet I still plead and pray,
judged reflection the games and prey.
This path I have been on,
alone I still feel like the outcast.
Still grasping and needing,
judged inspected rejected by three.
Show and tell until I bleed,
Ignored spoon fed then teased.
Ungodly yet I still plead and pray,
judged reflection the games and prey.
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 18,190
Greetings From Asbury Park
4:19 am: looking south
Overlooking the Stone Pony
The sky not black
But driftwood gray
From lights on ocean ave
The boardwalk
And heavy snow
Listening to the snowplows grinding it out
Along Ocean and Kingsley
The scraping sound
Not unpleasant
This was once the hulking
And unfinished steel and concrete building
That defined the Asbury park of the bad ol daze
I kind of miss it
By 6:30 the sky brightens just a touch
Tire tracks in the parking lot
Make a huge question mark
As we make love in the ocean hotel
Above
41/52
4:19 am: looking south
Overlooking the Stone Pony
The sky not black
But driftwood gray
From lights on ocean ave
The boardwalk
And heavy snow
Listening to the snowplows grinding it out
Along Ocean and Kingsley
The scraping sound
Not unpleasant
This was once the hulking
And unfinished steel and concrete building
That defined the Asbury park of the bad ol daze
I kind of miss it
By 6:30 the sky brightens just a touch
Tire tracks in the parking lot
Make a huge question mark
As we make love in the ocean hotel
Above
41/52
Last edited:
SmilingLez
Word Arranger
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2025
- Posts
- 1,502
Dating Apps
Swiping left and right,
Fleeting faces, empty lust,
Hearts missing in action.
Chasing only skin and hype,
Depth crushed under shallow hits,
Souls reduced to likes.
Bodies glow, but vibe is gone,
It's all just a game -
Still alone in a crowded room.
Swiping left and right,
Fleeting faces, empty lust,
Hearts missing in action.
Chasing only skin and hype,
Depth crushed under shallow hits,
Souls reduced to likes.
Bodies glow, but vibe is gone,
It's all just a game -
Still alone in a crowded room.
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 18,190
das capital
THERE IS QUALITY IN QUANTITY
OR SOMETHIN LIKE THAT
I BELIEVE SOME COMMIE SAID THAT SHIT
ONCE
OR TWICE
MARX OR LENNON?
CHICO OF COURSE
ILL GET TO 52
EVEN IF I GOTTA WRITE A
POEM A DAY
TO MEET MY QUOTA,
COMRADE
42/52
PS. I ain’t really a commie, but I had a dream about this poem. In the dream I mentions of Marx (Chico of course)
THERE IS QUALITY IN QUANTITY
OR SOMETHIN LIKE THAT
I BELIEVE SOME COMMIE SAID THAT SHIT
ONCE
OR TWICE
MARX OR LENNON?
CHICO OF COURSE
ILL GET TO 52
EVEN IF I GOTTA WRITE A
POEM A DAY
TO MEET MY QUOTA,
COMRADE
42/52
PS. I ain’t really a commie, but I had a dream about this poem. In the dream I mentions of Marx (Chico of course)
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,538
Christmas Parties Past
Rhett drank boxed wine from a secretary's shoe. I can't recall which one.
Big party at the Chancellor's mansion. I get a carved tree that breaks.
The Chancellor tells me jokes in Yiddish. I smile and sidle away.
Week 51, Poem 2, Total 66
Rhett drank boxed wine from a secretary's shoe. I can't recall which one.
Big party at the Chancellor's mansion. I get a carved tree that breaks.
The Chancellor tells me jokes in Yiddish. I smile and sidle away.
Week 51, Poem 2, Total 66
The morning's burnt. Okay, I admit
to growling when the toaster gleamed
right in my damned eye. Can I please
get my stupid kitchen back?
Fucking Siri conspires with Alexa. Between
them, they play house, changing all my
settings. My passwords. My doorbell
has joined the strike, and isn't speaking
to the ring cam on account of
it's a scab.
Even the toaster oven, one-week
new, is in on it. Burnt toast
hangs from a noose of smoke.
I choke out
"Truce Alexa! Siri, I surrender."
For tea and edible toast
I'll submit. Even admit,
I've become my smart
kitchen's bitch.
(Getting a head start on 2026 if that is allowed).
.
to growling when the toaster gleamed
right in my damned eye. Can I please
get my stupid kitchen back?
Fucking Siri conspires with Alexa. Between
them, they play house, changing all my
settings. My passwords. My doorbell
has joined the strike, and isn't speaking
to the ring cam on account of
it's a scab.
Even the toaster oven, one-week
new, is in on it. Burnt toast
hangs from a noose of smoke.
I choke out
"Truce Alexa! Siri, I surrender."
For tea and edible toast
I'll submit. Even admit,
I've become my smart
kitchen's bitch.
(Getting a head start on 2026 if that is allowed).
.
Last edited:
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