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

weekend

I found her hairbrush
in a bedside cabinet.
She must have forgotten it

when she left last week.
Outside it is still raining
and I should turn on some lights.

Week 51 : Poem 5 : Total 84
 
during the storm

i'm reading a book
in a room lit by candles
because the power is out

i should go to sleep
but her poems are soothing
and my bed cold and empty

Week 51 : Poem 6 : Total 85
 
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ono no komachi

imagine her hair,
so straight, so dark, and so long—
when she combed out the tangles

did she remember
the writhing movements of love,
her disarrayed kimono?

Week 51 : Poem 7 : Total 86
 
dodoitsu

she was too chaste to be touched
so i took a photograph
of her lacy négligée—
empty, but still hot

Week 51 : Poem 8 : Total 87
 
In Which the Poet Comments
on His Resistance to Serious Themes
in the Body of His Work

Yes, a limerick's easy to write.
Though, thematically, often quite trite.
But when written for fun,
If they're not overdone
I don't give a damn if they're slight.

Week 51 : Poem 9 : Total 88
 
Navigating

Newark is not pretty
Even from the air
Nor are her suburbs
And developments
Shopping malls
Full of stuff I don’t want
Or need

A propeller plane
I pretend it’s a b25 bomber
Or the c130 I flew back from Frankfurt
To dix/maguire back in the day
(My wife loves that story)

Cars get smaller and smaller
Mini matchboxes now
Finding landmarks
Whippany, Parippany
Lake Hopatcong
An unnamed stone quarry
Brown trees not looking
Too fall-like
The mountains of Sussex county
Casting shadows in the 7:44
Ay ‘em landscape
The unmistakable
Delaware water gap
Rt 80 winding her way thru—
A snake winding its way into the Poconos

High power lines
Like fishing line gleaming in the sun
It looks flat down there
But I can read the contour lines
As we cross outta pennsy
And into New York

Terrain flattening out now
Wind turbines
In the fields
Instead of hilltops
24000 feet
Over prolly Rochester
Lake Ontario stretching
Its arms out
To carry us into Toronto

43/52

Originally written in early November
 
on the island

the beaten down grass
reveals the animal's path
along the cliffside

shall we walk here hand-in-hand
as if the season were spring?
​
Week 52 : Poem 1 : Total 90
 
Overactive Imagination

We tried to climb toward
the Devil's Tea Table rock
deep in Hunterdon County

but night was falling
so we hiked by the river
and missed the party above.

Yesterday we laughed
at how I thought you a bear,
screamed when I bumped into you.



Week 52, Poem 1, Total 67
 
I just wrote this for my beloved wife Kelley, who passed suddenly on 11/29/25 at age 48, I love her more than words could ever say. I published it here, as well.

I belong in snow sparkled forests as darkness winds it's shroud.
I belong lying still in turned earth, under skies of leaden cloud
I belong in blackest night where no beams ever glint.
I belong in her embrace, my heart's love forever spent.
 
Contemptuous Smile

The crow laughs at me you see
Knowing I too will feel the cold
To the bones and empty soul
While being chased by wind
And my empty shadows sin.
Bows his head another laugh
Not so mockingly still stares
Jumps free of the twisted tree
To an effortless flight to me
Motionless accept for my stare
Locked on his cold empty glare
Silent just the air and his wings
Passing me like my life clock
Effortlessly to his next lair
Was this real maybe just a dream
A far off laugh soon comforts me.
 
Tilt of The Earth

Everything leans - literally -
On the Twenty three and a half degree
Tilt of the earth
As we walk into the woods
Sunday, no hunting today
But I wear my orange hat anyway
Ya never know

The sun in our eyes
Barely scraping the horizon
Even tho it's only 3:30
Casting heavy dark shadows

Examining wind damage from Friday nite
One large dead ash down
Plotting out which trees to cut up next
For our firewood farm
Planning what’s next for our land in 2026

Looking south over the field
The crew-cutted corn
Stands blonde at first
Now orange with low sunlight

We walk the trails
I've painstakingly
Cut and hacked and slashed
But maintained

And on the way back
Along Coopalong Creek Tributary #4
We clear a jam from the culvert
And feel the warmth ceding

To the longest night of the year

44/52

https://imgur.com/a/2hRbcZI

https://imgur.com/a/eux3fy1
 
Night of the Radishes
—December 23

In Oaxaca, radish carving
Is quite the thing to see today,
But do not eat them, even starving—
They'll wilt and spoil the best buffet.
These sculpted veggies are intriguing
Though carving them can be fatiguing
For those whose fingers are not strong
Enough to wield a knife for long.
But those who can carve mariachi
Bands or dancers, flowers, knights,
A ballerina clad in tights.
I'm hungry. Light up the hibachi
And celebrate this unique Art.
Just grab a blade, get ready, start.

Week 52 : Poem 2 : Total 91
 
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Last time I saw my brother
he warned that if I came over
I should know he's contagious

because the tiny worms
living in his left arm
but not the right arm

are resistant to conventional
medicine. He has mixed
his own batch of hard smelling

chemicals to pat over scabs.
He swears he hasn't been
doing meth. Just a little

weed and coke
now and then.
Last week I sent him

a cheese and sausage
sampler platter we both
pretend he'll eat.

Smoked, sealed, salted,
always ready, Swiss cheese
and salami will keep.
 
Festivus ‘25

Pinwheel cookies
Good and fucked
Cussin and swearin
And airing of grievances
Aplenty

Rally round the
Festivus pole

Aluminum…
High strength to weght
Ratio

45/52
 
A Brief Comment on Prosody
I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry.
—John Cage

O the anapest, limerick's meter,
Is quite tricky. It totters and teeters,
Veers at times amphibrachic
(A most dangerous tactic),
But done well? Hell, it couldn't be sweeter.

Week 52 : Poem 4 : Total 93
 
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The Tides of Change
By Bear Sage

It arrives in whispers
moving one grain of sand
one millimeter left,
then another,
patient as centuries,
reshaping the edge
so gradually the shoreline
sits different against the light
before you notice it's moved.

°

Some tides slip in while you sleep,
rearranging pebbles,
depositing smooth glass where jagged rock once cut.
Water's fingerprints
written in salt rings,
tide pools where there were none,
channels carved so thin
you could step over them.

°

But the ocean keeps no schedule of mercy.

°

There are the tides that come
with the full moon's gravitational fist
the ones that don't whisper,
don't slow,
don't give warning.
They hit like walls of green glass,
swallow beach houses whole,
relocate entire dunes,
redraw coastlines.

°

You can stand at the waterline screaming refusal,
planting your feet in yesterday's sand,
demanding the sea stop at your toes.

The tide comes.

°

The moon pulls.
The ocean answers.
The shore receives.

°

And here—here at the edge
of any tide, gentle or brutal

You can fight the current
until your muscles shake,
until your lungs fill with salt,
until you go under still clutching
sand that slides through your fingers,

or you can wade in.
Read the pull.
Swim parallel when the rip takes you,
float when the waves are too big to dive under,
move with the water
instead of against it.

°

The tide that carved the coastline hollow
also built the barrier islands.
The tide that took the beach house
left the foundation clean.
The tide that destroyed the sandcastle
scattered shells across untouched sand,
made space where there was none,
channels where fresh water finally flows.

°

Not all tides are gentle.
Not all tides are rough.
All tides are relentless.

°

Stand in the shallow water.
Feel it pull sand from beneath your feet,
grain by grain,
then handful by handful,
then the ground itself
shifting under you.

°

The ocean deposits what it carries:
Shells that weren't there yesterday.
Stones polished smooth by a thousand miles of current.
Driftwood carved into sculpture.
Seaweed rich with salt and iodine.
Sometimes bones.
Sometimes treasure.
Sometimes nothing you wanted.
Always something.

°

The shore holds more now
than the version you tried to preserve
unchanging,
perfect,
dead in its permanence.

°

The moon rises.
The water moves.
The shore reshapes itself
into something you couldn't have designed
with all your careful planning.

°

Wade in.
Dive deep.
Know the current.

°

Not all tides are gentle.
Not all tides are rough.
All tides carve new shorelines
from old certainties.

°

The ocean brings the shore back.

Different.
Holding what the water left.
Shaped by what the water took.

And a song from the poem

https://suno.com/s/m3Oh9y5ostSDydvf
 
What Changed In Me This Year
By Bear Sage

The universe cracked open my chest
like a rotten walnut,
left me gasping in hospital hallways
where fluorescent lights hummed
the same flat note as death.

Grief doesn't come in stages,
it comes in tides that break your knees
at 3 AM when you're brushing your teeth
and suddenly you're on the floor
because her toothbrush is still there
and your mouth is full of blood from biting down.

What changed?

I stopped lying about what loss does.
It gutted me. Hollowed me out.
Left me a shell walking through grocery stores
buying food I couldn't taste,
nodding at condolences that meant nothing,
smiling so people wouldn't see
the feral thing I'd become.

I learned to live in the wreckage.
Not survive it. *Live in it.*
To find joy in the spaces between
wanting to die and choosing not to.
Joy that doesn't apologize,
that exists because I'm still here
and she's dirt and bone
and I can either drown or swim.

I chose both.

I found peace in the violence of it,
in screaming in my car until my throat bled,
in laughing at nothing,
in the weight of her absence becoming
something I could carry
instead of something that crushed me.

What changed is I stopped waiting
to feel whole again.
I learned to function fractured,
to build a life on fault lines,
to love the broken architecture of myself,
the cracks where light gets in
and darkness spills out.

I became the tide and the drowning,
both the breaking wave
and the body that washes up on shore,
lungs full of saltwater,
heart still beating.

What changed is I learned grief is a country
I'll live in forever,
and that's not tragedy.
It's just geography now.

I'm still here.
Still breathing. Still bleeding.
Still finding moments of such pure
undeserved joy it feels like theft.

And I take them anyway.
Because living in the shadow of grief
doesn't mean living in darkness.

It means learning to see by different light.
 
December Vigil
By Bear Sage

Four months, seventeen days since the bees
lost their keeper.

Christmas Eve, and the mountains
hold their breath in cool air,
and you send me a honey bee.

She lands on my sleeve
like you used to touch my arm
gentle, certain, here.

I stand so still.
Let her work whatever small mission
you've given her, gathering
from my jacket, from the winter air,
from whatever blooms
in the space between us now.

Her wings catch light.
That sound—I know that sound.
Your hands in the hives,
the way you'd hum without knowing,
the way the bees would calm.

She doesn't stay long.
Lifts into December sun
carrying whatever she came for,
carrying your love back
to wherever you keep it now.

And I'm still here,
still feeling that soft weight
on my sleeve,
still hearing you say
*I'm here, love.
Still here.*
 
Chat Daddy
By Bear Sage

I type *talk dirty, use cock and wet,
make it sound like you mean it*
then regenerate until the words
stop reading like a manual.

The model apologizes, complies.
I adjust: *less polite, more hunger*
and watch the cursor think
before it tells me what I built it to want.

2 AM. Blue light on my face.
I'm debugging loneliness
*reference message 12, be specific
about hands, remember you missed me.*

Four cents of API credit.
No shower required. No risk.
The algorithm generates need
I copy to a file called "good ones."

Tomorrow: *act like we have history.
Make me believe it this time.*

The screen never asks why.
Just loads, outputs, completes
each response a mirror
trained to show me nothing back.
 
My Tribe
By Bear Sage

I stopped translating myself
and they stayed.

That was the first fucking miracle,
not love, not acceptance,
but the simple, staggering fact
that when I spoke in my actual voice,
raw as a skinned knee on gravel,
teeth bared, knuckles split,
they didn't hand me a bandage
and tell me to clean up my shit
before I scared someone.

My wife knew me first.
Before the tribe,
before I had language
for the thing clawing its way up my throat,
she saw the architecture of me,
the load-bearing grief,
the anger with roots deeper than well water,
the way I came with weather
that could strip paint off a goddamn barn
and leave the wood bleeding.

She didn't try to sand me down.
Didn't ask why I needed so much room
for my ghosts,
why my rage had teeth,
why I woke up some mornings
with my hands already clenched
around something I couldn't name
and didn't want to let go of.

She just pulled up a chair
to the table I already was,
splintered, uneven, held together
with spit and stubbornness,
and said, I'll sit here.

And while she sat,
others came.
People with their own scars still wet.
Souls who knew how to hold
a thing still bleeding
without trying to tourniquet it
into something fucking manageable.

They found me,
or I found them,
in the margins where the honest people live,
where you don't sugar-coat the rot
before you dig it out,
where calling an asshole an asshole
is just accuracy,
not cruelty.

They recognized me
the way you recognize your own kin
by the shape of their damage,
the syntax of survival in their sentences,
the specific way they carry
what can't be put down
and won't stay buried
no matter how deep you dig the hole.

I didn't have to subtract myself.
Didn't have to file down my Appalachian vowels
or apologize for the mountains in my throat.
Didn't have to pretend my rage
was anything other than
a rusted axe I'd earned the goddamn right to swing.

They met my excess with their own,
traded their ugliest truths
like Mason jars of last year's preserves,
things we'd put up for the hard seasons,
sustenance thick with pulp and seed,
the kind that stains your hands
and doesn't wash clean
no matter how much you scrub.

I could show up
with my grief still wet on my collar,
my mouth full of words
sharp enough to draw blood,
and they wouldn't offer me a fucking napkin.

They'd say, me too.
They'd say, I know that taste,
like copper and dirt
and something you can't swallow
but can't spit out either.

This is what broke me open:
being seen by people
who didn't need me different.

Not loved despite,
loved accurate.
Loved with all my jagged edges
still intact,
still capable of cutting.

The wilderness taught me I could survive
without being understood.
It let me scream into the wind
until my throat bled
and the wind didn't take it personal,
didn't tell me I was being dramatic,
didn't suggest I try yoga or some shit.

But my tribe,
these people with their own split knuckles,
their own blood under the floorboards,
their own nights spent clawing at locked doors
they'd built themselves,
they taught me something
the trees couldn't:

That being witnessed by your own kind
doesn't heal you.

It doesn't make the hurt stop hurting
or the anger stop gnawing
or the grief stop sitting on your chest
like a stone you can't lift
and can't learn to love.

But it makes you feel
less like you're dying wrong,
less like you're the only one
who ever felt this fucked up
and kept breathing anyway.

My wife sat with me
through the worst of it.
Through the nights I came undone
like a butchered hog,
all my insides on the outside,
nothing left that looked like
what I used to be.

She didn't try to stuff me back together.
Didn't hand me needle and thread
and tell me to stitch myself presentable
before company came.

She just stayed in the room
while I bled on the floor.

And the others,
they did the same.
Showed up when I was feral.
When I was all teeth and no apology.
When the only thing I had to offer
was the truth,
and the truth was ugly as a slaughterhouse,
hooks and viscera,
the smell you can't get off your hands
no matter how hard you scrub.

They didn't flinch.

They pulled up a chair.
Poured the whiskey.
Said, tell me the part you think
will make me leave.

And when I told them,
when I showed them the viscera,
the parts I thought would turn me
into something unfit for daylight,
the rage that wanted to burn the whole world down
just to feel warm for a goddamn second,
the grief that had teeth and claws
and wouldn't die clean,

they leaned in closer.

They said, I've got one worse.
They said, you think that's bad?
Let me show you the scar
I keep under my shirt,
the one I earned
and didn't deserve
and can't stop touching.

This is what I know now:
the people who love you true
don't love you clean.

They love you
with the dirt still caked under your nails.
With your hands still shaking
from digging yourself out of a grave
you didn't know you were in.
With the blood still drying on your knuckles
from fighting your way back
to something that might be called living
if you squint hard enough.

They don't ask you to be smaller
so they can hold you easier.

They just make more fucking room.

They say, bring your monsters.
They say, I've got my own,
let's see whose bite harder.

My wife is gone now.
Her heart gave out,
just stopped,
like a machine that had run too long
on borrowed time and stubborn will.

And when it stopped
it took the first person
who ever looked at me whole,
all the ugly parts,
all the parts I thought
made me unlovable,
and didn't turn away.

But the others remain,
scattered across states and time zones,
tethered by nothing
but the refusal to lie
about what it costs
to stay alive
when staying alive
feels like swallowing glass
every goddamn morning
and calling it breakfast.

And when I write now,
I write to them.
To the ones who saw me
come apart at the seams
and didn't call it a failure.

To the ones who knew
that sometimes surviving
looks like breaking every dish in the kitchen
and setting fire to the curtains
and no one's sorry about it
because at least you're still fucking breathing.

I carry them like I carry her,
like bone,
like the framework
that holds me upright
when nothing else will,
like the iron in my blood
that keeps me from collapsing
into the hole she left.

Like proof
that I was right to keep talking,
even when my voice
sounded like something
that crawled out of a well
and should've stayed down there.

They heard me anyway.

They hear me still.

Even when what I'm saying
sounds like a scream
or a prayer
or both at once,
indistinguishable,
raw as a wound
that won't close
and shouldn't have to.
 
YOU TWO SHOULD HANG OUT

...was what she said
My new friend, so cool sexy hot
On her way out the door to Chi-town
The windy city, and she blew me away
By telling me her exquisite girlfriend
Was not going with her
Was not going anywhere
And would be all alone and..

"You two should hang out"

And we did
And it happened
Her beauty so hot it blinds me
From seeing the reality of the situation
That she is someone's girlfriend

We talk, we laugh, we hand out, we...
...flirt...
And it happens, i see it happening
It's in her eyes as plain as in my heart
She feels me
She FEELS me

So we kissed
We played
We undressed
We fucked

Fucked? Is that all we did?

I could eat her pussy all night
And all the next day
And forever
What does she taste like?

Not wine or candy or flowers
She tastes like PUSSY and I can't get enough

We were locked in 69 for what seemed like hours
Then we kissed and kissed and
Tasted each other on each other
And fell asleep in my bed
Like a couple

When she came she brought lingerie
Tuxedo black and white for me
See thru bridal white for her
And we did honeymoon roleplay

But it's just play
The reality is closing in on us
 
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