It's the 2026 Poem-a-Week Challenge (This is a *poems only* thread.)

Reconsideration, a Corrupt Triolet

I wonder what she thought
About our last night's date.
I hope she's not distraught,
But wonder if she thought
I was an astronaut
She'd want to fornicate.
If that is what she thought,
Should I have set her straight?

Week 8 : Poem 1 : Total 16
 
Blind Date Equally Corrupted Triolet*

Last night was quite the date;
We never did embrace,
But parted by my gate.
Yes it was quite a date:
He acted lost in space.
I'd hoped to fornicate,
But we did not embrace.


*(Thanks T-Zed for the inspo!)

Week 8, Poem 2, Total 18
Co-opted Troliet; or,
Getting Tagged Out at First Base


We never quite embraced,
Although I thought we did.
Our arms ne'er interlaced
(We never quite embraced).
I thought I'd grasped her waist
(And gently, God forbid),
But no—'twas not embrace.
Hot damn! I'd thought I did.

Week 8 : Poem 2 : Total 17
 
I Liked You Better When You Were Gone

Imagining you, as I remember
But better--
As I remember wanting you to be
You were always so close
I could just see the best you
Cresting every horizon
Endlessly ahead
Presently behind
Nearer let go than arrived
You will always have almost been
Good enough for me
Worth keeping
Or keeping around
For now
On potential alone, and only
As it was,
And as we were
Lonely longing for Right
Wrongly setting sights impossibly far
Losing focus
Merging future and this unwanted gift
A remnant, a survivor
Of every failed test
Ignoring the pattern
I settled for what was left
A present begging to be opened
Hoping you'd grow into Her
That I'd grow into you
But having grown apart
I thought, maybe,
I sowed the wrong garden
And finding our way back
Confirmed the fantasy
Was the only thing worth the effort

5
 
Triolet: Garden Tryst

I kissed you once beneath the bower,
Our bodies close, in fact, hard pressing,
Your lips as fresh as a dew-splashed flower.
I kissed you once beneath the bower,
My member rising, a Norman tower,
You smiled coyly and began undressing.
Oh, how I kissed you beneath the bower,
Our bodies close, indeed hard pressing!

(#15)
 
Abstract Fate

Winter dragging slow to spring
Deafening stare my ears ring
Left alone see life in the window
Lifeless grey sky last years decay
Dead grass the last of the snow
Abstract shapes seem to flow
Masters brush strokes of a face
Eyes nose lips my mind races
A match to her voice and words
Smile step back to the real world.
 
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Week 8 Poem 17

Wife says a beer a day,
I sneak in a few extra sips.
Can't help it, I like being naughty.

Boss says be more ruthless,
I sneak my team extra benefits.
Can't help it, I like being naughty.

Doctor says do more cardio,
Wife complains he didn't mean sex.
Can't help it, I like being naughty.

Friends join on late night zoom,
Camera off, I am scrolling on Lit.
Can't help it, I like being naughty.

Colleague asks what I truly desire,
She sits and pouts as I play Doom.
Can't help it, I like being naughty.

Wife asks if I'm close to cumming,
I put on a show of cumming in the condom
Can't help it, I want her to be happy.
 
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Crumpled yesterdays sketch

As the day was slowly winding down
get coffee I see her with a sad frown.
Out the window again where she sat
unimpressed and motionless as a cat.
I concurred seeing the mirrors reflect
like Medusa I avoided the eyes deflect.
I’ve seen the sad eyes a million times
empty so dark a cloudy moonless crime.
Gripping the cup silent just the clock tick
one last look at her I walk away just sick.
 
№2 of 52

"Just about perfect"

He stood there
as though the world had been measured
and found sufficient.

Not flawless—
there was a crease in the morning,
a hesitation in his breath—
but the light chose him anyway.

Nothing dazzled.
Nothing pleaded.

Even his silence
fit the air around him
without asking to be admired.

It was not perfection.

It was the moment before wanting begins—

when everything is enough
and does not know it.
 
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№3 of 52

"Wait for me!"

Morning has already folded itself
into something smaller.

The tea has cooled
without complaint.

Outside, the light keeps changing rooms
as if it were expected elsewhere.

Nothing urges me.
Nothing calls my name.

Yet the air feels lighter
where I have not stepped.

Some things do not knock—
they simply thin out
and leave space behind.

I have stood here long enough
measuring hesitation
like it might expand.

It won’t.

The door has been patient.
So have I.

And still,
my shoes wait
facing the door.

If I wait any longer,
the day will move
without asking.
 
Pull down the shade

I will hold my tongue for a while
Fingers in my throat exposed vile
Which holds in me boiling stewing
Sweet words swished around chewed
Silence be fatal punishment enough
I wonder which ear Vincent chose cut
Disappear no I will still be here unseen
Like shadows at night wait out the sun
They will waken and run west to east.
 
Monday at The Royal

Altho a bright day
It was dark inside
Green tiles floor
Prolly from the 50s

There was laughing and shouting
Not aggressive
Just drunkenly loud
Lotsa regulars

A neighborhood joint

Heya Jim, how ya doin?
One says to a man coming in

Back slapping and hugs

Willie Nelson
Faith No More
Bob Seeger serenading us on the jukebox

Another PBR
For suzie and I

Another pounder and a listen to
I’m the only hell momma ever raised
By Johnny Paycheck and

Family traditions by
Hank Jr

7/52
 

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Black Against The Darkest Blue

Not quite dark yet
But as close as it gets
Black trees against the darkest blue sky
So dark blue
You can barely discern the difference

Suicide Road
Where I almost ended it all
Three Februarys ago

It was a few years
Before I could drive it again

I’m on the same road
But in a different place now

Watching black trees wave their hands high

At the darkest blue sky

8/52
 
Am I A Replicant?

Sometimes I feel like a replicant
Collecting photos
And memories
And uploading them into
The ether

Enhance…

A memory on my phone
A summer flower
Yellow, floppy petals
Echibeckia
Warm breeze on bare arms and legs

Enhance…

The pinkest daybreak at a low January winter angle
Against a chimney
Backlighting pink smoke
Eight degrees

Sometimes I feel like a replicant

Collecting photos
And memories
That are mine
Will they be passed on?

Wondering why I am compiling them

Am I real?
Sometimes too human
Sometimes not enough

But here I am
Collecting photographs and memories like a replicant

You can call me Al

9/52

⬆️ My mom woulda loved that play on words
 
p24

Love is not a ship in a bottle

The color of the sky is suspended
pregnant with the potential of rain,

Everywhere the clouds amass in
a grey duvet over the sea’s sheet

& a man’s uncertain obsidian face
in the meaningful snap of sails

in every swell he sees the ocean’s
lips curl black in collapse its bared

teeth gnaw frothily at his keel, dips
with swirls the wake ploughs under,

the flight path of fleeting ocean birds
& the sea’s ugly pocked marked face,

in sun sets he floats when night comes
in a race of fate knowing he says always

for some and everyone life and love is
lived in glass bubbles where midnight

will stand arrive then go in all ways with
loves darkness before the dawn.

.
 
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You bloomed early

I had your big bright, beautiful flowers, staring right at me.

beloved, bewitching and breathtaking

Your soft petals so gentle

I feared the wind would blow you away

It took a down burst

The rain poured over your leaves as if mother nature were grieving

The ground was littered with sad confetti

Your petals disappeared

Breathing new life into the world

You bloomed early
 
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The Risdon Sisters

I always thought it odd how everyone
believed we got along so well, we two,
the Risdon Sisters, pleasant, so full of fun
is how they saw us. If only they knew
how much from deep within I hated you,
my Amazonian, Queen Ravenna twin,
you with your beady hawk eyes, icy blue,
bending me to your will with gnarly grin,
your harsh cruel voice to my ears an annoying din.

For fifty years you ruled our dismal home,
spittle-soaked words being hurled, always rife,
warfare waged, no cessation to come.
I longed to ram our sharpest boning knife
through your fucking chest and end this vile strife.
Then after hours of harsh fury and fight,
one would turn, as if in a different life,
and cooly ask, “Your bed or mine tonight?”
The darkest gloom suddenly bathed in light.

And into bed we would together crawl,
our naked arms and legs wrapping around
each other, lips to nipples, moans that enthrall,
fingers drowning in velvet juices found
deep inside each other’s folded quaking ground.
Thirsty tongues busy that knew no quitting,
my face buried in your delicious mound,
“Come on, you bitch, make me do your bidding!”
I’d cry in passion. What else could be so fitting!

(Poem #16)
 
Raindrops heavy pelt
Sodden mud and asphalt’s streams
Their sound thunders loud
On Sunday mornings after
Throbbing heavy head
Dull pained roar begins to ebb
An exodus starts
Stale cider waterfalls pour
And the cans depart
The party’s over my friends
A groan heavy lies
Not drinking that much again
At least not for a while

Week 9 Poem 1 Total 17
 
Natures ways

The house silent again a skipping clock
lets me think as I sip coffee mind talks.

A force of habit I peer out in the yard changes in me and the face on guard.

Much like steps made in the river sand
water returns them back to the land.

Words fall in the fall blowing gales forgotten in the beauty they relayed.

Wet and curl they dry crack and cry
like words thrown away never ask why.
 
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I kiss your thighs,
heat coils, pulse hammers,
labia swell, darken.

Slick flows, clit throbs,
hips jerk, breath shatters,
hands clutch, every curve quivers.

I press, linger,
taste, feel, and guide,
release surges electric, molten.

We shiver together.
 
p25

This Is
[smuggling]
a poem.


I imagine day by day
this is chess
slow, objective

there is a pawn in lines
lumber in the sinews
unwinds his face becomes

multicolored streets,
heart beats, feet circling,
a Queen

across the great divide
Billy Collins youthful
his leg dangling over a chair.

Outside city rain
under the umbrella of
my burned tongue

Far away from home (skips)
a cigarette boat in rope [the pawn
the boat] are we safe yet?
 
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Harmonielehre

Emancipation of the dissonance
The sounds of radical equality
Conceived in the shadow of fascism
Misunderstood and still not respected
An embrace of fringes that always have been
Beautiful, mocked and called degenerate
Traditionalism roars and rages
Hierarchy cannot last forever
Not every revolution wins its war
Every revolution inspires more
My siblings jazz and the surreal fought too
I am the dissonance that will be free

Week 9 Poem 2 Total 18
 
Week 9 Poem 18

I like what we have

I bite the flesh on your shoulder,
I close my fists around your throat,
Your tattered blouse binding wrists,
I have only just begun, take note.

You weep in pain, you beg and squeal,
You asked for this, you know it well,
I will mark you forever and ever,
You are my prey, do not dwell,

On what is beyond your control,
Focus instead, on what I need,
Scream all you like, it's healthy,
But you get slapped if you plead,

For mercy, for restraint, for salvation,
Your wet eyes filled with shame and defeat,
Your fear turns me on my helpless toy,
Besides, you paid me well to serve at my feet.
 
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