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

[12oclocktales]

A week in London, love,
and won’t that be a kicker;
remember to leave your panties home
and only pack your knickers.

Another thing that week, my sweet,
and this by no means is farce,
it’s not your ass I’ll be groping for,
but instead your lovely arse.

Your pussy, dear, it may sound odd
referred to as your fanny;
it’s true our countries are a lot the same,
except the lingo, which is a bit uncanny.

(Poem #2)

 

[SmilingLez]

Poetry—
a discipline
of closeness.

I arrange words
until distance
fails.

Rhyme holds.
Prose moves.

You keep reading.

It ends
when you realize
you agreed.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Poems 9 & 13


p13 A writing exercise.

UFO’s

Cuckolding velocity is a fundamental concept in relationships that defines the minimum speed your wife must attain to permanently break free from the gravitational pull of monogyny.

This speed is a one-time requirement, meaning that once the wife reaches this velocity, she will continue to move manually away from monotony indefinitely without needing any additional propulsion.

The concept establishes a critical cuckold threshold for any wife aiming to leave a celestial body’s sphere of influence; as she travels into planning trajectories for interplanetary probes or UFOs (Unfamiliar Fucks with Others).



p9 figure’ a woodworking term for the characteristics of wood grain.

CALLOUS

There is lumber in the sinews
of a man’s fingers and hands.

There is timber in the valley
beneath a woodsman’s balls.

There is figure in the grain of
a hard man’s slamming cock.

There is sap beneath the
craftsmen’s oiling helmet.

There is the thrashing of his limbs
the yelling timber -the fallen tree.

 

[nudeblaqgirl]

Welcome twenty twenty-six
Hope this year brings lots of dicks

Or if i go to Carolinas
Hope I get some sweet vaginas

 

[SapioSexual9]

TOXIC. TWO GHOSTS FUCKING.

So all day, everyday in my dirty basement
mind. Okay it was only one night ago that
you called, and secretly remembered us
clinking a selection of mini malt whiskeys.

While we prodominantly slept in a drunken stupor.
You had thoughts of using a bunch of big utility
cylindrical items on me, with my nipples for dials.
Then electrifying my recollection,

your words reawaken my sleeping body. We talk
about that ghost door to our dorm bedrooms. And.
How I would feel your ghost fingertips in my ghost
underwear. Even when I was just walking by. And,

casually, years latter when showing me your wife’s
wedding dress, how with finality we took off all our
ghost underwear. Even now, in my head I hear the
mix of our, jumbled protestations- conversations,

post accusations, I am innocent, or you only had the ghost
of a wedding band on your well wedded finger. You were
just using me. Your love is still a ghost bitch blame game
reaching out to finger me. For another ghost fuck.



Poem 5 A Sapphic poem.

 

[SapioSexual9]

WHOOP WHOOOP
Driving lessons.
Billie’s house, little brother is waiting. It’s dark
outside. He is crying. Meanwhile, earlier racing along in
Daddy’s old Newport Convertible
-driving over to Momma’s girlfriend Billie's house.
To pick up little brother. I am front seat. In the middle,
Daddy gives me the look. Whoop-
Whoop. I reach across and take the wheel. Momma
hands Daddy two unlit Slims. Skinny as the cigarettes,
I am hanging off the steering wheel. Flying
down the freeway. With a big goofy grin. Daddy taps the
Slims butts against the steering wheel. Three times for luck.
Daddy cups his palms, lights his and Momma’s slims,
I miss the turn. But no, body, gets hurt. We exhale. Daddy
says. Driving lessons. A car can be fixed. A crying boy
can grow a dick. Sometimes it’s better to be latter.

#6

 

[VerbalAbuse]

She-males

She-males with big koks
They fokk me in the ass
I ask them verbally
Why fokk me anally
They say
Shut-up bitch.

 

[Angeline]

Weather Report

Which comes first
blood or revolution?

This is not normal
and I don't want to hear

about Valentine's Day,
your grandson's first tooth,

or your recipe for whatever
burgers even though I eat,

shit, fuck nothing is normal
and I wonder did Hannah

my great grandmother
who perished at Chelmno

feel this way when she knew
it was just a matter of time?



Week 3, Poem 1, Total 6

 

[42BelowsBack]

Poems 16, 10, 12 & 6


p16

Sensimilla you leave me
mulling under slender stems
in scented sensations of
lullaby flowers at peace with me
laughing with you
inhaling me through my toes
nothing seems important including the sun
going down right now.


p10

On my own
riffing with Miles Davis

Slow,
imagine
aqua indigo.
smoke, runsss
th’ voodoo down

blue Blue sketches of Spain

Imagine,
the kick throws
water skimming
across a lake

that’s the piano playing hopscotch

So What
about the rest
that's my foot toe tapping vowels


p12

Smokin Grass.

There’s a big freight train coming,
Our eyes drawn in slender rendezvous.

The rail bell is scolding, you let this crossing be,
While we are watching the crossing.

Stones cross ties vibrate under
You and I looking through our fingers.

Teens. We see nothingness as a thing.
The freight train rumbles on by-



p6

But why would he do that?

I imagine a youthful Billy Collins, a leg over his chair,
with a drink in one hand. He is reading a poem I wrote.
His features all disambiguated lines. Tousled hair. A
deceptively yellow pallor cast by a single reading lamp.

He sits still.

Reading: Like my father. His clothing changing through the years,
(including the loss of his hair). He is aging, wondering laconically,
what is the exact point of all my imaginings? Him of course. Them.
Imaginatively reading one of my poems.

And I still with all of my hair?

 

[Mrtenant]

Walk With Me

Just one step
Colossal, ponderous
With intention
Demeanor
Direction

Just one step
Towards the horizon
With intention
With hope
And dread

Just one step
How it shakes the earth
With intention
With light
And dark

Just one step
With you and with them
With intention
Fellowship
To the end

week 2

 

[Quarky]

4.

green tea melts the air
exhaled against the gloaming
from my winter porch

 

[VerbalAbuse]

Poetry

Poetry is not insipid
I have important things to communicate
This is one of them
Um-hmm.

 

[Remec]

A Dark Cento of the Moon

I never said I
was frightened of death;
I think it's marvelous,
To hear the softly spoken magic spells,
you race towards
an early grave.
live for today,
gone tomorrow,
that's me;
even if you're not mad,
matter of fact, it's all dark,
it came to a heavy blow
which sorted the matter out
The old man died.

A cento cribbed from the lyrics of Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd
Week 2 Poem 2 Total 3

 

[Tzara]

conversation

the slick, matted grass
and some fallen leaves litter
the otherwise empty yard

i write her letters
from the comfort of my room
though i cannot talk with her

Week 3 : Poem 1 : Total 5

 

[SmilingLez]

Sunrise hits.
You’re beside me.
Warm. Awake. Real.

Coffee steams between us.
Fingers brush by accident.
Neither pulls away.

The room stays still,
the world does not,
this moment - ours.

You say, "stay."
Not dramatic.
Just certain.

Breath stutters.
Heat teases my cheeks.
I can't look away.

Us.
Still here.
Still together.

Hold me close.
Forehead to mine.
Hearts aligned.

Stay like this.
No promises.
Just us.

 

[calmlikeabomb]

Week 3, poem 6

My cock is an icicle
Balls: shrivelled brown snow flakes
I am feeling so cold
Please please please pray for my sake

Winter kept us warm,
Elliot was a fucking liar,
I am shriveled, a dried raisin in snow,
I hope T.S. has his pants on fire.

Summer comes soon
So I can masturbate again
My stalk is withered,
Even holding it is a pain

I'm cold

 

[calmlikeabomb]

Week 3, poem 7


Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm freezing in Delhi winters
My understanding of rhymes is very weak

 

[calmlikeabomb]

Week 3, poem 8


FYI

Until mid February or thereabouts,
Winters make me numb, have no doubts,
My poems will focus on the damm cold,
Shivering as I type this, feeling so old.

My duvet, fluffy, is my refuge,
I'm made for Summers and rainy deluge,
Can't even jack off, such is my plight,
My fluffy duvet is my sole delight.

If I could give my duvet a name,
Lisa, my second love, the one who I blame,
Together on Lit, a story we wrote,
A decade ago, now, I bore you all with bloat.

 

[SpermFactory]

WARNING: There’s a Car Stuck In Snow.

On this dark flag,
the stars are a falling dove
veering off the road
in a nameless place.
There was life in her car,
she was an American vehicle,
the engine kept running
then forever her tracks stopped.
Never getting her back to her children.
Karoline is this outer space?


[1]

 

[nudeblaqgirl]

I was looking at myself
In the mirror at the gym
In the locker room
After my shower so I was nude
She was behind me and
Staring at my ass

Yeah that's right
Staring at my ass
And why not?
I have a great ass
Tight and strong but full
A nice sweet sexy

Black girl's ass
And here was this cute readhead
Staring at my ass
And her eyes just ran up my body
Up my back
And i FELT IT

Like it was her fingers
Lightly brushing my brown skin
It made me shiver
And then in the mirror
Her eyes met mine
Oh god

My mouth was open
With this little gasp i let out
When I shivered from
My imagination
Telling me she was
CARESSING me

And so i caught her
Or she caught me
Catching her
Catching me
So embarrassing
So deliciously awkward

My body went hot
I felt my whole body blush
So naked and vulnerable
And she was fully dressed
She was horrified and hurried away
And i burned with shame..and delight

 

[Angeline]

Red Rambler Ooh

In the Red Rambler Wagon we tool into the Ewing Drive-In crunchety crunch over gravel, up and down the little hills till Daddy finds a space and hooks the speaker on his window. No sound yet and we run to the playground: monkey bar torture, spin-a-wheel puke roulette. Lots of kids in pajamas like us, running, sweating till twilight creeps and lightning bugs flash go back to your cars kids. On the big screen a happy white family is grinning at their own big screen. They have snacks, great Let's all go the drive-in snacks: dancing hot dogs, popcorn, candy bars marching with cold drinks, hot coffee. Oh the paradisical lure of snack bar food, but alas we have a cooler with crappy food from home. So we settle in to watch some shit we don't understand. Anthony Quinn? Peter O'Toole? Lots of sand no beach must be Lawrence of Arabia. We crawl into the very back where our blankets and pillows await. We won't remember how we got back in our bunk beds come morning. Is this the American Dream? You betcha.


Week 3, Poem 2, Total 7

 

[VerbalAbuse]

Bukowski

I picked up one of his tomes
Whadda fuck
Any kinda crap passes for poetry
I can write shit like that too
So hear me out.

 

[12oclocktales]

Homeward Bound

We’re halfway through
this long drive,
silent now,
only the sound
of rubber
licking asphalt
in our ears.

I sit
still as snow
beside you;
do you try
to remember
what lies beneath
this blanket
of white?

Will your hands
reach over,
touch me,
melt me
into a puddle
I can already
feel forming
deep inside me?

(Poem #3)

 

[nudeblaqgirl]

I only have a minute
To tell you something
Profound, captivating
Sexy, scintillating

I only have a minute
Have to be somewhere
See someone
About something

Since I only have a minute
Let's make it good
This guy last night, he fucked me
Like a motherfuckin freight train

It was so fuckin sweet dirty nasty
Still feel his powerful strokes
Thundering inside me
Still feel his warmth in my bed

 

[Angeline]

Random Car Tanka

My Chevy Chevette
was a tiny piece of crap.
A disappointment,
dead on the Jersey Turnpike,
monument to broken dreams.



Week 3, Poem 3, Total 8