The Gymnasium

clutching_calliope

by the ankles
Joined
Jan 16, 2006
Posts
1,058
A place to work it out.

Fruity O's

I couldn’t find a poem in here
so I wrote it out instead.
The cereal box contained this jeer:
“Let us feed your head!”

I thought of the song White Rabbit,
and I thought of the Cheshire Cat.
I thought of my prof. of logic,
and how he’d get a kick outta that.
 
Augerbine

There will be a time
when your comparisons
will run dry
like a creekbed in August

and you will only be left
with a jar of Gerkins
and the colour aubergine

and then what will you do?

I fold my hands
on the coffee table wood
and wait for the drought.

In the future
someone else
will fold for me
one final time

and you may say
I look like Osiris,
or you may say
I look like a purple pickle.
 
Dance Dance Revolution

Even Elvis would fail.

It’s up to the cyber reality,
Liam says, eyes on the manga girl
shakin’ her anime groove thang,
and the world as we know it
has collapsed
into step forward, back,
side-to-side.

Offering remembrances
of square dancing, Liam replies
Ain’t nobody jiggy with geometry.
 
clutching_calliope said:
A place to work it out.


"... the lucky ones!"
by My Erotic Tale ©

Paul Peter in revolation
and friend! Paul's sermon ... swayed!

"You do not take
what does not belong to you,
from a land you know not of,
like Stalin and Adolph.'"

If wisdom were gray hairs
Paul would be the wisest.
Old world wine and charm
swirling tongue and tale

"Proudly they marched through my village
rows and rows, side by side,
arm out, hand held high,
trucks and tanks of German pride.
Storming across the land of Hungary
rushing Russia for the taking,
meeting no resistance,
What was with Stalin?
I do not know,
but his name seem to fit,"
chuckled, the elderly sit.

Just a boy, not quite a teen
Paul reveled in this scene,
an army upon army of never before seen.
coming to claim ... everything.

'Stalin's troops opened wide
inviting the Germans deep inside
then closed around them like a big bear hug,
supply line severed ...
the Germansperished
in frozen tundra,
One by one, two by two
maybe even a small banded group
they walked with limps from frozen toe drags
hobbling back to Germany, in rags.
Starving, frozen, wounded or carried
arms and hands down by road side buried,
wild eye'd looks from fear in men,
who have seen deaths gripping hand.'

"Hitler's invasion failed ...
put a hot cup of coffee in the freezer,
see what happens...
a snow ball's chance in hell?
Well, 'tis more like a fire ball ...
shot into Siberia's frozen wasteland,
only a few sparks of life made it.
They were like the dog, you know ... they have tail between legs ...
going home."

"I've seen man ... at his lowest low!"
Paul savored a mental moment
then nursed a sip of wine.
"And they were ... the lucky ones!"
 
My Erotic Tale

Very nice rhythm. I adore your sly sense of humer in this poem, very playful and nice, loose structure within a solid framework.
 
your love poems always seem to say what I am trying to say....

is this thread open for business? are there personal trainers or can we just come in and write? seems like a good alternative to the write it all out and don't change it around threads for people who want a little bit more...

clutching_calliope said:
I can’t write you a love letter,
not today,
not when we’re both looking
the other way.
 
how can it be
that in some corner of my allotted time
while I grazed over trivia
you were blooming unnoticed

each evening after the day
as I sat in my easy chair I listened
to the amorous wails of Arabian music
drifting along the canal
…I would sigh​
never knowing I was sighing
for your missing presence
as I watched the shadows
arch across the wall
measuring the time
without you

the pools of your eyes
fleeting reflections
on every surface
now made real
are fathoms deep

where were you in my youth?
was I Narcissus?
blind to all but myself
and now you have come to mock me
exposed to my eyes
but beyond my reach
 
Distance

I can only touch you
with imagination, stroke

a virtual cheek
with my lost tenderness, feel

just mental warmth and curve
to your breasts and hips. But

there yet is something I can know.
I can know your words.
 
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Opening Day Special - One Free Poem to Every Customer

annaswirls said:
your love poems always seem to say what I am trying to say....

is this thread open for business? are there personal trainers or can we just come in and write? seems like a good alternative to the write it all out and don't change it around threads for people who want a little bit more...

Thank you, Anna.

Of we are open for business! 24 hour availibility.

My thoughts was for the gymnasium to be a place were if you want to work out a piece for the first time or the fiftith, you could do so here. If others want to add some constructive comments (i.e. be a personal trainer) please feel free. If, in the future, you need to remove your sculpted poem, do so with blessings.

If you want to stand around the water cooler and flirt and talk with me, Anna, I'm game for that, too ;) .

Anything goes, and less clothing, the better. Welcome all. :rose:
 
Gym Practice

Wear the belt
, he says. But it doesn't
fit and sinks down to my groin. Andrea
laughs and that pile of lead behind my
back suddenely seems heavier than a

minute ago. Arms imitate butterfly wings,
coming together with a loud thwack,
thwack, THWACK. Do it slower, much
slower.
That is not my exercise today.

Grabbing the rowing machine's tongue,
I start to pull. A tug-of-war between me
and its fan-heart ensures. I will not lose -
that is not me, that is not today at least.
 
Ventriloquism

I am both the dummy
and the voice, which floats
disembodied from a wooden mouth.
The thoughts come not
from my maple head and I fear
that I don't have a heart.



I'm not sure where I'm going with this one. Think of it as some preliminary stretching. :rolleyes:
 
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Venus Grapefruit Star

The grapefruit was the last thing I saw last night,
the first thing this morning.

Venus you say and I raise my soggy eyelids.

Huh? I say, and it’s not poetic.
It’s barely intelligible. There are ashes

in the tray and hair in my face. Huh?
You bite and juice runs down your chin.

Venus you say and kiss me sour.
 
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Soufflé

Soufflé

Unlike a sponge which has resistance
And properties of retention
My soufflé brain lacks substance
A confection of sophistry
A concoction of tastes and flavours
Conjured up by a master chef

Where once wholesome ingredients
Were sliced and diced
Sprinkled with rudimentary condiments
A sprig of garnish for visual enhancement
The goodness was there to taste
The wet crunch of celery

Now my palate is seduced with artistry
Informed by broadcast recipes
And daily reports from the kitchen
I haven’t cooked a good recipe in years
I can’t remember the smell of fresh vegetables
Nor the feel of ripe fruit
 
After

We are still
in sudden quiet.

I watch the sweat
trickle

down
the long curved trough
that is your spine.

Aaagh. I think this is getting worse. This is about version four and may be destined for ".....".
 
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clutching_calliope said:
Anything goes, and less clothing, the better. Welcome all. :rose:


i love La Perla as it slides
between my legs
so sexy in a satin glide of cloth
over the slick spot you laid.

...
 
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sick days

the body was a lantern
shining fever through the night
and boiling the water in the tub.
when it took the wrinkles
from the sheets by the humid Florida
seeping out my pours

i thought I should call
my work and say i’m dying
or at least i feel that way
and don’t pull a guilt trip on me
because I haven’t got the gas
to go there. i’m not coming in,
i’m not that important, remember?
this is what your said the last time
you forgot to give me a raise. we

hung up and i got the tissue, balled
it up and missed the garbage. there was
nothing on the television and nothing

much to do as i swear but don’t believe
in crosswords. you were at work,
but not working, really, you said.
that probably wasn’t the truth
but it was close enough for me, like being
a little bit pregnant, or a little bit drunk.

we talked

and i’m so glad i called in sick
because i’ve never felt better. i’m thinking
about being sick all over again

tomorrow.
 
Logorrhea

It is always words, between us. Words
that lay out lives and wants and, oh,
just anything that we think about. I so
want to wrap you in my verbal arms
and squeeze and tell you (See? More words.)
what I can never tell you, see, because
there will always be more words. It's me.
I am just so dumbfucking verbal that

I always have more words.
 
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Teleportation

Keats knew about entanglement, how
beauty is truth and the reverse. Now
physics adds more homilies, that
up is down and charm is strange. What
I know is that our quantum states
are bound by forces strong and weak.
Your spooky action, distantly—
my heart, like light, flies to you.
 
Comfortable silence

What if it doesn't matter
that there's nothing left
to talk about? Why must
jaws snap like fish for
water and thoughts
long since doomed
flop around in futile
death rattle?

What if I never listened
anyway to what you said,
but leaned in to scout
with stetoscope tuned ears
for a rush of pulse? What if
my eyes don't read gestures,
but stories told by bitten nails?

What if there's silence?
So what if there's silence?
 
Frieda's Moon

Ariel still lives
hanging half out of the gas oven
crying for her supper.

I feed her plums, sage
and whey. The spiders feed
themselves.

Children of Apollo,
how much farther do you fall?
 
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