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30 Poems in 30 Days

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2-love-20 bet you didn't think anyone read those things, did ya

You can learn a lot about people
by how they reply to the computer generated
Spam Blocker message
"Please reply to this e-mail
to let us know you are a real live person"

Many leave it blank.
Get it done.
Reply. Send.
Move on to the real message.

For others it is a simple affirmation.
Yes
I am a real
live
person.

I imagine their reflection
on the dark screen.
I imagine
their lips moving.
Yes.
I am I am I am.

Others crack themselves up.
I respond, therefor I am.
or
Look father, I am a real boy!

They are writers
and they cannot help themselves
but to write
even if they think
no one will read.
They prove it to the machine
with poetry.

I always read these submissions
very
carefully.

Every now and then someone is annoyed.
Maybe because a machine is requiring
they prove their sentience.
Maybe because I have selfishly stolen a minute
of their day.

Or maybe just tired of sending poetry
via electrons,
never a hand touching a hand.
 
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2-9

Whose years wrestled discontent
from the breast of peace?
These people ridden by rocks
and conquering fields, swallowed fire
in rough goblets, a resurrection of bees
rescue toil from the sun enough to dance.
Their songs are no ancient paean.
Mark their graves with wind,
a restive stir of dead voices.
 
2-love-21

I want to nibble on you
graze like a pony on new grass
that sprouts after rains come
soft muzzle barely touching
your skin your words your motion
breathe
just above
feel the warm of my breath
mixed with the heat of your skin
as I take you in
again
again
 
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2-love-22

all shiver in december spring water
swim caps pulled tight
children holding tight
I saw you
there
with yours

we pretend we do not see each other
lord help me sleep
 
2-love-23

I close my eyes and think of trees, of rooftops and limestone cliffs,
kite tails, graceful vultures riding thermal updrafts in slow circles. I
want to count stars with you, name a constellation for you,
maybe something latin or at least off continent, for you who reads me
forgotten poetry, spins whistles, you my mystery, palm pressing halo,
man I long for, you.
 
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Stuck on You

Why can't I force the words out?
stopped, stuck before this
damn machine, shaking my head.

Sultry images of you
race in my head, I
want to commit them in type.

But my muse is more amused
with toying with me
Teasing, tasting, testing me

Your kisses along my thigh
as you break away
from my nectar, my desire.

Your warm hazel eyes flame, watch
me twitch, wiggle, moan,
seductive look on your face.

I can't get the story straight
You're far too fetching
What was I trying to write?
 
2~1 (here we go again, :rolleyes: )


hot lil hood
perfectly pitted
for a scooping range
of rimming tires
filled
with hot air
being suppressed
to tie rod
suspension, secreting
tiny burst of flaming
spurts. feeling the burn,
from trunk to tweaked out
headlights. speed up baby
give it ... your all


..
 
2-11 Jazzanelle

Somewhere on 52nd Street secrets live:
the ghosts hidden in steel and concrete
buildings. Hum, economy but there's no jive

left where business is daily delivered neat,
stapled, filed, stored in metal bins.
The ghosts hidden in steel and concrete

where no one see the skirts that whirl past shins,
bells that pour, high hat swish, the jazz four four
stapled, filed, stored in metal bins?

Beyond the blur of years ghosts call to me
to dance for dreams that died so long ago:
bells that pour, high hat swish, the jazz four four,

the spill of silenced swing, the blow
of blowed and gone, a pain in the heart,
the spill of silenced swing, the blow

in blues that don't know where to start.
Somewhere on 52nd Street secrets live
of blowed and gone, a pain in the heart.
Buildings. Hum. Economy, but there's no jive.
 
2~2



bare witness
to her trembling words.
drawn in, sentimental circles
with centuries of loving.
low monotones paint
her world back when
to here, now.

cracked visions recalled
from memorized still shots.
a lone woman fighting
for a mere existence.

meeting her treasured
future, by mishaps
mistakenly taken, to ensure
a brighter tomorrow.

fate then
filed a grievance
garnishing her rights
from hardships
to good fortune.

smiling with a wink
kismet fused these two mortals
to a lifetime of shared souls
strong enough
to withstand it all.
 
2-12

Mama we are miles
separated, generations.
I made a book for you--
birthdays, a wedding, papa
at his desk, all fitted page
by page. I have nothing

left but crooked words
glued while the TV blares
another happy new year,
and where are my red shoes,
the rose trellis, the plaid blouses
you sewed for matching bird girls
perched in the park, the palisades,
holding hands, holding on.

Mama I listen to Miles
to blot out now, remember
the flame of generations
that sputter in the wind,
die while I shiver,
an aging match girl
who watches smoke drift.
 
Pedestals

Pampered and pleased
like never before
I abide your lofty praise
with trepidation, I
look beneath to gauge
how far it is I'll fall
when the blinders finally fall,
and I ponder
who is really
made of glass.
 
2-13

christmist anima rising
at dawn I brush sleepies
from my sleeve, arise,
breathe the gingerbread
day hellbound for frost
and dragees silvered
on my windshield.
 
2~3 ..(working with rhyme and all that stuff :rolleyes: )


the kitty cat tigress
of your dreams.
I shall spill out
your seams.

licking your milk
with sentiment and care,
brushing your fur
while I tongue you
bare.

open for the season
I see no reason
not to
twitch your whiskers
with nothing
but my kisser

as I unravel
your ball. your friskiness
I recall. I simply bite
your nipples Delighting
in your torturous fight.

prowling as I pounce
not an ounce, of you
I will leave untouched
together, clutched.

begging for the time
I watch, the walls you climb
pure perfection in motion
when you get
the notion ...
 
2~4


leaving words for bread crumbs
he follows my trail,
high over the mountains
and deep into the woods. I unravel
my yarnball
to hide 'n watch,
while he pretends to ponder
each soft stag step.
knowing I have him for a while
is all I need. to carry on
unaided, for now.

..
 
2-love-26 low down high ground

There is no blame. There only is.
You with your truth, me with my lies.
You with your fables. Me with my head
tucked down into your chest. Certainly
you did not intend to snap my fingers.
Still the sting. Still the hiding.
 
2~5

primped up
powdered down
spread out
sample me

in between napping for lunch
dieting at supper
let's not forget dessert
before one of us, gets hurt.

follow plucked petals
strew about, stroll alone
down loves wounded hallway
till your end, has been captured.

bottoms up, my love
through smudged fingerprint windows
spy, our all natural high - ended
relationship

where passing ships capsize
from sheer boredom. left
gravely dry, from no action
in the boudoir.

..
 
2-14 Glosa

Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
__________"Lapis Lazuli," William Butler Yeats

Alone, alone does earth
looks like a jewel from space,
a blued beacon in emptiness?
Where within the stratosphere
does warmth begin? Alone,
alone every discoloration
of the stone outlined in sea,
my veins, every rocky outcropping
of me has seeped into the sand,
the mountains ground to footprints
on a strand. Can they see me?

The stars are blacked beyond the clouds,
the planets whirl and I am walking
on a beach, separate and out of reach,
every accidental crack or dent a precipice
where years have tumbled, memories
all spent in floods until it seems
a water-course or an avalanche
of tears, another Christmas
and they don't put up the tree.

I know that they remember me,
but wonder do the lights in other houses
seem like jewels that broke and fell
from crowns we drew when we were kings?
How easily it flows until the freeze
from grace to face the ice
or lofty slope where it still snows.



:kiss: PoeTess for inspiration
 
2-love-27 I am not using you to write poetry but you are what I have today...

~wrote poem filled the requirement for today~​
 
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2-15

He wants to know have I
read Kierkegaard and I say
"Jesus son Kierkegaard is so
depressing. What's up with that?"
but secretly I'm pleased.
My little boy is a smart man,
smarter, he says, than all the girls
he wants to love which isn't so
smart but he's a kid discovering
Aldous Huxley having
made the jump from Sneetches
to existentialism.

I buy him a Yes tshirt. Yes
my boy, my boy, my little sonny
who dreamed of dreadlocks
and balloons, who grew up
way too soon. The luxury
of talking to his belly, smooth
baby skin that rippled giggles
when we danced to Fred Astaire.

They can't take that away from me.

I tried to give him everything.
He has my hair, my smarm,
my charming little genius
son all heart and sticky grin,
my hot fries kid I miss you
like the moon. I love you
like the sun. Today
is raining memories.
You grew up
way too soon.
 
2~6

After three days in lock up, finally
my limit had been reached. Out
out damn spot ... off we go.

I relax, as the interstate turns
wide. Christmas lights up
showing me the way.

Music echoes quietly in the background
of three chatterboxes quipping up
scenarios of who has the map
and where our destination is
this time.

Back roads of childhood
come into view. Retracking
a former hapiness from then.
I start retelling stories,
of ecspades gone wrong
and what a wild lil darlin
I used to be.

Swaping questions
as we ride, each one
gets a glimpse
of what my Christams
was like at that tender age.

Adapting
a sing song voice
we play twenty questions
and ponder each answer.

One by one I feel connects,
understands that life
is more than what one has.

I watch
as each falls asleep
whispering wishes
and dreams
for those who have none ...



my motto :

sometimes one has to get lost,
to find themselves~
 
2-16

Lou Rawls, Bob Altman, Wicked
Wilson Pickett better slow that Mustang down.
June Allyson danced the Varsity Drag,
sang Thou Swell and I swooned
at how a voice transported me.
You're the cream in my coffee Shelley Winters,
Jack Palance dressed black narrows
his eyes, Mike Douglas sings Daddy's Little Girl,
talks to Lennon in a Bag.

Jane Wyatt cooks spotlessly,
dispenses kitchen wisdom coiffed
and pearled, Mickey Spillane
kisses me deadly, Freddy Fender,
Maureen Stapleton, Gene Pitney--

Oh God we've lost the Playboy
of the Western World, Billy Preston
bent to the Hammond B-3, Will it
go round in circles? Don Knotts
shaking hand on the holster,
Anita O'Day, Maynard Ferguson,
Betty Comden goodbye, goodbye.

Stars in my firmament fade,
shrink me smaller, smaller
until I, too, disappear.
 
2~7

a lil free thinking, think this will take a while ~


Did you know, I have'ta take a shot
every night it seems
to let myself go, outside my body
to live the life
I wish. If not, the pain, cramps
and blood smears overcome
slide me down
to a depressive side. Signal lights shine
overcoming my intuition and letting me be
for a while. I, this morphical butterfly fairy
spread my wings and sail the seas
of love. On the straight and narrow
to you my love. Your beaming smile
is all it takes
to make this all *not so natural * high
come to me. In dreams, fantasies
of what we had. To come, cum
to/with you
is my most cherished desire, only
is it real. Do I have what it takes
to climb that mountain
drive hard and fast
into, with you over
over
over again. Repeat that
for emphasis, this is my dream,
my need. Like an addict in the shakes
from withdrawal
I need
need
you. But,
I still bleed on the edge
of after-hours
and sing
one more round
one more
one more ...
 
2-love-28 his old fucking laptop

He told me,
"You ask too fast
Don't you ever wait
for things to be offered?"

Still it sets
on top of his metal file
unused for months.
 
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