30 Poems in 30 Days

I don't feel like poetry today
yes, I know it's fucking sad
but the words aren't flowing
none line up and make the perfect natural break

today is St Valentine's
a day where pretty love poetry should
drop, drop, drop

but it's not
and this is the end of 1-5 day


yea

[duckiesmut]

1-5

Sit with me awhile
in the sullen
comfort of shared
regret and warmed lemonade,
sliced limes with a note

to visit the grocery store-
when there's time,
when the rain comes,
when the green is gone
and I must use oranges

to dull the sudsing
spark of vodka.

[Man Ray]

I am courageously struggling
but under the strain I'm buckling
as writing a daily poem is crippling
because I'd so rather be canoodling
my hands busy on your chest fondling
my tongue between your thighs a doodling

*doodling = I'll leave that to your imagination but hey, it rhymes don't it?

[Liar]

fresh ground arabica
mimosa, cashew and wholemeal
on the kitchen table

yellow note:
did i wake you up?

lemon grass soup
and chocolate treat
in the fridge

new note:
no you didn't,
please do next time

[annaswirls]

she could sell you the sunrise
young girls in halter tops
thieves on a chicken wire
my girl can catch whatever you want
shadows sharp
or bleeding wet on paper
and blow your beauty dry


for s.t.

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

Akeem's Death

she sits cold and pale
to bring the dawn
with declination
and venus she points the way

troubled
hidden in haze
stumbling blind in mind and eye
he misses
the guides in the sky

bone chilled lost
in moss halls
no wax or lint in pockets
not a friendly dry stick
to light for warmth
shiver deep
numb through hours of the night

somewhere his lover cry's
while he is finding his way
closer, ever closer to death

with each step
later they will trace
it will never be known
if this was intentional
or fate



For Akeem, may you find the peace in death that your Armenian blood would not let you have in life.

[flyguy69]

Fly 1:4

I hate that “men’s” figure skating, snugged-up
balls and baubles on their shoulders. Where is the ball
to kick or slap? Where is the smack-down trash
talk ice-cold hot hand? It’s not the lycra
butt cheek squeeze (I bet I’d like it) or the gracious
bow for thrown roses, it is the brave smile
when they fuck up, the trailing-finger arm sweep
of opera cum sport. I snort
and plant the newspaper squarely
in my face. I can’t be blamed
for the way a corner falls limp
like a wrist, or the quick leap
of my eye, or the way I lean
into every turn.

[DeepAsleep]

????I don't use rhyme much, but it's there, today, in a fucked up sort of way.

I have not slept
in this full size bed,
on this pillow where my head,
supposing rest, has said,
"No, not today. Not for you,
today."

I have tossed in the bed
and under the sheets,
remembering nightlight streets
where, upon corners, I heard poets preach,
where memory faded into present day
and I plucked up the courage to stand and say,
"I can do this, too. Give me something to stand on."

I have moved from the bed, into the street,
with rumpled poems on napkins from bars
lining my pockets randomly, unpatterned stars
praying light on my face, from the place where space
turns from liquid empty to heaven's doorstep, I have turned
my face from below, to above and said,
"I am afraid, but I am here."

I have crushed poems on paper in my fist,
anger turning my knuckles purple
then white.
I have written psalms for the uncomfortable,
sketched prayers and transcribed
pocketsful of nothing into books that
were best left empty.

You can see I am not woven with much.

Despite a described lack of certainty,
which for the life of me I refuse to see,
I think I have the courage to grin and be
all the things I ought.

You can see I am still being woven.

Forgetting anger in the night,
forgetting poems clenched in regret and rage,
disregarding words about love and
words about beauties seen from the corner of the eye,
which, when turning to look, are suddenly gone,
forgetting all outer concerns, there is this;
a nightlight street sleeps comfortably,
curling at the corners around poets
who have the right to speak to me
and the right to hear from me.

~Ross
I feel so high-flown and foolish.

[eagleyez]

The high cliffs
North of Jenner
Near Bodega Bay
Where you took me
Silver fishing,

Dockside as I tagged along
And we watched the rough boys
Unload Ling Cod, Snapper and I
Marveled at the Memory to be.

I am driftwood, kite flyer, fire builder
All because of you-
The Old Man was a city boy
Didnt know the business end of a snake shooter,
Was twisted in birdsnest,

But you, a memory to be
Taught me simple beauty
And you have been gone
So long,

I have your face, your hands,
I strive to be understanding
Kind and methodical,

For I want these to be
My memories to be
Gone but not forgotten
Dear man, dear heart
A bonfire on a lone dune.

[sandspike]

Wallace Channel runs

from sea to sound

through my mind

washing the depths of my soul



vanished the wharfs and warehouses

which held the wealth between

ships and lighters bound for river towns

I would of crewed been captain by now



beauty on a widow's walk

awaiting my return

life hard and simple

mirroring our first joining

a prelude to tenderness

[Selena_Kitt]

Bear skins dress
hardwood floors.
A fire burns
in me.
I’ve been here before—
ragehatepainfear,
echoing, numb paralysis.
Once-Bear, who never wondered
what to do with rage—
where does animal instinct lie,
in raw, thick-muscled power and bulk,
in stand up and terrify urges,
in claws and teeth defense,
in matted, bloody, flesh-ripping impulse?
Once-Bear,
now glassy-eyed impotence
spread out on the floor.
I want to slide along on my naked belly,
wiggle under, stretch out,
make hands into paws,
breathe deep and snort.
I want to push up on all fours,
come alive and
roar.

[wildsweetone]

1:6

The Gentleman and the Lady

A gentleman would send his lady
roses you know, he’d open doors
allowing her first entry or exit, he’d lay
down his coat to cover a puddle
so her shoes might not stain, he’d smile
and ask about her day and she’d smile
to let him know he was missed.

A gentleman would send his lady
love letters you know, letters of romance
of wonderful wishes and dramas
he’d like to play, dreams he wanted
to share, thoughts of love
he needed her to know.

A gentleman would take his lady
out you know, to dine at fancy restaurants
to dance with a quartet,
or to watch the ballet and to share her
delight with others.

A gentleman would take his lady
to shops you know, to buy expensive
jewellery to decorate her long fingers
and delicate wrists, to adorn
her pale swan neck.

A gentleman would bring his lady
his heart you know, on a sleeve, his soul
for her caring, his body
to share.

But then,
she is
no
lady.

[Angeline]

Poetry took a vacation today
packed its tricks and went
away to fill another pen.

I've been sick. I didn't care
to look for it. I tried to wheedle
words to coax it home again,

but poetry is gone. Maybe
it knows I've got no stomach
for its truths, no energy

to stone Goliath language,
tame it and reshape it
into startles, gasps, oh my's,

and everything I tried to say
just melted into goopy cliche
anyway. I'm tired. When I looked

across the room, I saw my muse
had curled up in a fuddled funk
of snooze, so screw it all:

I'm going back to bed. Sometimes
there's just nothing to say.
Tomorrow is another day.

[4degrees]

pink and white
styrafoam popcorn
clings to my sleeve
as i pick out pieces of
this puzzle of you
you fit in to me,
riight here
no lingering doubt
that no other one
will fit, not like
you do.

[champagne1982]

Ville Of Sails

The lamp with the grey beard
is how I see that tall post
down by the shore. Cold on
the dock as it wraps around
landings, I see it. The ice
rink in the midst of where
summer finds sails. This
has got to be "Hockeyville".

[champagne1982]

Lupercalia

Crouching on the outer
lips of light and dark
he waits beneath his skin
aware yet tranced
the sensual noises cover
him so wet and liquid
follow limpid fingers
as they trace
long lines down skin
as if it were all he owned.

Lift that bloodied muzzle
to the night and howl
delight to the moon
pain belongs to the lupine
form hidden in the flesh
of humanity as she shrinks
inside his view to become
a small thing
to keep as a curiousity
or a stone to worry on.

Together they feed, she
on his need and the wolf
on fear and pain
resonates off the moon
as it is sang
into the night to drown
in lupine sorrows, tonight's
human denial and service
to the darkened sky.


Note: In honour of the day. Even though Rome wasn't built in one, it seems Castor and Pollux still set time aside for the wolf.

Originally Posted by SelenaKittyn

A kind thank you, sir...

Hey kitty cat, I'd like a lick of that
my sticky tongue
lapping creamy curves
You can walk spiked heel
black fishnet toes, knead me
as long as you be my lap cat

mmake me purr

[duckiesmut]

1-6

you, left with nothing
to say-
fancy words
slipped down the sink with
Joy and grease,
left to clog the pipes-
a domestic
reminder of what was,
three months
at a time

[annaswirls]

They tear hard crusted artisan bread
Paglietta spread soft by knives
with dull blades. Flat bottomed boats
of light lily lovers under parasol ribbons
coast under the drawbridge.

But you insist on immersion,
pull me under deep sinking breathless
breathless bite woven braids
of capture.

Teach me to knot thin strip patterns
like the rough reeds
of the Nile, secure our passage
in this waterproof basket

Caprino Romano
hardened goat,
grated sharp.

[Man Ray]

a giggly happy poem is `I like you`
a hot and sexy poem is `I want you`
a real dramatic poem is `I need you`
an honest true poem is `I love you`

[Angeline]

My father, my grandfather:
Second Avenue, Delancey Street,
Rivington railroad flats, airshafts,
wash fluttering brick to brick
like trapped birds undaunted

by shouts across sills, mayhem
of ragmen and pickle sellers,
bargainers for cabbages,
pike set cold-eyed on melting ice
awaiting yesterday's news.

Chaotic music is played in riddles
and bribes. Pilpul and pennies
are dropped in the pushke. Life
is danced in cardboard-soled shoes,
schtetls rebuilt by landsleit
who polish hammered pride
on a promise of goldeneh medina.

And then. Ut azoy.

The kinder fly to the Bronx
and Queens, misplace the heart
of culture in garages and backyards
in Short Hills, Far Rockaway.
Yenkees lose accents,
drop syllables from names.

My father, my grandfather
dry to print on a page.

The world spins new yarn
for the future, knits glory and misery
to an uncomfortable garment
stiffened with passing years:
a costume fit only for ceremony.

***********************************

pilpul: argument, debate
pushke: charity box
schtel: Jewish Eastern European community
landsleit: countrymen
goldeneh medina: land of gold, America
ut azoy: just like that
kinder: children

[eagleyez]

Requiem for A Night's Sleep

3 am,
I do stretches and long to listen to loud music,
Boneshake "In a Silent Way"
But Miles is Sketching Spain
And the minutes creep-

You come too,
"whatcha doin baby?"

I chalked it up to all day coffee
After a splendid dinner,
"just touching the ceiling sweets."

Moments later you sit up, me in your chair
And you in the hand me down half couch
Questioning should I try
As newsboys and donutbakers rattle and roll
Out on the river road
And I can hear the snow melt and
Smell the mud a month too early,

Haul off the Juice in the Fugue Hour, Fridge Light, then
Crawl like a crab, sidewise, under powderblue Snowgoose sheets,
Beseeched "roll over and let me get the hip"

And my breathing slows as you go,
Funny Valentine Count Basie snickers tween us-

Fuck it, still dark, Im going for a paper
Its only 33 till 5 and you are tapping like a
Titmouse, amusing me with whiskered profile

And I get Neil, of selective hearing, night man leans in and says "huh."
Old boy aint foolin me and its still dark as a piss ant as I ascend,
Upward, the key and
The keys to the day jangle in my warm hand.

Too early for the Stones
Late enough for Bartok,
Perhaps Vaughn-Williams-

All that matters flashes across your face
As I bend to peck your lips with my glasses slung low
On my beak.

[Selena_Kitt]

I am no playful puppy,
no loyal, lapping sentiment,
no wet greeting at the door.
I am all kitten.
Finicky pink nose turned up,
stalking tail rise and cold shoulder
rub against your feet
only when I want something.
I bite the hand that feeds me.
Careful.
Cats can scratch your eyes out.



I can't believe I've actually written 7 poem in 7 days!

[champagne1982]

Two Faces

Leap, splash and grins
to fill up surplus life
fun for tomorrow's

sobriety.

Mudspattered happiness
better than fatigue
from work's overflow

remember?

Look! Look! The image of his father!
Smiles to fill the world on two faces.
she said, No, the image of his son.

[flyguy69]

Fly 1:5

I expected age to be a cat
curled in my lap, soft strokes
and rumbling satisfaction, or a dog
crouched at my feet with a memory
in its maw (Good boy! Go get another!).
Flipping through National Geographic I considered
the sloth, with its blurred borders
of sleep and wakefullness. A crow is perched
outside my window, his frail bones
rolled in feathers and one fathomless eye
on his friend the snake, taken too soon
by rolling rubber fate. The other he turns
to me, rocking in my menagerie of senescence.