August - 12-line Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

Again, thanks to all partaking in the line by line challenges.

It’s now August and the line by line challenge count increases to twelve. There are many 12-line forms available or you can create your own. As before, any topic and number of poems and forms within the requisite number of lines or multiple verses of that number of lines are acceptable. For the form fixated, the Poets Collective has an extensive listing of 12-line forms.

 

[HarryHill]

First set

..
The Princess and the Pea (With Apologies)

It came one day the King would wed
a Princess from 'cross the sea
come to replace one run away that detested giving head,
after many missionary years on the mattress of their bed.

A mattress that seemed a little stiff from the one he'd had before,
abandoned and forgotten by one so sensitive
to say, the old one wasn't proper, a night of sleep left her sore;
now she was gone, the tick remained, he'd cursed her for a whore.

The new Princess was everything the King could desire,
loved to love and please her liege, vowed to never leave,
but the bedding wasn't proper for a Princess, oh please Sire,
get us another one, softer and a little higher.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Family

We fought like cats and dogs, we did, my four siblings and I,
competitive and petulant, we often came to blows
but wounded feelings never lasted, we’d reunify.

Our father, often overcome, would scold us all in prose
hoping it would calm us all down or send us off to sleep
needless to say, it did not work, he loved us I suppose.

One of us, not saying who broke the mold, a true black sheep,
a pacifist, an open heart worn bravely on the sleeve
when war broke out the challenge was a fragile peace to keep.

Strangers thought us the perfect brood, we let them thus believe,
behaving well, manners in place, hiding a Janus face
we showed our parents what they wanted rather than deceive.

 

[Tzara]

Poem For

I'd love to hold your hand,
but can't—neither of us have normal fingers.
Whatever our desire,

we cannot clutch,
enlace each other's hand
or stroll together along the Serpentine

while murmuring poems
built on some lascivious
language that would urge each of us

into a more intimate caress.
That would only be words, of course.
Though I wish, with this apology, they be good words.

 

[Tzara]

Bitter

I read your letter again,
or note, or goodbye or

however you want to phrase
it that you don't want

to continue our relationship.
Of course you can have your dog back

and I don't want your camisoles
or shoes and I'll even be happy

to dump—I mean leave—them
in the parking lot

in easy to pick up plastic bags
marked WHORE in the five languages I know.





I would hope it wouldn't be necessary to point out that this poem is a persona poem--one where the author adopts the perspective of someone other than him or herself. But just to make it clear--this definitely is a persona poem.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Drinking in LA

a bottle of Syrah
plugged, full of promises
maybe applies to both
the wine and my missis
in her riven Lycra

her last resort so spruce
a bottle in between
lipsticked mouths and thighs' sheen
clad in fermented juice

I like her such zesty
tasting when we're leaving
a bottle of empty

 

[PBAnnie]

Panning in Trash Bins for Gold

I see an old woman
Panning in the trash bins for gold

Because thrown out food isn't warm enough
To keep her from freezing in the cold.

The kissing couples, as they pass,
Try so hard not to stare

At the tattered shoes upon her feet
And mismatched ribbons in her hair.

Does God smile down upon her
As he does for the fortunate few?

And when she dies will the angels cry
Like they do for me and you?

 

[Winter_Fare]

Come for me

That look in your eye is the chain
You pull it tight and hold your breath
Awaiting that sweet little death
For me dear lover all is bliss
And all I ask of you is this:
To ride the wave and please be strong
Your life in my hands

Only a fool would call it pain
I draw from you a silent song
Bound in my nest where you belong
I unravel your gift once again
Your life in my hands

 

[29wordsforsnow]

pretty fly

never bows, never crawls
misunderstood, complex

My little sunshine

called a sticky, always wide-spread whore
just looking for the next mate

My saint soaked with sap

no matter how many legs
takes care of them all

My friend by design

what all of them learn too late
she's a carnivore

My venus's-flytrap

 

[Tzara]

Philosophy

I was reading, as usual,
this morning. Today,
Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.

Not, I admit, one's usual breakfast
fare. But then I came upon
this: Experience

may teach us what is, but never
that it cannot be otherwise.
And I was grateful

that however stupid I can be at times,
you still, still love
me. And, yes, that is such a gift.

 

[Angeline]

Basin Street Blues

A history rolls by in under ten minutes
brought to you by a back-o-town waif
who grows into his Cheshire Cat grin
and makes us all fall for him because

who doesn't understand the slip and slur
of blues, the long wave that drags
you under but doesn't kill you
because the reason we get down

is to get back up, to march with panache
in a joyful second line past ragtime
into uncertainty. Don't let nobody tell you
the world don't sparkle with second chances.

 

[Piscator]

To the woman reclining on Muskoka chair on Ninemile Lake on the last day of a 6 day canoe trip

Fair lady let us tarry for a while
the portages were long with wind cross bow
five nights without a woman's touch and now
I spy you reclined near naked on dock
truly bestirring my tumescent cock
to seek cozy harbour within your prow
Fair lady tarry a while

I’ll bury my face tween your luscious thighs
though stubble rubs labia, tongue laps pearl
first slow, then fast, later with added twirl
till your crisis overwhelms with passioned cries
Fair lady tarry a while

 

[Lyricalli]

Muse in Absentia on an Empty Road

I've written so long
for an audience of one
playing on my mind

Now faced with the empty space
within and without
the route ahead unclear
paved in blues
stretching out into
endless shades of grey
an ache for the days
of vivid colors
dancing in laughter lost





Not quoted directly, but "Still Got the Blues" was partially responsible for the direction my thought bubble floated.

Still Got the Blues, Gary Moore: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRTkCObfkUU

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Apples Fall

...stripped of their lip-red hide
and their bitter hearts cut out
their best, the sweet part consumed
apples fall
what's left, when
apples fall,
of our Summer.
apples, fall
like Love
green becomes yellow and red.
In winter's nightfall memories bud
forwarding new innocence to spring...

 

[HarryHill]

..
This is my church;
the earth, a sanctuary,
sky, ever changing grace.

Ground turned w/devotion, love;
above, the suns godly smile
blesses all those bowed below.

I feed those entrusted to my service,
insects, birds, nervous rabbits, deer,
those that walk beside, here and there.

Dawn and twilight are stained glass windows,
many pane's of ever changing hue, shadow;
drawn curtains end my day's.

 

[butters]

summertime blues

body's in a constant war come summer:
retain that water versus sweat—a bummer

humidity's affront and shaded rooms
create these under-eyelid purple blooms

that craving for the sea on days like these
dulls the mind and brings me to my knees

fingers, feet and legs all fluid-filled
as fizzy water flows, so nicely chilled

can barely think beyond poor rhyming couplets
—or come up with a rhyme...am left with sublets

so please ignore this woe-is-me disaster
and pray our seasonal gods bring autumn faster!

 

[HarryHill]

.
Building Twelve:

Knelt before the supplicant
he frees entangled leaves
of its neighbors to the west-ish
a pair of rowdy peas,
all grope and no poke;
it's rough on row seven.

Standing with benediction
striding down waiting throng
beginning your pilgrimage
performed a hundred times a day
'twix the fervor of suns blessing
and the nearest patch of shade.

 

[Piscator]

69

As sixty-nine grows near, I pray
for soixante-neufs quintessential
admixed with oral sequential
and perhaps this time to explore
forbidden pleasures at back door
with lovers experiential
as sixty-nine grows near.

One shy the span of seven dogs
my lifeline neither dims or fades
I’ll not malinger in the shade
nor kneel to please forgotten gods
as sixty-nine grows near.