30 Poems in 30 Days

4

Spring is a stumble away
clouds boil over tormented waters,

winds swirl riding high and quick
pushing each cresting each wave
drawn to terra crashing suicide

Bone deep magnetic,
the fleeing force of winter

whispers of spring
carried on carnival winds
snap at my heals

It's time to go North

1-29 There is no slow burn

I did not expect to have to carry my own dead body around for all eternity. My boneless remains, sealed tight in plastic wrap, soft and pasty like a ball of dough punched down after the first rise. I cannot help but think I would be a lot lighter if I had been cremated as requested. It was quite a disappointment.

At the bottom of the brown paper bag, I carry myself like a hidden fifth of alcohol or a urine sample placed on the office counter. I find a furnace and aluminum foil but know there is neither time not heat to burn me to the ashes I had always longed to become. At best I could hope was to become a blackened crust of a baked potato
thrown on the flames of a campfire.

I dream of bone chips greasy charcoal, if I had only gone by
spontaneous combustion from the inside out! What the hell am I supposed to do with this bag of uncooked flesh? It does not seem right to just leave it here with you.

1 - 29 Wanting more than a Band-Aid fix

Tell me what I am missing
and I will tell you what you don't know

Tomorrows are yesterdays
feel the heat of them on my back
and it burns

Third-degrees sear flesh
scorches memories, leaving infection
to simmer under neo-skin

No soothing miracle removes scars
grafting is only temporary
for permanent reminders I see every day

Everyone seems to find a cure
to believe in, show me so I can too

1-29

Environ Mental

Why would you entrench your mind
in such a deep rut of untruth
and fabrication. Is this politically
correct? Should I simply call
it lies? They're falsehoods spouted
out the top of an illusion
for a head. Does it hurt
to know I can't believe the story
that you tell when there's an ugly
scar on the tundra and the air
smells like sulphur? Don't be afraid
to frighten me with facts.
Kyoto minions can't fix the world.
just admit you'll never stop flaring
the same way as you'll always hide
your slag in an open pit mine
and call it reclamation.

(I'm afraid to jinx it... but ooooooo.. one away )

I got nothin',
no ideas no inspirations
no clue what i'm doing.
So I wrote a bad poem about it
and you,
ah, you special little cupcake
you read it.

~R

1 - 29

1:29

untitled

In silence the ocean swell
rolls the boat that clings
sturdy to the sea, creaking
on the down ride, groaning
on the up. Sails swallow
the wind and snap
at a breeze that leaves sunset
to curl around the mast,
shoot coral flames
to the scrubbed deck
and sandwiches sailors
to the sea.

what time is it? 1-29 or 1-30.....it's 1-30

it seems I've lost track of time
as the month ends, hopefully
...................poetry will begin

those poems that take awhile
...........poems you sleep upon,
then empty you heart upon the page
the thoughts that expose the soul,
the words that leave you in front
............................of the mirror

1-30 A morning love poem

It's been awhile since pink and purple
touched the sky, all too busy
driving at night to notice the morning

She is lovely, she is and I sigh
curl around her, breathe honeysuckle vines
glad this day starts here

We hush talk into each other's mouths
make plans of three turning into four
we hope the sun shines

I write poems for her, reminded
there may be many muses, but she
is the one I see first

1:30 Sexy Words

I can’t stand to hear you sing—
but I love to hear you talk.
Everything is poetry,
even voice is sexy
coming from your throat.
Silk and leather,
skirt and purr and push—
all fine and pungent words,
but trance-inducing sexy
when you press them to my ears—
flesh and palette and need,
ice and juice and omelette,
descend and strap and splay.

1-6

you, us
formulated factors
borne of love/pain
excess, i address
the truth in this thing
we are closer than we've
ever been
again i repeat,
linear miles and
synchronised clocks
are mistaken as
elements of this ever-bond
that was put in place
three hundred and eleven
days ago
a ways to go, baby
regardless though of
our obstical course
i'm in this to the finish.
the finish is never in sight.

Acrostic Sonnet for Neo 1-30

1-30

The Woods In Late Winter

Okay, the days are getting longer,
three minutes or so, per spin.
The winter begrudgingly relinquishes
her icy grip on the soul
of this northern land.

The sun is certainly stronger.
When I feel Sol's heat on my grin
I know youthful life soon vanquishes
the dark season's bitter toll
on this northern land.

Boreal forest
my heart's home.
I could not choose
a better view.
___________________

Booya!

1-30 Fin!

when I don't write poetry
I dream of Elvis
old fat Elvis with grease and glasses
shaking his velvet hips
at shrieking glamour addicts
as if it really meant something

and I wonder

could I really delude a universe
into flashlight floods and
an illusion of ideal?

to make them believe
I never rose with morning wood
got zapped out on Jeapordy marathon
masturbated in the shower
or had to, as they say,
pass Elvis
now and then?

and then burst the bubble,
urban legend style...

when I don't write poetry
I think of a lot of crazy shit

so what am I gonna do now,
write on? trigger up for another round?

or hail to the King?

1-9 - Wait

Burn in amber language
Acidic sparks explode
Wonderment cracks a code
Bent by my desire

Burn the fire down
Round turns back again
Pens point and write
The brightness

Crackle snap crack
Don’t lay on my back
Look me in the eye
And say you love me.

Burn your clothes
Run naked through the grass
The sun shines on your skin
Lets begin!

Turn a phrase, a phase
Of endless expansion
Tension released
The beast slumbers
In the ashes.

In the morning
dewdrops glisten
on your eyelashes and nipples.
I wait for you to wake.

My Dearest Neonurotic:

You timed it perfect. It was 75 in Carolina today. I laid out and
then walked nine holes. Came home and had numerous long necks.
Had this started a day later I would have nothing left for Sunday.
thanks, sandspike Oh, B.C. beat Carolina 15 min. ago. Some
weekends are just so damn sweet.

1-30 lord we don't need another mountain

The world does not need
another poem




*written after reading submissions for too many hours

1:30

Stained Glass Sunsets

They play back and forth
a thread holds them captive,
winds them in against a stained
glass sunset that glows
in the background. In hours
uncounted and moments
unchallenged where the mind
sees more than eyes
ever will, awareness lights
the flame, longing lights
the flame and lust distinguishes
the rawness that nails
their need to the wall
and settles their sighs
at sunrise.

3-4 Out of option Gods

more time spent on want than
have had, or have

haphazard memory,
misremembered imagery

like

watching people play music
as if they'd been forced to stop and listen

like

cigarette smoke playing dirt blue scarf
for stained glass beer signs
wish there was jesus in any colored glass
no jesus nowhere
jesus owes me five dollars and
something better than a false sense of security

God hides in the bottom of liqour bottles,
is how it goes in AA meetings
people downing shots of coffee, belly up to cheap tables
it's just a change of venue, a new stage for the
same
sad
shit

God, great and good,
is never found anywhere nice

God is in poverty
(Lift a rock and you will find me)
In the dirt
(Split a piece of wood)
In heartbreak
(and I am there)
I want to find God in my pocket
like poems the writing of which
was forgotten

Show me a God you don't have to
hunt for under couch cushions,
a God you don't have to use at the last minute
to get yourself by for one more day

No last resort higher power,
no impartial jury
no court of my peers -

I am low with winos in alleys but
set up far better, I got the pie in the sky
I'll never work again
or get a job either,
I don't want more rock for the bottom I found
but if I don't go any lower
won't find jesus

Don't really want jesus,
want rhetoric
got silence
don't talk much,
just look for meaning in the bottoms
of coffee cups and the way this girl looks
in profile she is
beautiful with her done up face on
hair all up and curly, misinforming motion
like every follicle is trying to escape a ponytail prison

I see that god is there, too.

1 - 30

Hooya!

Thank you Poets for pulling together and making this one of the most successful challenges I've seen here. I enjoyed all of your poems, and yes, I read them all. You all did some good stuff here. Hopefully, you'll return and start again when you feel creativity lagging and need a "boot camp" to get you into shape.

In the order of the last poem of attempt number one:

Tathagata First and thirtieth

sandspike First and thirtieth

TheRainMan First and thirtieth

neonurotic First and thirtieth

SelenaKittyn First and thirtieth

Tzara First and thirtieth

Angeline First and thirtieth

clutching_calliope First and thirtieth

champagne1982 First and thirtieth

Liar First and thirtieth

annaswirls First and thirtieth

wildsweetone First and thirtieth

Man Ray First and thirtieth


Again, much thanks ya'll. You're fabulous!

ps - I'm wondering if flyguy's attempts will hit 30 before his poems do

2-7

anna is right
but i don't write
my poems for the world;

self gratification and
a stroke or two
for a beautiful muse
are the premise
for this practice

writing poetry
is the same thing
as jacking off
sometimes it eases the
stress of my world,
and other times
it leaves me empty.

1:31

The Unwritten Rules

There’s a wooden fence out the back;
a fence the neighbourhood gang
wanders. Sometimes they balance
precariously, other times surefooted
sprints see them streaking
across the window frame. They think
no one can see them as they journey
from left to right, or right to left
just wandering or staking claim
to a boundary that isn’t theirs,
it’s mine, but I can see them
as I sit here writing. I watch
and wonder how on earth
they manage to be so friendly
with each other. Four cats
that visit the neighbours
at night, stepping over boundaries
and playing with unwritten
rules.