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Monthly Poetry Challenge for June 2007

WickedEve

WickedEve

save an apple, eat eve
Joined
Oct 20, 2001
Posts
11,470
If you've participated in the challenges in the past, then you know what it's all about.

Write a poem.

Don't drag it out. Just get to the point.

Use the word Orgasm in the poem, but it cannot be an erotic poem.

Think twice before you rhyme. You can rhyme but try to resist the urge.

I guess you post it in this thread when you're finished.

Okay, get started and I'll check to see what other info I need to give you poets.


Edit:
I found this: Volunteer Guidelines
If you volunteer to facilitate a Monthly Challenge you will be responsible for:
-creating the challenge Okay, that's done.
-posting it on the 1st of the month you've volunteered for Close enough and I didn't volunteer. :D
-encouraging poets and soliciting feedback and critiques Oh, must I?
-posting on the 14th of the month and last day of the month to acknowledge deadlines Deadlines? End of the month...
-providing challenge-oriented snacks. Did that say smacks?
 
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Lingering Death

Loathing the trite sea
Happy faces bound in pain
Revelations lost, on the hopeless
Hapless masses
Moaning monochromatic breath

Scream in rhyme
Speak without rhythm
Like an orgasm twisted
Gone woefully wrong
Under incomplete control

Sweeping dreams
Senses of being, tossed
Away from binding hope
Capturing borrowed id
No more

Left on a doorstep
A forgotten package
Dropped carelessly
And left behind
By life
 
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Tristesse2 said:
What flavour smacks will you be bringing? :D

(ok - I'll go write something now)
Click to expand...
Give me your best non-erotic orgasm and you'll get a sour apple smack.


EriAliSaa!
Like an orgasm twisted
Gone woefully wrong

I want that on a bumper sticker or displayed somewhere.
 
WickedEve said:
Give me your best non-erotic orgasm and you'll get a sour apple smack.


EriAliSaa!
Like an orgasm twisted
Gone woefully wrong

I want that on a bumper sticker or displayed somewhere.
Click to expand...


You've got my whole hearted permission to put that on a bummer sticker if you like. But if you start making money on it, you've got to cut me in ;)
 
There's no need to think twice about rhyme when you write.
It's an orgasm bursting through time with delight.
 
Some Few Abandoned Things

For some time after she left
I would find her things scattered about

here and there, like packets of herbal tea
interleaved among the English Breakfast

and Darjeeling, an old box
of Tampax behind the tissue and shampoo,

a wad of hosiery on the closet floor.
These discoveries never bothered me,

at least no more than finding the cat
had been marking my dresser drawer again

or shredding couch upholstery. But when
I found her last, watery orgasm beneath the bed

where she had kicked it—angry, bored—then
I could not just wipe it up. It was still damp

and quite forlorn and I simply let it be.
Sometimes I would even look at it, half-crouched

on the floor, and think of better times
when she remembered to take her feelings

with her—into the shower, or to school or work.
It seemed important to preserve this.

In time, it dried to a fine white dust, and mixed
with the random balls of lint and hair one finds

in any long unvisited corner of one's life. It may,
actually, still be there. I have never mopped that spot.
 
Tzara said:
Some Few Abandoned Things

For some time after she left
I would find her things scattered about

here and there, like packets of herbal tea
interleaved among the English Breakfast

and Darjeeling, an old box
of Tampax behind the tissue and shampoo,

a wad of hosiery on the closet floor.
These discoveries never bothered me,

at least no more than finding the cat
had been marking my dresser drawer again

or shredding couch upholstery. But when
I found her last, watery orgasm beneath the bed

where she had kicked it—angry, bored—then
I could not just wipe it up. It was still damp

and quite forlorn and I simply let it be.
Sometimes I would even look at it, half-crouched

on the floor, and think of better times
when she remembered to take her feelings

with her—into the shower, or to school or work.
It seemed important to preserve this.

In time, it dried to a fine white dust, and mixed
with the random balls of lint and hair one finds

in any long unvisited corner of one's life. It may,
actually, still be there. I have never mopped that spot.
Click to expand...


wow

excellent
:rose:
 
Time lapse

He specialized in the art of
undercranking
focusing on living flowers
and I grew bored
as he spoke of
lens selection and lighting strength
in excruciating detail
what he was doing
and why I found my mind
wandering out to where breezy birds
sang duets and we could have been
but he was bent over
tables of stills “Come with me”
and we were in the dark
no birds singing
but a small screen glowed
and a bud burst into an orgasm of colour
in the close dark between us,
 
Darkness still shrouds
us sleeping
an eastern glimmer
of light
leads softly forwards
building, rising
then bursts orgasmic
dawn chorus.
 
Good Morning

Orange and yellow bellied clouds
Range across the eastern horizon
Glass towers reflect the coming day
Against the remaining western gloom
Summer's dawning sweetly smiles
Morning sex wrapped in drowsy warmth
 
Last edited:
Tristesse2 said:
Orange and yellow bellied clouds
Range across the eastern horizon
Glass towers reflect the coming day
Against the remaining western gloom
Summer's dawning sweetly smiles
Morning sex wrapped in drowsy warmth
Click to expand...

Oh I love you! I love this. I think I have my 2 reviews.

First one Tris.... poor photographer. I felt badly for him.... until he got you in the dark room :D Oh do tell me he is a photographer. Not some deranged horticulturist. The images of the flowers and flowering are very non specific erotic images that leave me feeling frustrated because I'm untouched. I have no idea if that was the intent or I'm just at the horny as hell all the time stage. Either way, it had me feeling by leaving me unsatisfied.

Second this one. Short and too the point. The foreshadowing doom of night melting into the day. Again my condition might have me over emotional, but I really felt the awaking as it were. One slight issue only. I found the use of the word sex distracting and detracting from both the form and setting. It is sort of like scraping the curb as you come to rest after a perfect parking job.

I admit I have parking issues. I do it badly.
 
I really have enjoyed all the poems!
I leave on the 10th and won't return until the 15th. I hope there will be more good reading when I get back. :)
 
the
o
that wasn't there

you hurl,
as if
it were,

it would
in me
for you

that isn't


​
 
Tristesse2 said:
He specialized in the art of
undercranking
focusing on living flowers
and I grew bored
as he spoke of
lens selection and lighting strength
in excruciating detail
what he was doing
and why I found my mind
wandering out to where breezy birds
sang duets and we could have been
but he was bent over
tables of stills “Come with me”
and we were in the dark
no birds singing
but a small screen glowed
and a bud burst into an orgasm of colour
in the close dark between us,
Click to expand...

i adore
this...

for its ambiguity...

beginning
middle
end of a relationship?

read differently for each...
hmmmmm?

'undercranking';
so wicked a word here...

painfully, critically correct
for
the process
it describes,

it rolls harshly on the tongue
as if spat;
as if the name of a known mistress...

and subliminally
strangely
prejorative as well...

such a word.

and then the body
itself...

disparate affinities
and focus
finding momentary
trancendent union
in
the 'burst' of an image:

an unintended
o
that sneaks up on both...

your stream of consciousness
narration;
respectfully
filling lonely moments
with, but not
with
the other...

and then
his
'come with me...'


so lonely
and then...

is it
optimism?
reminiscence?

rue?

this one breathes so...
i want to reread it
in a week or so
and again...

the style works well..
distended
distracted
detailed...

dendretic thought

there are no rules
 
Waiting for Green Darkness

They'd been collected and collected again
Months at a time, hidden in the dark, dusted
I wondered what bits might work and might not
As each woke or didn't.

Twists and turns turned minutes into hours.
I frayed my hands, but not the knots.
Green sculpture curled ripe with potential,
But green with boredom painted this precurse.

Finally, all checked and all fixed
All hung, adjusted, untwisted and wrapped,
They waited for their moment.
I waited for the darkness -- Dusk was slow.

Then WHOOSH, an orgasm of light
Blinding me and filling the shadows.
Nooks and crannies dark for a year
Now stood dust bunny-filled and smiling.

At the top, the tree had been crooked,
But now I didn't notice, didn't care.
The glitter of blinking twinkly lights wrapped me
In the soul of the Holidays to come.
 
Doctor, I dislike the way you make
me feel. Your fingers as they take
away my last vestige of modest virtue
as if I have no right to blush,
not here, not with you.

I pause and speculate on the warmth
of that speculum which makes me pause
and wonder if we all know this small
consideration for our comfort
in this, this most uncomfortable

situation. I bite my lip and feel
the heat rise up my chest as you stroke
my stomach in a massage of query.
Does this hurt? Oh God, don't stop
not now, not in this position.

Any other man and by now
I'd have had an orgasm.
 
Champagne, that poem reminds me of a pap smear where I told the doctor, "Take your time, this is the closest I've come to having sex in a long time."
 
Did it again,
thought of you and
let myself get

carried away a
little too much,
Can you blame me

for wanting to be
with you again, or
do you still put

me at fault for
having my own
orgasm and just

rolling over like
that was that and
now it was time

for bed? Yeah,
I know, but life
sort of sucks.

Where'd I put
those damn
tissues, anyways?
 
Another Sea Story

Her boy had returned, afterall,
his ship docked, as she waited on pier
with a bushel of her favorite
('though ill-fitting) flowers, an orgasm
of daisies, lilacs, and lilies.

Below decks, a gam'ming
of the galloglass and captain,
discussed the price of the flotsam,
(self-same spoke of 'boy')
the seasick prisoner, and ejaculate of the sea.
 
we gather
as many mental orgasms as we can
each day
a scavenger hunt of ego strokes
in coffee shops and in the car
a wink or a smile
all this recognition
affirmation
saved and stored
till we're full of ourselves
then comes the toe curler
with our last breath
we let them all go
marbles on a tile floor
to be gathered all over
by someone else


( I want my eve smacks)
 
Burst of morning, the sky
explodes, shudders white
and forget Kleenex my dear
because we’ll need a shovel
and three muffled strangers
with rusted plows
on their pickups. It’s not
that the sky is blue, but our bed
is a wreck again and we’re exhausted,
drifted under the azure comfort
of pillows, three muffled days
where we don’t leave, and still
clouds spasm, crows shriek
from laden branches, wind cries.
Oh God give me a cigarette,
and let me recover from this orgasm
that is winter in Maine.
It’ll take at least three muffled years
of somewhere else before I won’t
need to write about snow again.
 
he tossed it
into the
pile
with the others:

another trick;
practiced,
now rote.

what tore at him
was
lonlieness

as she lay
in blissfull after
beside him...

a trick for him;
performance.

and though
he approached
each time,

each time
the next she,
brought
by him
there,

was with
emptier dispassion.

here now,
he was but shell;
as this
blissful next one
lay full.

the rainmaker's gift
is given
not
without cost...

that he could provide
was...
almost enough...




his o
though,
was
out there.
 
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