30 Poems in 30 Days (Redux)

[Remec]

11 - 26 Writing on Cleaning Day

Some days, one's Muse
is a vibrant, vivid form;
pirouetting Her way through
the echoes of memory
until she can be at the
forefront of thought,

Others, there's a slow
rumbling band of white noise
that filters out everything other
ambient sound and lets
the Muse fill ears and mind
with what They want
you to tell
the world,

And then you have today,
when the barky sound of oversized
Legos being banged together
mingle with the almost psychotic laughs
of a preverbal charge and
the drone of the
friggin' vacuum cleaner
to do their very best to scare
off said Muse;

And almost does.

 

[HarryHill]

x-16 Tomorrow/yesterday

Sweep February out,
dress March's table in gaiety,
stifle that wild elation,
the seasons not turned abed,
spread those shapely legs,
left the low green things to carry on
deep rooting's

Today live

Edibles' and metaphors,
kata and garden chores,
sly smile, the Elm's are leafing,
asparagus peeping,
one stunned by cold indifference,
hangs a head

 

[HarryHill]

...... -_-

 

[butters]

4 - 2

february's grown meek
damp and mild
thin rain on thinner breezes
insipid, uniform greys

but nestled close to grass
that grows more verdant
with each passing day
duckling-yellow daffodils in bud
prepare to stretch their necks
in narcissistic fashion
spring's war trumpets

 

[HarryHill]

x-17

I wonder if mister fishy knows,
I've written a commercial to be shown below,
airs this Friday, early too,
get yours now; this worms for you

 

[Remec]

11 - 27 Deflation

Changes are all around us,
only to be expected, of course,
since that's what change is
all about;
but still,
it can be unnerving at times,

Like when you're relaxing at a
party, drink in hand, enjoying
the tingle of a buzz from
earlier drinking and maybe a
few tokes with a friend of a friend,
and grooving to the music
being played by the house band,
head trying to bob like you were
at the Roxbury and eyes sending
'wake up' messages to
your dick at the sight of
the jean-clad ass of the woman
standing before you;

Until she turns and you see the
sister you hadn't seen since you
were last in town, two years ago.

 

[HarryHill]

x-18 Studio

Poor withy man,
still a sketch after all this time,
within a vibrant jungle land,
golden beach sands his feet,
emerald palms above, fire blooms,
moon fruit depends from vines,
stream of silver grey swirls away,
he waits, slender spear poised,
graphite ghost

 

[butters]

5 - 2

i have no quarrel with god
should such a thing be real

too vast for minds to understand
i no longer bother trying

no longer bother
to weigh the anger of the dying

or of the kin who linger on
when no miracle stepped in to save them

against the euphoria
of those who believe it has

life's too short
too small and dirty and petty

too full of birth blood and headstones
too ... full of feeling

instead step lightly in this world
who needs to leave deep footprints in their wake?

revel in each small pleasure
the sun on your face

the dart and swoop of birdsong
the first flakes of snow

and - for me - i trust
when it is my time to go

i'll greet the darkness like a long lost friend
my flame snuffed out, a life lived till the end

i need no hope of heaven, fear of hell
to rest in peace? reward for life lived well

i have no quarrel with god
not yet
but should a deity insist that i exist
beyond my naturally appointed time
in other cosmic realms
persist in wishing me conscious thought
when all i wish is to be unstrung like tiny pearls
to scatter 'cross the matter of this world
to disappear
ground down to grains of sand
then
well then
i might
and god had better understand

 

[Remec]

11 - 28 Faith

Who would profess to know the mind of God?
Or claim to understand his many plans?
Especially when counter to our prayers.
Who would profess to know the mind of God?
And who would believe them, we're such naysayers.
Who would profess to know the mind of God?
Or claim to understand his many plans?

 

[HarryHill]

x-19 Skip

Yesterday I just
I just couldn't do it
it it was hidden in pages
pages pages of some challenge
some thread of poems poems
poems where it lay buried
buried buried
I was tired of digging
shoveling shit shit shit
could only remember that was a form
form form bastard sonnet
fuck it t t t t t t t t

 

[butters]

6 - 2

kiss me Ku
he said,
all shakespeare-like,
and i, a non-shrill, non-shrew,
non-kate ku
complied more than willingly
remembering past allusions -
his tongue in my tail -
and
thereby hangs a tale all of its own

it must be Love
given his need of an editor,
my patience with apostrophes,
and his patience with mews
when it's much ado about ku

 

[Remec]

11 - 29 Working It

The blankness of the screen
belies the swirl of
emotion and language inside
my head,
words that want to come forth
but hold themselves back
and leave me wondering
what they are,
what they have to say,
and how might I entice
them into
coming
out.

 

[HarryHill]

x-20 Sympathetic Magic

No poem for tomorrow,
panic strikes,
dig out that Ju-Ju; shake off the dust,
scribe earth in glyph under incandescent red,
utter the incantation, solemn, fervent,
grow you bastard

 

[Remec]

11 - 30 Winter Holiday

I would have preferred an
enclosed porch, it being winter
and all,
but the patio wasn't terrible
once we had the fire pit up
and running,
a strong roaring blaze that I am
sure could be seen for miles
on such a clear night,
so crystal that I think I was able
to spot the Big Dipper without
any problem at all,
usually Orion is the only thing I
can simply pick out of the
sky,

But I settled back on one of the
lounges, breathing in the warm
woody smoke, and sipping at
a similarly woody glass of Scotch.
I know friends who would fuss
at me terribly for having it on the rocks
instead of neat, but I like playing
with the ice as I drink,
plus I usually dislike Scotch and
the slight watering down helps
make it more
palatable,

This has been a nice break in a
routine that has become almost
a rut, nothing but the same
wake, dress, work, sleep each
and every day, with moments in between
to catch a little tv or game
with friends,
maybe write a snippet of this
or that,
here it's just chill and relax,
the only thing to listen to
his the fire, the crickets,
and the occasional call of
the Great Horned Owls in
the forest out
back.

 

[butters]

the long dark stranger
stretches work-weary legs
swirls the ice in his amber
inhales smoke and pleasure in equal measure
as the wash of ruddy flames
paints his face
lights his eyes like devil-fire

what muses dance beyond those flames
in a mind given over to the pyre?

 

[HarryHill]

x-21 Congrats'

Patting backs and buns,
well done, load another,
Mother has a fresh perm,
looks nice, new style,
coffee and cake, the place,
read while I waited,
hooked on the series,
Damn it -_-
fresh bread, seeds, sundries,
ride into the sunset
nueve mas

 

[butters]

8 - 1

the weather needs to improve
and soon
cos though it's sunny in my heart
the sky keeps leaking here
or moping low and dreary near
the muddy land

and though i won't be burning books
there's a whole lotta wood
that could
in another life
have been pulped and grown
as new leaves
cut to a different shape than before
that waits to kiss the heat

 

[HarryHill]

x-22 Nota'nother

The nesting instinct grips him, how strange,
old molting bird, throwing sticks and bones,
dust flys hell a cloud, squawks then sneezes,
wings droop, a plaintive lost mating call

Spring reigns, flighty bride, wed to our Earth,
bestride the girth and breadth of his rise,
descends, sensual lassitude, mirth,
laughing eyes lost as passions collide

So here, spill dank infusion and seed,
progeny released, crawlings, greenings,
grant old growth hale vigor, new life speed,
all those wounded in winter, healings

ground prepared, sun ordered, cats all fed,
twigs freshly changed on the birdies bed

Otros ocho

 

[butters]

9 - 2

oscars

so much depends
on a white card
in a red envelope
2 briefcases
and two briefcase-minders
now sat outside
in the rain

 

[butters]

10 - 2

''...with goodwill and a national self-interest''
he ventures,
nodding to reinforce his message
and hot air to buoy the sinking ship
(lifeboats long since sold),
he sells it up
to punters denying the oncoming flood
not a paddle between them

 

[HarryHill]

x-23

Over these gentle lands,
shared stewardship, our hands,
bent to raise the tender sprout,
root out the thorn and cockle burr,
plant the clover, call the bees,
take what wildlife needed

siete a ir

 

[butters]

11 - 2 (too tired)

she slips the barrel's lid
is greeted by the ghost of seasons' fruit
a medley of the ripe, the tart, the sweet
nostalgic fumes of cues once used, gone by

she leans inside but doesn't find
a new idea that springs to hands
that scrape the barren bottom and
gaze blindly at its crop of I.O.Us

 

[HarryHill]

x-24

The stacks of books wait,
behind the door, nightstand,
so many nooks and crannies,
bookworm bait,
all unplanned, random,
genres like weeds,
only two of poetry,
his and hers

 

[HarryHill]

x-25

Rain slides across the south like a dark, wet curtain, bedraggled and ragged.

 

[butters]

12 - 2

how pleasing, his turns of phrase,
immediate and visual
originally twisted
bookworm bait
...

tonight i'm just a handbag
hung with a slew of others
mismatched
dangling from a hat rack
somewhat deflated
bubble wrap popped