Hey

[GuiltyPleasure]

Today is the first day of International Poetry Month!​

Just saying, seems like a good month for a poem-a-day. ​

 

[Tzara]

Sonnets for April

I

Write poems for thirty days, and hurry—
Each day another one. And when
My fingers tire, my vision's blurry,
I'll probably need another ten.
I'll not attempt a thirty/thirty,
For I'll need leeway, nothing wordy,
A day or two when I might slip
To twins the next day. Gamesmanship
Is my attack plan: Hurly-burly.
So let this sonnet start the train
Of thirty poems both vain and vein,
Some swell, some sweet, and some quite surly
As sonnets often are, I'm told.
(This one seems off. Perhaps from mold.)

 

[Piscator]

Missing calls

They’re ignored
not missed as
I’ve got call display
and don’t pick up
rings from unknown
area codes offering
to clean my ducks
or open a window
on my computer.
But if your name
flashes on screen,
I’ll pick up at once
for I truly miss you.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

In the Steps of Mary Slessor

After my sea journey this boat
is a toy skimming murk
and the mystery between
walls of green so solid
they threaten. My guide
and I, watch for hippos,
a dip in these waters
is not advised.

My arms still aches
from viral invasion,
suffering to be safe
from unfamiliar ailments.

Oscar's glistening back,
his rhythmic paddle
reassures me.
I lie back and watch
the water slide by.

This is not what
what I expected, oily water
instead of grassy plains,
the Africa of Attenborough.

But the Congo is the heart,
the blood, the life of Africa
and I am here to spread The Word.

 

[Tzara]

II

Now I'm becoming used to empty streets,
the quiet that comes from neighbors locked inside
their houses—washing clothes and ironing sheets,
some mundane chores to try to nullify
their boredom, fear, their not-so-normal lives
that is this semi-quarantine. I write,
or try to write, to while away the time
I cannot be outside. It doesn't quite
replace the things I miss, or think I miss—
the bookstores, concerts, galleries—but then
one's world, one's life, is more than just the mesh
of random thoughts, of tea-soaked madeleines.
And here's another lousy sonnet. Well,
this Übermensch must practice more his Will.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

1

Something strange, vaguely amusing
has happened in these days
of neighbours fetching groceries
then they leave then at the bay.
Yesterday the door bell rang
and answering the call,
we found upon inspection
something not required at all.
A bag of Tena Ladies,
for those afflicted with a leak
from a bladder not performing well,
it's got a little weak!
We cannot find the owner,
so please if it is you
collect from my door handle
come back, it's left in situ!
..................................................
Dreadful poem I know, but it's all true!!

 

[Tzara]

GP: May we comment in this thread, or should we comment elsewhere?

 

[Piscator]

Half Moon

There’s a half moon
hanging in the blue
afternoon sky and if
the weather holds
the spring stars will
be out in force this
evening which will give
us something else to
watch as we’ve binged
most of HBO, Netflix
and other series.

The dogs took me for
a walk along the closed
section of McLean Road
and the spring peeeepers
were out in chorus with
the wood toads clucking
underneath while the first
yellow coltsfoot pushed
up from the dry grasses
and the first pussy is
breaking through the
willow buds.

The season’s change
will continue
but will I?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

2 Arizona Fill-up

The truckers used to call it
“ Last Chance” before
the ghosts took over.

Rusted jalopies, paint faded to fumes,
litter the scrub behind the building
that’s barely there any more.

The two pumps, Regular and Premium,
stand side by side but distant
as if embarrassed to be seen together
in this state of dishevelment, still wrapped
in the perfume they didn’t choose
but that will never fade.

Premium’s nozzle hangs loose
playing a monotonous tune in the hot wind.
Percussion is provided by the flapping Camel
sign nearly worked free from its crucifixion
after years of trying.

Here’s an antique stone jar.
Moonshine? Molasses? Sand blasted
to a satin finish it will be our souvenir.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

GP: May we comment in this thread, or should we comment elsewhere?

I have made a special thread.

 

[butters]

1

with nails still grimy from the good, sweet soil,
ingest a toasted cheese; bless, with coffee,
the bluest shades of skies,
the greenest greens, the
nearing-neon sheen of hackberries
as they wave their dainty fronds up high
and shed a gentle rain of sploodge
to settle in gutters—
thick drifts against the tarmac's lip.

the dirt is ripe and rich and wet;
worms purple their hasty way from sudden light,
find refuge in the crumble,
offer up gelid prayers to dark deities
that the vicious stab-stab-stab of metal
doesn't sever their allotted span
or purge their pantries—
bees mumble furry laughter at their fears.

strawberries keep close counsel with their neighbours;
dew still sparkles on sturdy leaves
that umbrella white cup-faces,
shades to keep freckles at bay
and the squint from their eyes.
they discuss the warming days, the passing gnats,
how to live with (yet ignore)
the long-thin upright onion spines
whose bulbous swellings underground
and decidedly 'foreign' aroma
stand out like a sore thumb—
fruitful life goes on.

if only they knew, just feet away,
the world's a diverse place
and the carrots don't care,
rubbing shoulders with beans;
tomatoes mingle with peas;
lettuce, cabbage and spinach
won't complain if strawberries encroach
and potatoes aren't the competitive kind,
welcoming of corn rows.

 

[Angeline]

Notes From a Half-Life

Miss Aloodi is Haitian:
her voice has bells attached.
She brings me ice
in a big cup so I can crunch
crunch crunch through the fear,
just put the tv on mute, silence
the heads that talk talk talk
and so little good, so little
value.

I miss my kids. I miss
your arms, fuzzy wuzzy chest,
your sidewise grin. If you
were here we'd watch M.A.S.H.,
say Ahh Bach and giggle.

Instead I look out the window
and crunch ice. Miss Aloodi
says I love you, sweetie.
Her musical voice
and shy smile are enough
for now I love her,
too.

 

[Tzara]

III

I'm studying Symbolic Logic,
Which often sets my head to spin;
That would be something catastrophic
If literal. It's more akin
To feeding brains into a blender,
Pureeing until soft and tender
And pouring them into a glass--
A chilled one. That's my logic class.
That might explain these dreary sonnets,
Their dull forced rhymes, their plodding verse,
Their uninspired themes, and worse,
The stench they all have stenched upon it.
But here's my third, for good or ill.
Read Tess and Angie's poems. They're swell.

 

[Angeline]

Call Me Snow

Lately I've been grumpy.
It's noisy at night:
third-shift staff call
and joke loud
as magpies,
but the Moon is up
and I'm sleepy.

I wake at odd hours,
more than a little dopey.
They've changed my meds.
I don't complain.
I'm not bashful, but afraid
of Doc. Who knows
where he has been?

What do I fear most?
Sneezy.

Lord don't let me be
sneezy, just happy to live
past poison apples
poison coughs, air droplets
of death. Give me nothing
but sweet kisses
from a germ-free prince.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

untitled

Isolation is nothing new to me,
I am happy in my own skin.
Even sickness I would rather face
alone, no fuss or fluffing pillows.

But now I long to touch someone.
give a hug, kiss a cheek, hold a hand.
From the road below strolling
strangers wave commiseration,
dog in tow. “We are lonely too.”

Days pass in bad news, death
lurks everywhere, the produce aisle,
the ATM, the pharmacy, And yet
I watch the clock for seven p,m.
when we honour those who
bravely form the front lines, nurses,
doctors, essential supermarket cashiers
and thousands more unsung until seven
when our village rings, hoots, clangs.

A minute of childish, meaningful noise
that brings us all together once again.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I love your eyes where the love light lives,
sometimes soft, more often lit with passion.
That look is all it takes to bring me desirous,
lost and trembling in the tempest of your love.
Lie skin to skin with me, and together we'll
sing our song, until all insecurities gone,
I discover the tune, the music of your heart.

 

[lgbtmom90]

Only mine poetry can be valuable here?

 

[AmericanTrash]

Only mine poetry can be valuable here?

Good question. What value does any poetry have? I would argue that poems are worth everything thus infinitely valuable. Also, you'll need a day job.

 

[Piscator]

Good question. What value does any poetry have? I would argue that poems are worth everything thus infinitely valuable. Also, you'll need a day job.

Yea, it's not easy to cash a cheque for infinity.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Only mine poetry can be valuable here?

Good question. What value does any poetry have? I would argue that poems are worth everything thus infinitely valuable. Also, you'll need a day job.

Kudos for you even knowing what that actually means, because I don't!

 

[UnderYourSpell]

You breathe in my ear that you love me,
and you may as well have emblazoned
it across the sky, for my heart soars,
races to the heights. The world must surely
be alight from the glory of what you give to me.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Poem in the Plague

I am not a prayerful person
so it is not a prayer you are in
but eternal light surrounds you,
protects you, helps you survive
these unfamiliar days.

It will be months, a year before
we can get close again but now
we’ll always wonder ir it is
wise. Breath is suspect stuff,
carrying germs we do not want.

I long for the before times when
we were free to gather, laugh so
close we felt the air move and
share sunsets side by side, even
holding unwashed hands.

Stay safe, my friends-I’ve-never-
met but feel I know. Wash weary,
chapped hands and only venture
out masked like a bandit.
Above all write poetry,
it is good for the soul.

 

[Piscator]

sorry double post