International Poetry Writing Month - November Poems ONLY

[wildsweetone]

anybody who wishes to join in may do so. the aim is to write one poem per day for the month of November.

any form is acceptable and any condition of poem is acceptable. you may post here in this thread, or submit your poem to Lit, or simply keep your stash privately elsewhere.

let's leave this thread for the poems only and use the other thread as a kind of support. this way we will be able to hunt out our own poems more easily at the end of the month.

good luck to anyone who has a go!

 

[wildsweetone]

okay seeing as how it's Nov 1 for me now, here's my first - all my poems are IN THE ROUGH!

1. the butterfly

the monarch, orange
as the black-eyed susan clinging
to the back fence, wavers
to harness the Spring westerly
and floats to petal-land
clutching the lavender spike
as it rests.

 

[My Erotic Tale]

~my first day~

sweating bullets
and sitting...

in a pool of sweat

I just don't know
if this challenge

...can be met

I look upon
a blank monitor

no words come to ponder

my first day
of 30 days of poems

...or even longer

taking a step
to do a toe doodle

where is this going

my first day
writing like a storm

filling november with...Poems


...............( #1 ) .....................

 

[BooMerengue]

November 1st
# 1

The Beginning

I want to make this simple;
a months a long long time
to find the words,
to make them heard
and then to make them rhyme.

A poems not merely rhyme, though
as common as they are
but if I gather all my strength
sit down and study at some length
(stop fiddling with my hair)

I will succeed at something
what matters that it be
a Villanelle
a Terzanelle
a Pantoum? Hey, maybe!

And so another chapter
the Saga Of Boo's book
a doozy here
a disaster there
a chance for me to look

and decide now and forever
if Poetess I will be
or a millionaire
or a derriere!
of a horse, or just be meee!!!​

 

[annaswirls]

November 1

Perception

The first thing Nana said
when the patch came off her left eye was
Why didn't anyone tell me
the slipcover is green!

Truth was we never had much faith in Nana's ability to match
furniture to wallpaper. Her slip covers
were usually bumpy bedspreads with the corners sewn
to fit, extra material doubled and sticthced
for the arm rests worn patches
tucked under cushions with Uncle Davids
pocket change.

Pink Melmac plates and yellowed tupperware cups
on the Easter table. She never wanted a fuss
and so there never was a fuss.

Last night my father wrote me.
He was watching his mothers hands
while they waited their turn at the doctors office.

My father, who has pulled calves by the feet
from their mother's womb
and leaves a row of wildflowers uncut
in the meadow but he has never
actually written a poem.

He tells me. Jennifer,
her hands have done so many things.
and begins to list them.
And list them back to when
firm flesh still filled out her arms
and as he lists them,
the veins slide back inside,
where they belong, invisible.
Her skin gains pigment
and he has his mothers hands again
instead of this apparation.

His list could be the chronicle of many mothers hands.
Hands that pressed pleats
into the girls skirts, pinned diapers,
shook the dirt from the carpet. Hands that
sewed thousands of nylons and milked
the cows, held the hands and opened
her home to other women's children,
handed soup to the hobos
from the train.

And he tells me
Jennifer I am not a poet
do you think you can write a poem
about her hands?

And I tell him
I wil try, Dad.
I will try to write another poem
about an old woman's hands.

But I cannot stop thinking about the day
the patch came off of her eye
and she saw the color green
where she would have sworn
all those years she had seen blue.

 

[wildsweetone]

2. 13 ways of looking at the garden


i
Browned weeds burnt by spray
stark statues
reminders of wild days
when burning winds stunted growth

ii
the mossed garden seat beckons
as I stare through the Spring wide window.

iii
the breeze sets trees whispering
secrets shared as lovers kiss in shadows

iv
as buttercups lift
bright faces to the morning sun
bees hover, their long tongues suckle pollen
in readiness to vomit
honey

v
fairies live inside daisy circles
all around the garden
they dance at night
hide at dawn
and design daisy chains during the day

vi
and down at the creek’s edge
a mother duck rests wearily
resisting the urge to call
her full-grown offspring
away from the water,
away from the eel that will bite
a swimming duck’s foot.

vii
the snail escapes tall grass spikes
to spend its day climbing the bricks
under the house eave’s shade.

viii
there’s a white cat asleep
under the Julie Brisson
a neighbour’s cat who knows
on which side of the fence
the sun shines

ix
they never used the swing
at the new place. Rust
grew like lichen
and smothered the steel.
It leaned worse than the Tower
of Pizza and no earthquake structure
gave it life. He chopped
it up and the children cried
as it landed piece
by
piece
in the dumpster. Rosemary
grew well
where the swing once stood.

x
Moss, sandwiched
between cobblestones,
cooled the toes
that toddled along the path

xi
the tui sings its aroha
for flax flower nectar.
His white feathered tuft
bobbing during the serenade

xii
from bare land
to lush garden
in under seven

years

xiii
there’s a staggering blackbird
on the lawn, under a beak full
of dangling worms.
How will it get off the ground?

 

[My Erotic Tale]

~~~~fountain fishing~~~

He sat with his pole
held tight in his hand

rugged and scruffy
just a simple man

pulling out another
and laying it to the side

fishing in a pool
casting without pride

a small fish tank net
used as a lure

fishing for coins
a peeny-less cure

a city fountain
coins are tossed with wishes

a man sits daily
doing his fountain fishing

...........( #2 )............

 

[Liar]

I


this one goes out to your smile
cast into the gloom room
like tear gas inverted
spreading fog of bubbly
blush blood rush

a regal ricochet bouncing
chamomile kisses and
split second splinters of splendor

penetrating kevlar armor
with sunrays and daffodil intention

and so it goes
when opening ones eyes
is tactical warfare, remembering
to breathe is infantry storm
in full bloom

you are my weapon of
mask reduction

 

[Liar]

II


later, when the teen ruckus outside the QS
spun down to simmer, quiet one-upmanship
groups - three aspiring machismos and
a trophy fly girl - and the daily theatre of feline
urban Nature Channel moments gave in to
after hours and November frost,

you could hear her sing

somebody, nobody, a deep golden alt off key
in tune with the concrete and project pretty
parkland, planned for plendor but never
quite there

a melody from a balcony that noboby knew
or maybe just a harmony of vind passing
the glass cubes, the iron, the irony of
a grand plan turned to outcast alley

who or what, we'd never know

but everybody held on to their souls
and whatever hands they could find
a little more than they would
ever admit

 

[The_Fool]

Okay, it was for something else, but I wrote it today...so it counts.

When we were together
I always wondered if she were there,
Or someplace else.
In a secret place
That only she knew of,
Thinking thoughts
That only she would know.

Even the soft caress,
Given absently,
Gave me no clue.
The perfunctory kiss,
Offered graciously,
Provided no insight
As to whether she acted
With deliberation.

It was only when I saw
That quirky smile play
Across her lips.
When her eyes brightened
To a lighter color,
Did I know that she was actually
Here.

 

[wildsweetone]

3. morning walk

early this morning, before dawn
spilt the sky peach, I walked
along the path once trod
by sheep who grazed in paddocks
beyond the hills. No longer
grassed, the path of rough concrete
protested my rubber soled steps
as I exercised my body while my mind
listened to the sounds of morning.
Birds woke early, darkness still
smothered the air, their shrill
song woke frogs
in the murky storm water pond
by the path, frogs that stretched
their lungs and hacked dawn
to pieces as honeysuckle
unfurled from the fence
to twist and turn across the path
in the hopes of capturing
an ankle. Further along
morning tinted the wild roses
and I walked on past my own house.

 

[eagleyez]

Feral cats
Scutter around the supplyhouse-
Sense the shift
Claw the frozen refuse
Which now lacks the pungeance
And mice furrow in pinestraw
Falcons and laughing crows
Languish in the naked Cottonwoods and high Maple tops,

Looking down and swirling
In the northern wind-
November melancholy
In her memory dress,
Blown gracefully as
Furnaces groan
And the homeless
Hitch it South.

 

[Guest]

November 1st

Dilapidated pumpkins stare,
blank eyed from gateposts
or doorsteps, muddied by small feet
the brief night of glory passed.
Night darkens but no ghost
or ghoul is afoot in this rain.
Light the fire, crack a book,
the month of The Long Nights
begins once more.


November 2nd

I took a shower this morning
dark and early, cold but determined.
The water, icy on my pigeon-toes,
takes its time warming.
I picture it moving
reluctantly, in the pipes
knowing it can only end
in disaster.

 

[BooMerengue]

Who is screwing around with my posts??

 

[BooMerengue]

November 2nd
#2

Silently

I am a speechless one today
encased in morning blue
as Old Man Winter slides
toward me down the mountain
A sinuous line of deep grays
and blues floats on the horizon
yet now and then a maple
or an oak in deepest black
claws toward the sky.
The birds even are silent
the sun has turned away
and with my chocolate
wrapping steam around my fist
I try in vain to welcome
dank and cold November.​

*(I wrote this around 4:45- 5:00am. The sun has since appeared.)

 

[My Erotic Tale]

~~space pearl~~


There is a pearl
in the night sky
that shines bright

moon beams
make shadows flee
from its lunar light

A giant pearl
with un-polished shine
in the ocean of night

Romanticly dim
sometimes slim
a space pearl's flight

.....( #3)...........​

I may have to tinker with this one <grin>
<good chewing gum for the mind>

 

[annaswirls]

November 2

oh it is another day my love
it is, and all I can think to write
has already been written
or should never be mentioned

if my thought-dreams
could be seen
they'd probably put my head
in a guillotine
but its all right Ma,
it's life and life only...

good old bobby d
why bother writing just pull up a quote

and baby you are finishing the job he started
turning me inside out like an old purse
shakin out the dust and crumbs
shaking it hard
cos you know there are always holes in the bottom
where the really good stuff hides
and you shake me baby shake me
slide your fingers in
you know there is more
you can hear it jingle down there

 

[BooMerengue]

November 3rd
#3

an exercise in futility

A mouse came in the house today;
he wanted just to eat and play.
But hidden in the window seat
was someone else who loved to eat
and Pounce! The Mousie went away.​

well, it's something anyway, isn't it?

 

[wildsweetone]

4. about death (working title)

i
The hermit lived for 30 years
under the tent with the blue tarpaulin
in the valley among native bush
before the gas leaked
from his stove and blew him to pieces.

ii
There was liquid
in his lungs
and he sounded like the old 'possum
who lived in the rafters
of the villa
as the medic breathed life
into his inert body. He lay
on the floor unmoving, except for the ribs
in their cage rhythmically

............and
rising.........................falling

and there would have been silence
except for his wife's incessant talking
as she sought relief from a loss unvoiced.
In day his manliness diminished, in night
dignity was restored.

iii
A blood clot travelled
from his knee
to his heart
and stopped it beating.

iv
Angelic hands lay by his sides
as a smile of mischief filled his face.
His five-summered eyes
remained closed
and his lips
were cold against mine.

...

 

[Guest]

Laika

Laika's "coffin" circled the Earth 2,570 times and burned up in the Earth's atmosphere on 4 April 1958.


Nov 3rd

I wonder if she felt fear
strapped in her metal tube.
Small innocent hero
sacrificed by man
as he raced to conquer space.
For four days she spun looking out
at stars, at her blue-green home
puzzled in her isolation.
Only now do they
tell the truth
how she died from heat
and terror.


http://starchild.gsfc.nasa.gov/Images/StarChild/space_level2/laika_mockup.gif

 

[My Erotic Tale]

Soldier

Grit and grime caked in boot laces
fear struck, dirt smudged faces
chin strap taught and binding
staring down a dirt road whinding
Shuffling for room shoulder to shoulder
glances at the faces of other soldiers

A marching beat from drumming rolls
'here comes the enemy down the road'
with breaths held and heads pulled low
waiting along the grass near an apple grove
hearts pounded while peering over a boulder
lay in anticipation was the 'minute man' soldiers

for freedom to be, a musket bullet must fly
tis a sad day when any war takes lives
waiting in a time when time stands still
every man dreaming of how freedom will feel
It may have been a long time ago and colder
when rifles were fired by 'Minute Man' Soldiers

Ambush was the key to a line of men marching
when a handful of men sent bullets soaring
when freedom is strangled a search for freedom begins
history remade over, again and again
Now a country's pride waves in a flag much bolder
sitting in the sand, dirt and grime is our soldier


...........................( #4 )........................

 

[BooMerengue]

November 4th
#4

A casual conversation with a friend

He stood by my chair and hesitated.
I knew it was time for good night kisses
as I glanced up from my book.
Can I sit on your lap?
Of course you can. Why do you ask?
He just shrugged as he clambered up
and settled himself.
I'm too big to sleep with anyone.
I know- you're getting to be a big boy.
Can I sit here til I fall asleep?
Of course you can. Why do you ask?
I'm supposed to sleep in my own bed.
he paused...
I can't sleep in your bed anymore.
Ohhh, I said. I see. Well, sit here for a bit then.
What if I fall asleep?
You mean here? In my lap?
Yes. Will that be okay?
Have I ever dumped you off before?
I asked, laughing.
He didn't laugh.
I mean will you put me in my bed?
Of course I will. Why do you ask?
I want to be a big boy.
Oh you are a big boy, lovey.
You are a lovey big boy.
I love you, Grammy.
I pulled the afghan a bit tighter
and as he snuggled close I whispered
The world is getting colder everyday,
isn't it?
He nodded... off to sleep.​

 

[Liar]

III

Can you see, bête noire,
what castellated cardboard
walls you raise?

Can you hear the bellow
from regurgitating depths?
A par excellence charade
hauling spikes and venom,
another exigence in disarray,
twisted to your petty pleasures.

Can you smell, bête noire,
the reek of soot and decay
from every word you speak?

Can you feel
reason spread thin
on your emptied domain,
all yours to keep
but silent forever?

 

[Liar]

IV


lest I forget,
here is a knot
tied to recall

she
smells like lemon grass
and honest skin,
ginger
on open palms,
lavendar, caraway
and countless questions
in her hair

and travels with a heavy bag
and a light heart

boots that take her there
jeans that doesn't give a damn
a jacket with an attitude
on encryption unknown to man

gold and pastel collared neck
antimatter black framed face

what else?
what not?
but I'm running out of page

o nine hundred,
domestic,
arrivals

lest
I forget

 

[annaswirls]

November 3

The silver thread
that pulled you out
catches your ankle
you swing in the nowhere
between drowning in life
and flying in death

but I cannot bear
to cut you free