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It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)

Forging Forward

A bad dream
Weird, disturbing
Or I am back in Iraq

The 3:22am Club is
Not the club you wanna join

Irrational fear time

It’s a process:
Stay off that phone
Box breathing
But inevitably my most base fears come out to play
Amplified to a loud hum in my head
This one goes to 11

I am afraid that my wife will die before me
That I have too many things to do for work
I can depend or rely on no one

But sunshine and daylight make all the difference
My optimism streams thru the broken night
Somehow my relentless positivity builds a path
Once I am up
I watch the pink and orange winter sunrise illuminate my soul

It’s a new day

Time to forge forward

3/52
 
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Sail to the Moon

Listen to the sound of the setting sun,
Set sail on the evening clouds,
This is the world between,
Awake and asleep,
Where life is lived in moments,
And moments can last for an eternity,
Close your eyes and let the winds of fantasy carry you,
Ride the crest all the way to the waiting moon.
 
MAMs; Men against Moobs!

“Don Elon…” said J.D.Doge, “examine my male areola, it is of no
reproductive use, a waste of lactating tax payer funds. There is
no justification for the continuing existence of male areola. These
are morally and sexually ambiguous. The continuing existence of
male areola supports a Darwinian selection of pendulous gender
extending proportions. Male areola must be cut off before they
elicits lizard like reactions in female segments of the populace.”


Week 5: Poem 1 : Total 5
 
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Slow Down

In the Age of Machines
a single person could be noisier
than a crowd. Industry was loud,
clacking, grinding screech and slam,
smoky cough rising to foul the air
with human occupation.

Now the Age of Technology
barely whirs and clicks. Its dominance
is a silent menace that spreads
and probes our hidey-holes and secret
spaces until we stand naked, blinking
against the blinding light of Truth,

which hurts more than our foolish
hearts could have dreamed. It was
so quiet and unexpected, our undoing
and I long for a place in an unchanging
work of art or at least a space of time--

Innisfree calling: lonely cabin, bee-loud
hives, evening sky of call and wing.


Week 5, Poem 2, Total 7
 
In a Writing Seminar

Her fingers—graceful, slim—
the cradled fountain pen,
sketch words both sleek and trim
as tea-soaked madeleine.

If Proust wrought truth in verse
her poetry's a church
in which my love's immersed
nor, envious, besmirch.

Week 6 : Poem 1 : Total 6
 
Sedona, Arizona

Then maybe
She’s crazy
Counting on me to deliver her
This better life

Sedona
Arizona
Surrounded by beauty covered scars
That we hold inside

So foreign
Burnt orange
Hopping on a Harley
Try to catch the Sun

The pleading
Of feelings
The questioning of worth
When abandoned
 
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Story of a Walk-by
She just...smiles,
Swerves her curves,
Jiggles and wiggles,
Walks by,
Doesn’t talk, but I
Wanna know why
She just...smiles.

She just walks,
Never talks
Not a word
Have I ever heard
I know it's absurd
But I'm obsessed
Because even dressed
I can see she's blessed
But she just...smiles.

What's it mean?
Am I really seen?
Or is she just keen
To get by me?
Pass by politely?
I mean, why WOULD she...?
But she just...smiles.

Inside her mind
As I wait behind
She ponders if I find
Her unattractive
Because I'm unreactive
Even though she's proactive:
Her daily walk, almost twerking
By where I'm always working
Why don't I stop jerking
Around and be brave
And brazenly behave?
Pursuit's what she craves!

But she walks by,
Smiles, then a sigh.

For want of confidence
Despite all the evidence
I miss her intention,
Because my attention
Was on all that I lack;
Love, please come back!
But love just...cries.

Week 6, poem 1, total 5 (I think)
 
Boots of Spanish Leather

I dreamt of you, singing to me
about boots of Spanish leather.
You were sitting on our bed,
legs crossed, curled around

your guitar, your big hands
caressing the wood, long fingers
sliding over frets, playing for me
and the room filled with warmth--

your deep voice, the resonance
of the strings and your hazel eyes
more amber in the light, like whisky
In that late afternoon sun. I knew

it was winter, we were still in Maine.
The postcard with that photo of Dylan
was tucked in a corner of the mirror
that I was looking at, watching you

thinking God I love him so much
and I wouldn't ask for boots
no matter how fine the leather
or tortoise-shell combs or even

gold or silver because you are
my treasure and that's what it meant,
the dream, that I want you, I want you
back to sing to me and love me again,

alive and not a reflection but real
and when I awoke I knew the dream
was a gift, and however brief
the visit my sore heart was grateful.



Week 6, Poem 1, Total 8
 
Butterflies
I wished the sun
would go down
on You and I
While we
lay hidden
in the tall grass
Our fingers
interwoven
in a rainbow
Smelling of summer
two wild flowers
sweat
Butterflies
spinning prisms
bridged in colors


Week 6, Poem 1, Total 8
 
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Sleepless
Slumber slinks,
Slithers and evades,
Exhaustion just jumbles
As thoughts tumble
Nothing consequential
None of it sequential
Naught that couldn’t wait;
My word, why am I up late?
Another question asked
Another problem tasked
A tired, sleepless mind
Unable to find
Peace.
So...

Lit it is.

Week 6, poem 2, total 6?
 
I ROBOT, YESSIR!


When stupidity is considered to be

patriotism; don’t be intelligent. Don’t

need to eat dog shit to know that it

tastes like your dog shit.


Yes fElon in a democracy my ignorance

is as good as your knowledge, I am a

good citizen refusing to see the obvious

gun in my mouth.


Yessir fElon I am experiencing your gathering

knowledge really is faster than my gaining

wisdom that breaking bad is the last refuge

of the incompetent.




Week 6 Poem 1 total 6
 
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*week 6, poem 1, total poems: 4*

Gawd Bless America

There's a new pimp in town
whoring her out to the highest bidders
and there's a deep deep wound
a thick glass shard jammed in our guts
all slick with blood & hard to grip
to rip it out & all we know to say is this:
"Stay with US!" as we risk
nicked arteries along the way—
plus other damage known to slay—
and all we know to do is drawn
from bad tv and make-believe
as we hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on, applying pressure
 
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Quitting

Hot dogs! Quick and easy!
Complain about what’s in them and their nutritional value all you want.
You pour you some water in a pot and wait for satisfying juiciness.
The perfect recovery food from a night of bar hopping!

My fingertips tingle, each nerve alive with anxious energy.
I look at my phone and think to call you.
I reach for a beer instead to regain my happy state of numb.

I look around my barren apartment and smile.
“This is the life,” I confidently say to myself between swallows.
I go to work. I pay my bills. I own stuff.
The box springs and mattress I sleep on are paid for.
The 4 concrete blocks they sit on, I brought home from a construction site.
There were no complaints about them the many nights you stayed over.
The couch? I bought from my cousin for $30.
And yes, the folding chairs are uncomfortable but they match the couch’s color.
“This is the life,” I whisper in an effort to reassure myself.

You would not have answered had I dared to call anyway.
Like my family, you do not care to see your intentions of love go wasted.
“You need to get some help,” were the last pleading words you said to me.
“What the fuck do you know?!” was my shouted reply.
I look at the bottle in my hand and repeat the words again as if it were you.
“What does she fucking know anyway?”

Anger wells up in me convulsing my stomach.
I try to run to the bathroom.
I wobble.
I stumble.
My knees get weak.
The third of my paycheck I haven’t already pissed out tonight rushes from my mouth.
Vodka and Sprite. Chunks of the remains of a lime. 8 Jägerbombs.
I slip.
I fall.
I go to sleep.
The restful pillow of my toilet still beckoning yards away from my head.

I awaken to the blaring sounds of my apartment’s smoke alarms.
My nostrils and throat stinging with every breath.
The hot dogs have burned.
 
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The Poem as an Example of White Noise

You can't just wring Art
from a dishrag soaked
in Ordinary Life. You need

some kind of sparkle,
or at least something shiny
to wave in front of the reader

who's too eager to move on
to disturbed emotions
or odd sexual practices.

This is why I have trouble
churning out another poem
filled only with elevator music

on how much I prefer tea to coffee
or why my hands are always cold
even in front of an open fire.

After all, it's way too late for me
to join a cult or take up
BASE jumping. Even macramé,

which would merely be eccentric,
is likely too bold for the time
I've got left, and in any case,

I can't reliably tie knots
with my sick hands. So, rambling,
kind of like that old guy

who hangs around the bus stop
never intending to go anywhere,
is it I guess. At least I'll try

to keep the volume low
so as not to disturb the pets
or wake your neighbors' kids.

Not that they're listening, anyway.

Week 7 : Poem 1 : Total 7
 
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*Whispers of the Night*

The candle flickers, scent so sweet,
Warm wax drips where fingers meet.

A hush of silk, a breath so near,
Goosebumps rise—desire, clear.

Cool air dances on fevered skin,
A spark ignites, a pull within.

Time stands still, the world unknown,
Lost in touch, in scent, in tone.

A whispered name, a lingering bite,
Drowned in the thrill of endless night.

...
Poem №3
 
Mathew, Mark, Luke
and the Beast

An orange is an apple.

Here comes Johnnie liar
to tell you his orange is
an apple

in his amazingly little
cock sucking mouth he
tells you how

If I were president I
would have blown you,
let me tell you I would
have blown you
in a minute
you wouldn’t believe it,

No one gives head better,
no one swallows anymore,
no one gives head better
than me. You better believe
it Z-slinkie started the war

You better believe it. The
stooge is receiving your
details anyway to chip
away your brain.


Week 7 Poem 1 Total 7
 
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Breaking The Ice

With a breaker bar
Cold steel
On a cold morn
Steel on ice
A frozen river of driveway
Chards and splinters flying
My shoulder spent

I give in
Acknowledging that
It will be March
Before we are unfrozen again

And I know myself
No better

4/52
 
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