It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)
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Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,426
Rising Appalachia
The Blue Ridge Mountains
Look hazy from a distance
They blend into sky
Like Earth and Heaven were one
And some days it felt that way
Week 17, Poem 2, Total 17
The Blue Ridge Mountains
Look hazy from a distance
They blend into sky
Like Earth and Heaven were one
And some days it felt that way
Week 17, Poem 2, Total 17
LustyScribe
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2019
- Posts
- 5,796
When Did We Forget?
Since when again
Did grown men,
Clad in Death's hue,
Snarling, snapping
Like eager dogs of war
Warrant our excuses?
Their prey, again:
Men, common, poor,
Humble men
Whose dark sin
Is hoping, working, and
Mothers, fears trebled;
For Children, mate,
And lastly self.
And then most coarsely
The eyes of the Innocents,
Pulled from schools
Churches, Grandmas.
Understanding naught
Save fear, and
Daddy's gone.
The dogs of Hate
Surround, contain,
Hate and fool-fed fear
Fuel abuses
As they simply
"Follow orders."
Have we lost lessons
From Nuremberg?
Do Dachau, Auschitz,
And the frozen camps
Of Siberia
No longer urge,
Weep and warn?
Who gave hate
The bullhorn again?
Will we avert eyes,
Harden hearts
Excuse evil?
Will we feign the same
Naive blindness
To the trains,
To the pains,
The pleas?
May our hearts
Be melted,
Minds mended,
Resolute rightness
Returned,
Lest the High Court
Of tomorrow's
Hindsight
Condemn us for our
Complacency.
Week 17(?), poem 1, 15 total
Since when again
Did grown men,
Clad in Death's hue,
Snarling, snapping
Like eager dogs of war
Warrant our excuses?
Their prey, again:
Men, common, poor,
Humble men
Whose dark sin
Is hoping, working, and
Mothers, fears trebled;
For Children, mate,
And lastly self.
And then most coarsely
The eyes of the Innocents,
Pulled from schools
Churches, Grandmas.
Understanding naught
Save fear, and
Daddy's gone.
The dogs of Hate
Surround, contain,
Hate and fool-fed fear
Fuel abuses
As they simply
"Follow orders."
Have we lost lessons
From Nuremberg?
Do Dachau, Auschitz,
And the frozen camps
Of Siberia
No longer urge,
Weep and warn?
Who gave hate
The bullhorn again?
Will we avert eyes,
Harden hearts
Excuse evil?
Will we feign the same
Naive blindness
To the trains,
To the pains,
The pleas?
May our hearts
Be melted,
Minds mended,
Resolute rightness
Returned,
Lest the High Court
Of tomorrow's
Hindsight
Condemn us for our
Complacency.
Week 17(?), poem 1, 15 total
Last edited:
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 16,228
Gift Advice for Father’s Day
Everyone saw it coming apart
Except me of course
Blissfully stupid
It was that year of dis integration
That year of slow burn
That my daughter
Gave me the best
Father’s Day gift ever
“Dad, let’s go for a drive over the mountain.”
She controlled my iPod
As we drove through the warm
Farmlands and woods of
Sourland mountain
She made a playlist of my favorite songs
The weather was a perfect
Late spring
Or early summer day
We listened and sang
Windows open
Us hollering and screaming
The Ace of Spades (Motörhead)
Rockaway Beach (Ramones)
If The Kids Are United (Sham69)
And other songs 10 year olds
Probably shouldn’t know…
I had to admit she had a good year
She capped it off with a moldy oldie.
Skinhead Moonstomp
I don’t need stuff for Father’s Day
But i will always cherish
Those memories
11/52
Everyone saw it coming apart
Except me of course
Blissfully stupid
It was that year of dis integration
That year of slow burn
That my daughter
Gave me the best
Father’s Day gift ever
“Dad, let’s go for a drive over the mountain.”
She controlled my iPod
As we drove through the warm
Farmlands and woods of
Sourland mountain
She made a playlist of my favorite songs
The weather was a perfect
Late spring
Or early summer day
We listened and sang
Windows open
Us hollering and screaming
The Ace of Spades (Motörhead)
Rockaway Beach (Ramones)
If The Kids Are United (Sham69)
And other songs 10 year olds
Probably shouldn’t know…
I had to admit she had a good year
She capped it off with a moldy oldie.
Skinhead Moonstomp
I don’t need stuff for Father’s Day
But i will always cherish
Those memories
11/52
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 16,228
A Wednesday Morning Drive to Work
Thinking of our
Particularly vigorous session
This morning
Her riding me
Then fucking her from behind
She insisted on her 10 second hug
Before I left for work
“Ten seconds or you have to start all over…”
“Babe, I’m late for work, I gotta roll!”
“Ten seconds…”
She wins
She always does
Outside, all of the trees are pushing:
The most delicate neon green
Or reds of the oaks
White puffs on apple and pear trees
I literally feel all of that energy
And mine
Coursing through my veins
The choke is off
My throttle is
Wide open
12/52
Thinking of our
Particularly vigorous session
This morning
Her riding me
Then fucking her from behind
She insisted on her 10 second hug
Before I left for work
“Ten seconds or you have to start all over…”
“Babe, I’m late for work, I gotta roll!”
“Ten seconds…”
She wins
She always does
Outside, all of the trees are pushing:
The most delicate neon green
Or reds of the oaks
White puffs on apple and pear trees
I literally feel all of that energy
And mine
Coursing through my veins
The choke is off
My throttle is
Wide open
12/52
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 16,228
Pointillism or is it Post Impressionism?
A world of color opened up
This week
As I crossed Sourland Mountain to work
Dim tones
Barely emergent
On the branches
Tiny, almost indiscernible dots
Of pigment
Where pointillism, Impressionism and stippling
All intersext
The spring is a series
Of tiny points
The woods now speckled with soft hues
Pollen thrusting outward
Emerging neon green
That color of leaves pushing
The deep red of oaks and maples
Tiny colored tines of fruit trees
Ivory apple flowers
Pears of purple
Cherry pink flowers…
All emerging
Pressing out
Birthing and being borne
I feel that energy
And I too am stimulated
Engorged…
That technicolor world
Of leaves
That cycle of ends on ends
Everything awake
And intent
One giant vibration
The world waking up and
Getting off
This phase of the cycle
Waking
Life emerging
And coming out
And everything before
After
And in be-fucking-tween
13/52
A world of color opened up
This week
As I crossed Sourland Mountain to work
Dim tones
Barely emergent
On the branches
Tiny, almost indiscernible dots
Of pigment
Where pointillism, Impressionism and stippling
All intersext
The spring is a series
Of tiny points
The woods now speckled with soft hues
Pollen thrusting outward
Emerging neon green
That color of leaves pushing
The deep red of oaks and maples
Tiny colored tines of fruit trees
Ivory apple flowers
Pears of purple
Cherry pink flowers…
All emerging
Pressing out
Birthing and being borne
I feel that energy
And I too am stimulated
Engorged…
That technicolor world
Of leaves
That cycle of ends on ends
Everything awake
And intent
One giant vibration
The world waking up and
Getting off
This phase of the cycle
Waking
Life emerging
And coming out
And everything before
After
And in be-fucking-tween
13/52
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,805
The Poet, Too Tired to Come Up with a Title,
Offers This Gratuitously Self-Important Phrase Instead
I've been quite indisposed. Like plain sick.
So my poetry hasn't much kick.
Thus, this weak little thing
That (half coughing) I sing—
A quite sad, limerickian shtick.
Week 18 : Poem 1 : Total 22
Offers This Gratuitously Self-Important Phrase Instead
I've been quite indisposed. Like plain sick.
So my poetry hasn't much kick.
Thus, this weak little thing
That (half coughing) I sing—
A quite sad, limerickian shtick.
Week 18 : Poem 1 : Total 22
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,805
Villanelle of Separation
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone.
Our life together hasn't been the best,
but back when times were good, our love was strong.
We've been together oh so very long
our separation gets me quite depressed.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone
or if it wouldn't matter. You've moved on,
I guess, in ways I haven't yet addressed.
I'm stuck where times were good and love was strong.
It leaves me in denial—sad, withdrawn,
and thinking all the time like one obsessed,
I wonder if she'll miss me when I'm gone
or if, in future, you'll suppress a yawn
when asked if you remember my caress
back when times were good and love was strong.
I can't believe how things all went so wrong.
I really thought our life together blessed
back then when times were good and our love strong.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone.
Week 18 : Poem 2 : Total 23
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone.
Our life together hasn't been the best,
but back when times were good, our love was strong.
We've been together oh so very long
our separation gets me quite depressed.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone
or if it wouldn't matter. You've moved on,
I guess, in ways I haven't yet addressed.
I'm stuck where times were good and love was strong.
It leaves me in denial—sad, withdrawn,
and thinking all the time like one obsessed,
I wonder if she'll miss me when I'm gone
or if, in future, you'll suppress a yawn
when asked if you remember my caress
back when times were good and love was strong.
I can't believe how things all went so wrong.
I really thought our life together blessed
back then when times were good and our love strong.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone.
Week 18 : Poem 2 : Total 23
Bn2f
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Nov 11, 2020
- Posts
- 11,318
SELFISH LIKE THAT
I want you to give your body to me one more time.
It’s not what’s going to make things right
And it’s not what you may need.
I’m selfish like that.
I want you to bring yourself to me
Surrendering your lips.
Because that is the easiest way for me to
Fool your heart into my bed.
I’m counting on your past showings
Of weakness for contact of flesh
For my sheets to once more welcome your wetness.
I will tell you these lines in hopes that…
You not answer your phone!
Flatly deny my advances!
Letting me know you have the strength
To serve the desires of no one but yourself.
I want you to give your body to me one more time.
It’s not what’s going to make things right
And it’s not what you may need.
I’m selfish like that.
I want you to bring yourself to me
Surrendering your lips.
Because that is the easiest way for me to
Fool your heart into my bed.
I’m counting on your past showings
Of weakness for contact of flesh
For my sheets to once more welcome your wetness.
I will tell you these lines in hopes that…
You not answer your phone!
Flatly deny my advances!
Letting me know you have the strength
To serve the desires of no one but yourself.
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 16,228
A Country Boy in Midtown
The people
The crush
Midtown at noon
It ain’t the same as it used to be
No more porn theaters
Sanitized disney phoniness
But the homeless are real
For two days
Hustling and bustling
With all of the other cattle
And sheep
Fuckin tourists in my way
No one knows how to walk like a New Yorker
Hot women
Moving with purpose
The gossip of office women
At lunch
“Can you believe she wore that?”
The smells of the pretzel carts
I could never do this every day
But for two days
I actually
Kind of love it
14/52
The people
The crush
Midtown at noon
It ain’t the same as it used to be
No more porn theaters
Sanitized disney phoniness
But the homeless are real
For two days
Hustling and bustling
With all of the other cattle
And sheep
Fuckin tourists in my way
No one knows how to walk like a New Yorker
Hot women
Moving with purpose
The gossip of office women
At lunch
“Can you believe she wore that?”
The smells of the pretzel carts
I could never do this every day
But for two days
I actually
Kind of love it
14/52
LustyScribe
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2019
- Posts
- 5,796
Another Encouraging Chat
We talked again last night
We do that more of late.
Now I hear him, absent fright,
He said things; we could relate.
I used to throw things
Prayers and curses
Psalms that I would sing
And random Bible verses.
He called me ugly, undesired
Said i'm not really wanted
Not even by the kids i sired:
Truth; i couldn't be affronted.
He pointed out my lovely mate
Wouldn’t touch for love nor money
He mocked my loveless sexless fate
And said he found it very funny.
He nodded to the gun safe, big, black,
Sitting in the dark bedroom corner
Suggested to me that with all I lack
My next exam should be the coroner.
We'd had this talk a time or ten
He goading me to pull a trigger
I never thought at all back then
I'd see the attraction getting bigger.
When I finally left him, went to bed
She woke, asked who I was talking to,
Tired of hiding truth I just plainly said
"His name's Legion, all he says is true."
She just rolls away and sleeps
Unaware that the one beside her
Once again lays awake and weeps,
Still and evermore a sad outsider.
Week 18, poem 1, total 16
We talked again last night
We do that more of late.
Now I hear him, absent fright,
He said things; we could relate.
I used to throw things
Prayers and curses
Psalms that I would sing
And random Bible verses.
He called me ugly, undesired
Said i'm not really wanted
Not even by the kids i sired:
Truth; i couldn't be affronted.
He pointed out my lovely mate
Wouldn’t touch for love nor money
He mocked my loveless sexless fate
And said he found it very funny.
He nodded to the gun safe, big, black,
Sitting in the dark bedroom corner
Suggested to me that with all I lack
My next exam should be the coroner.
We'd had this talk a time or ten
He goading me to pull a trigger
I never thought at all back then
I'd see the attraction getting bigger.
When I finally left him, went to bed
She woke, asked who I was talking to,
Tired of hiding truth I just plainly said
"His name's Legion, all he says is true."
She just rolls away and sleeps
Unaware that the one beside her
Once again lays awake and weeps,
Still and evermore a sad outsider.
Week 18, poem 1, total 16
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 16,228
A Sudden Cloudburst
The air was thick
With tension
It was no surprise that the humid day
Could give way
To the rain
A continuum of thunder
And whipping winds
Sending Bex and I
Scrambling for cover
Of the shed
Where she told me
“My panties are wet.”
It was over in a matter of minutes
15/52
The air was thick
With tension
It was no surprise that the humid day
Could give way
To the rain
A continuum of thunder
And whipping winds
Sending Bex and I
Scrambling for cover
Of the shed
Where she told me
“My panties are wet.”
It was over in a matter of minutes
15/52
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 16,228
Freed Up From Our Farm Chores
By a thunderstorm outta nowhere
We went for a drive
It was late anyway
A good time to quit
Down the greeness
Of Whiskey Lane
Seeing how much
Every living thing needed the water
That color green you only get
Early on in spring
We meandered our way to Frenchtown, then up to Little York by way of Milford
The roads wet
And steaming from the temperature change
Winding up Muscontecong ridge
Just takin it all in
The greeness
The fields
The smell of wet cut grass
Feeling freed up by the storm
To not have to finish up our farm chores
Then back home by way of 513
Into pittstown
A single tractor still toiling at Stashluk’s sod farm
In the sinking light of saturday
A farmers work is never done
16/52
By a thunderstorm outta nowhere
We went for a drive
It was late anyway
A good time to quit
Down the greeness
Of Whiskey Lane
Seeing how much
Every living thing needed the water
That color green you only get
Early on in spring
We meandered our way to Frenchtown, then up to Little York by way of Milford
The roads wet
And steaming from the temperature change
Winding up Muscontecong ridge
Just takin it all in
The greeness
The fields
The smell of wet cut grass
Feeling freed up by the storm
To not have to finish up our farm chores
Then back home by way of 513
Into pittstown
A single tractor still toiling at Stashluk’s sod farm
In the sinking light of saturday
A farmers work is never done
16/52
Last edited:
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,805
Subterfuge
I sometimes think of my poems
as little notes I have left
in your mailbox or desk—
unsigned squares
of gummed yellow paper
with painstakingly crafted lines
that edge around my feelings
the way a child might eat a cookie,
nibbling its extremities
to make it last as long as possible
all the while wanting to gorge
myself on the candy center,
knowing the ensuing messy pile
of smeary crumbs
would simply document my greed.
Week 19 : Poem 1 : Total 24
I sometimes think of my poems
as little notes I have left
in your mailbox or desk—
unsigned squares
of gummed yellow paper
with painstakingly crafted lines
that edge around my feelings
the way a child might eat a cookie,
nibbling its extremities
to make it last as long as possible
all the while wanting to gorge
myself on the candy center,
knowing the ensuing messy pile
of smeary crumbs
would simply document my greed.
Week 19 : Poem 1 : Total 24
goddessofglee
a gentle girly girl!
- Joined
- Jan 24, 2023
- Posts
- 251
A tender touch!
A soft, gentle caress,
The skin on skin is warm,
I feel so alive.
№7 of 52
A soft, gentle caress,
The skin on skin is warm,
I feel so alive.
№7 of 52
LustyScribe
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2019
- Posts
- 5,796
She Still Wants Me
A soft cheek
Caresses my palm
Her lips forcefully
Accept my kiss.
Her eyes roll;
Probably ecstasy
At my every touch.
If I try hard enough,
Lie boldly enough
Pretend deeply enough
Need it desperately enough
Maybe I can believe
That love is still alive.
For 40 years more.
Week 19, poem 1, total 17
A soft cheek
Caresses my palm
Her lips forcefully
Accept my kiss.
Her eyes roll;
Probably ecstasy
At my every touch.
If I try hard enough,
Lie boldly enough
Pretend deeply enough
Need it desperately enough
Maybe I can believe
That love is still alive.
For 40 years more.
Week 19, poem 1, total 17
goddessofglee
a gentle girly girl!
- Joined
- Jan 24, 2023
- Posts
- 251
Trying to race through...
Struggling to find it now...
Please wait—don’t ask me how.
Let me gather all I’ve got,
My fleeting thoughts, a tangled knot.
Much to do, the clock won’t stay,
It ticks my precious time away.
On eight, should've been nineteen,
Time moves fast, faster than lightening!
Yet still I try, though breath runs short—
To build my world, one frantic thought.
№8 of 52
Struggling to find it now...
Please wait—don’t ask me how.
Let me gather all I’ve got,
My fleeting thoughts, a tangled knot.
Much to do, the clock won’t stay,
It ticks my precious time away.
On eight, should've been nineteen,
Time moves fast, faster than lightening!
Yet still I try, though breath runs short—
To build my world, one frantic thought.
№8 of 52
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,426
Mamaloshen
When she made babka
I'd grind walnuts into a jar
shaped like a smiling lady
and when it was full I'd sprinkle
nuts into cinnamon-scented batter.
Fridays when she made challah
I'd watch her deft hands braid,
then daydream next to the heat register,
warm by the rising dough.
There is no comfort, no safety
so all encompassing that even
my lover's arms couldn't offer
such security as Mama's kitchen
where she and Bubbe spoke
mamaloshen, the language
of the heart.
Week 19, Poem 1, Total 19
When she made babka
I'd grind walnuts into a jar
shaped like a smiling lady
and when it was full I'd sprinkle
nuts into cinnamon-scented batter.
Fridays when she made challah
I'd watch her deft hands braid,
then daydream next to the heat register,
warm by the rising dough.
There is no comfort, no safety
so all encompassing that even
my lover's arms couldn't offer
such security as Mama's kitchen
where she and Bubbe spoke
mamaloshen, the language
of the heart.
Week 19, Poem 1, Total 19
goddessofglee
a gentle girly girl!
- Joined
- Jan 24, 2023
- Posts
- 251
A Walk, a Wound to Warn
The morning still held
a whisper of spring’s softness.
Cool grass kissed my feet
as I walked barefoot—
to breathe, to think,
to meet the quiet
mother nature brings.
And then I saw—a glint,
a sparkle on a blade of grass.
Smiling, I bent down to pick,
thinking it's dew, a morning gift.
But calm can mask—
and pain comes fast.
A sting.
Blood welled up
from my finger
brushed against
a hidden razor blade
thrown by careless hands
into the heart of our green land.
Though the wound was light—
the feeling wasn’t bright.
A garden is meant to heal,
to soothe the soul
and lift the day.
And yet,
our thoughtlessness
waits like blades in the grass.
Let us tread with care—
for nature gives freely,
but we must not take from her
and leave behind harmful things.
And this haiku, to remember:
I bend down to pick,
trinket from the blade of grass—
blood oozed from the cut.
№9 of 52
The morning still held
a whisper of spring’s softness.
Cool grass kissed my feet
as I walked barefoot—
to breathe, to think,
to meet the quiet
mother nature brings.
And then I saw—a glint,
a sparkle on a blade of grass.
Smiling, I bent down to pick,
thinking it's dew, a morning gift.
But calm can mask—
and pain comes fast.
A sting.
Blood welled up
from my finger
brushed against
a hidden razor blade
thrown by careless hands
into the heart of our green land.
Though the wound was light—
the feeling wasn’t bright.
A garden is meant to heal,
to soothe the soul
and lift the day.
And yet,
our thoughtlessness
waits like blades in the grass.
Let us tread with care—
for nature gives freely,
but we must not take from her
and leave behind harmful things.
And this haiku, to remember:
I bend down to pick,
trinket from the blade of grass—
blood oozed from the cut.
№9 of 52
NivKay
Autodidact
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2024
- Posts
- 519
On Via Fiorentine, we saw dark Somnambulic figures hover upon the steps
of Santa Maria Novella, under summer night skies
Hoping for a reprieve.
In the cooler morning, the nuns scurried in and around
the church grounds,
And formless beings hung and fluttered lazily
From clothes-lines, as mothers chirped across the way
Medici-dreaming, we traversed the river Arno,
And under the noontide sun, stole away
Upon rickety carriages towards Sienna to walk
On Gramsci's cobble-stoned heart. The buses never came.
What foolish minstrels sang for us that afternoon
In a nameless piazza and kiss-wrapped our futures
In a box of melted stars? Do they still sing today, does the
Roof-topped world still look the same
Numéro uno
of Santa Maria Novella, under summer night skies
Hoping for a reprieve.
In the cooler morning, the nuns scurried in and around
the church grounds,
And formless beings hung and fluttered lazily
From clothes-lines, as mothers chirped across the way
Medici-dreaming, we traversed the river Arno,
And under the noontide sun, stole away
Upon rickety carriages towards Sienna to walk
On Gramsci's cobble-stoned heart. The buses never came.
What foolish minstrels sang for us that afternoon
In a nameless piazza and kiss-wrapped our futures
In a box of melted stars? Do they still sing today, does the
Roof-topped world still look the same
Numéro uno
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,805
sound of koto strings
remind me of her sitting
at her instrument
and later, her removing
her kimono like a song
Week 20 : Poem 1 : Total 25
remind me of her sitting
at her instrument
and later, her removing
her kimono like a song
Week 20 : Poem 1 : Total 25
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,418
"Yesterday Bit Me First"
By Bear Sage
I remember the taste of wild cherries
stolen from a neighbor’s fence—
sun-warmed, skin-split,
bleeding red down my chin like joy
trying to escape my body.
I was nine.
And for a second,
it was enough.
But even sweetness has a spine.
And I learned young
to chew around the pits.
To smile while swallowing
the things that could choke me.
Laughter came in bursts—
loud, but careful,
like we feared joy might alert the storm.
Daddy's voice was thunder behind closed doors.
Mama's silence,
a faucet left dripping in another room,
wearing down the sink.
I remember the bike I never rode.
Bought secondhand.
Handlebars bent like broken promises.
It sat in the yard like freedom I didn’t deserve.
And when I touched it,
I heard her say I was ungrateful.
Heard her say I was too much.
Heard them both
before I heard my own name.
We painted the walls yellow.
They said it was the color of light.
But no color could brighten
a house that taught me
quiet was survival
and love was earned
by becoming small enough
to not be noticed.
I still flinch
when someone offers me happiness too quickly.
Still trace the outlines of old wounds
when people call me strong.
Because strength was never a choice—
it was the only thing I was allowed to carry
when tenderness went missing.
I look back sometimes—
at hopscotch chalk and Kool-Aid grins,
at scraped knees and cartoon mornings—
and I want to believe it was simple.
But the light there always came through blinds,
slatted,
angled,
never quite whole.
So if I seem bitter now,
if my joy has thorns,
understand—
it’s not that I don’t want to bloom.
It’s just that
I was taught that gardens lie.
That beauty comes with bruises.
And that everything sweet
has a price
you can’t always afford to pay
twice.
NivKay
Autodidact
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2024
- Posts
- 519
A Weird Sister Speaks
Ox-tongue in blood broth
And Sunday gun-metal fog.
Apparitions strut and fret
In a dumb show.
On an evening, the traitor
Wails on Duncan's angel wings.
These days, after the haunting
Cries of the Lady of perfumed Arabia
I see my Sisters in moorish dreams,
Fair-foul incantations. I sense another
Second-coming.
A witches' brew to whet the prophetic stone.
"The gains made in the past forty years
By black and brown Americans,
And by homosexuals will be wiped out.
Jocular contempt for women
Will come back into fashion."*
*These are the words of Historian Richard Rorty who predicted the Trump phenomenon in 1998:
"The nonsuburban electorate will decide that the system has failed and start looking around for a strongman to vote for—someone willing to assure them that, once he is elected, the smug bureaucrats, tricky lawyers, overpaid bond salesmen, and postmodernist professors will no longer be calling the shots. . . . One thing that is very likely to happen is that the gains made in the past forty years by black and brown Americans, and by homosexuals, will be wiped out. Jocular contempt for women will come back into fashion. . . . All the resentment which badly educated Americans feel about having their manners dictated to them by college graduates will find an outlet"
Poem #2
Ox-tongue in blood broth
And Sunday gun-metal fog.
Apparitions strut and fret
In a dumb show.
On an evening, the traitor
Wails on Duncan's angel wings.
These days, after the haunting
Cries of the Lady of perfumed Arabia
I see my Sisters in moorish dreams,
Fair-foul incantations. I sense another
Second-coming.
A witches' brew to whet the prophetic stone.
"The gains made in the past forty years
By black and brown Americans,
And by homosexuals will be wiped out.
Jocular contempt for women
Will come back into fashion."*
*These are the words of Historian Richard Rorty who predicted the Trump phenomenon in 1998:
"The nonsuburban electorate will decide that the system has failed and start looking around for a strongman to vote for—someone willing to assure them that, once he is elected, the smug bureaucrats, tricky lawyers, overpaid bond salesmen, and postmodernist professors will no longer be calling the shots. . . . One thing that is very likely to happen is that the gains made in the past forty years by black and brown Americans, and by homosexuals, will be wiped out. Jocular contempt for women will come back into fashion. . . . All the resentment which badly educated Americans feel about having their manners dictated to them by college graduates will find an outlet"
Poem #2
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