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

insidious

A dog barks
a creature screams
we're worried something's out there
in the midnight forest

Surrounded by walls
gentle as comforting arms
we peer from blind windows
arm ourselves with pistol and flashlight

Certain in their protection
we step from our refuge
gravel's murmurs silence
only our breath in short clouds of sound

The beam's brilliant and focused
shadows dance sharply as we tread
imagination plays tag with itself
between bole and shrub

Fear's tendrils twine around ankles
and the night grows denser, wider, darker
beyond the light's unstable stare
the gun grows heavier, hands shake

yet, invested
still we cling
 
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Antipodes

Your skin speaks the language of the sun
running through an endless summer

You call my lips back with a lick of salt
Hotshot tequila New Year

My eyes water blue Hot palms behind my neck
Hips in groove We ignore the drunken singing

In a monochrome, a lit beach, I hear the still cry
of midnight sizzling in the surf.

No4 of a hoped for 52.
 
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Poetry of Pussy

She is where Troy burned.
Not for Helen’s face—
but for the wet promise between her thighs,
the way kingdoms buckle
when her hips tilt toward prophecy.

She is not Eve.
She is the apple
and the bloodied jaw that bit it.
Knowledge came tasting like her,
and the world never recovered.

Isis wept her back together—
not Osiris.
Every god reborn was scraped from her lining.
She stitched resurrection into the sinew of time.

In her, Cleopatra drowned Rome,
dragged empires into her cunt like a tide,
silk-wrapped and smiling
while men mistook her scent for strategy.

She is not a part of the body.
She is the body—
where breath originates,
where blood remembers its purpose.

Her thighs are guillotines.
Ask Henry’s wives
how surrender tastes
when sharpened by royalty.

She is not a flower.
She is the earth cracking open mid-harvest—
black soil steaming,
roots torn from sleep,
the scent of something ancient resurfacing.

No soldier survived her.
They returned from war
to lie between her legs
and beg for a different kind of death.

She is the original altar.
Priests dipped their fingers in her
and called it communion.
Still, no scripture held her truth.

Even the moon
bleeds in reverence.

She is what gods hallucinate
when they masturbate in loneliness.
She is what the sea tries to mimic
when it storms.

Not a passage—
a furnace.
Not a cradle—
a crucible.
She does not receive—
she reclaims.

She is the ache that invented music.
She is the hush that follows collapse.
She is the reason men lie,
kneel,
build monuments,
and then forget how to speak.

But she is also
what rises
when the wreckage cools—

The soot-slick breath
after fire has had its feast.
The pulse in the rubble.
The ash-wet womb
where something impossible
begins again.

She does not love gently.
She brands.
She does not end wars—
she forges new nations
between her legs.

And those who enter
do not return
as they came.

They return
marked,
mute,
changed—

with her name
tattooed in bruises
across the soul’s inner walls.

She is not a part.
She is not a place.
She is
the event.
The origin.
The aftermath.

And she does not need your language—
only your surrender.


48/52
 
🎶 ODE TO MY COCK
a pub style song


I woke up hard and proud today—

Your dick again? Well, what’d it say?

No shame, no fear, just standing tall—

That troublemaker’s seen it all!


He’s pointed north, he’s pointed south—
He’s preached his truth from my damn mouth.
He’s led me wrong, he’s led me right—
But he’s always ready for a fight!


Raise a glass to the throbbing king!
The tales he told, the joy he brings!
He’s a devil, priest, and lover sweet,
With a pulsing hymn and a reckless beat!
He’s swung like steel, he’s rocked the bed—
Here’s to the cock that’s never dead

He’s danced in jeans, in robes, in lace,
He’s left his mark on time and space.
He’s woken ghosts in sheets and sin,
With just one thrust beneath the skin.

He’s pounded doors, he’s made ‘em shake,
He’s caused a moan in every quake.
He’s holy filth, he’s sweet disgrace—
And he’s not picky ‘bout the place!


Raise your pint to the rod of fate!
He’s the hammer of love, the swinging gate!
He’s made them howl, he’s made them swoon,
He’s howled at stars and kissed the moon!
With balls of brass and heart on fire—
Here’s to the shaft of raw desire!



They call him crude, obscene, too much—
But they don’t know that sacred touch.
He’s danced with gods, he’s healed my pride
He’s been the truth when hope had died.


Raise it high, this anthem loud—
For the dick we love, the one we're proud!
He’s thunder, heat, and joy complete—
My sword, my sin, my heartbeat's beat!
Let them judge, let preachers knock—
I’ll always praise…
MY GLORIOUS COCK!!

49/52
 
a fall that paused... (but for how long?)

A hush fell sideways—
a song unfinished mid-bend,
like chords that shook the fretless night,
and chose not to descend.

A toe grazed air, unsure of time—
yet never kissed the stumble.
Graphite sighed its half-born rhyme,
each line too shy to fumble.

The birds forgot their gravity—
their cue dissolved in mist,
while one strange note,
unclaimed by tune,
was something but a kiss.

An eagle, barbed in appetite,
sliced noon with wings of shear.
It stole my snack (and something more),
then vanished into smear.

And I—
still holding
a pause too wide to fold,
with pencil-heel mid-skid
on paper far too bold—

stood where the breath had vanished,
a candle’s flicker caught
beneath the throat of silence,
just before it could be taught.

Leaves craned their stems
to where the sun
should’ve broken glass—
but didn’t.

And somewhere in the hush that leaned,
where echoes dress as strangers,
a spiral flickered—dream-adjacent,
threaded close to danger.

The ink—
it waits at cliff’s own edge,
not spilled, but near collapse.
A story paused with wings half-penned,
and time between the gaps.

Was it memory dreaming me?
Or I, redrawn in seam—
a rhythm dancing out of key,
but barely still in theme?


№15 of 52
 
Neurotic Erotic

I alphabetize my orgasms—
catalogued by sigh strength
and the exact time the ceiling fan blinked.

I know
how many steps it takes
from the door to your mouth,
how many degrees your pupils dilate
when I whisper "again."

The bedframe ticks
in Morse code warnings:
too much, too soon,
but I am already counting
the sweat beads on your collarbone
like rosary pearls—
and I pray with my teeth.

My tongue is a ticking metronome
measuring the tempo of collapse.
I climax in triplets.
I moan in iambs.
I check the lock—twice—
between kisses,
just in case love
wants to sneak out the window.

Your moan triggers an itch
I can only scratch
by rearranging the pillows
in Fibonacci sequence
and biting your earlobe
until symmetry cries.

I fuck like a fire drill,
never sure if it’s a test
or the real thing—
but I’m grabbing the valuables
off your body either way.

I want you—
but only if you want me
like a missed dosage,
like a panic attack
in a silk robe,
like the tremor that follows
truth.

Because darling—
this isn’t foreplay,
it’s a full-blown
emotional evacuation.

And I
am already
coming
undone.


50/52
 
Hi, My Name Is G. Spot
(but you can call me G... if you can find me)

Hi.
My name is G. Spot.
And I’m so tired of being your imaginary friend.

I live here.
Third knuckle deep.
Front wall.
Up.
Yes, UP—like ambition,
not in-out like you’re checking oil.

No, Chad.
I’m not in her tonsils.
And no, Brad,
I’m not scared of your enthusiasm,
just your GPS settings.

I don’t hide.
I wait.
For precision.
For rhythm.
For someone who knows the difference
between a love song
and a jackhammer.

I’ve been blamed
for her not coming.
For her faking it.
For her sighing afterward like you just folded her laundry wrong.

You think I’m hard to find?
Bitch, I am impatiently obvious
to anyone who listens with their hands.

You don’t need a compass.
You need to shut up, slow down,
and read the room.

I respond to curve,
consistency,
and consent.
(Not your magic tongue trick you learned from porn at sixteen.)

I’m not a riddle.
I’m a button.
But only if you treat me
like the launch sequence
to something nuclear.

Some have reached me—
usually by accident,
and I applaud their humility.
They cried a little.
One man needed a snack after.
Another saw his reflection in her pleasure
and started writing poetry.

But you?
You’re still spelling my name wrong
with your ego.

So hi—again.
My name is G.
Spot.
Capital G.
Period.
Emphasis on the period,
because if she’s bleeding
and you still think now’s the time,
we need to talk.


51/52
 
Making It Rain
(A PSA from G. Spot: Bring Towels)

You wanted a storm,
and then blamed the flood.
Don’t act surprised now—
you were the one who knocked
on the dam
with two fingers
and too much confidence.

This ain’t a sprinkle.
This ain’t a light mist of approval.
This is Category Wet.
This is towels-on-the-floor,
"Did we ruin the bed?"
type rain.

You found me.
Somehow.
Most likely luck
Not skill—
but let’s not ruin the moment.

I clenched,
you gasped,
and then it happened.
That internal faucet
you thought was folklore
turned Niagara
and now your ego’s soaked.

Oh, now you’re panicking?
Asking if she peed?
No baby,
she released the Kraken.
She baptized your sheets.
She made it rain
and you’re still stuck
trying to forecast what the hell just happened.

Here's the forecast:
Moist with a chance of holy shit.
Humidity?
Dripping.
Floor?
Dangerously slippery.
Emotions?
Ranging from primal to teary-eyed gratitude.

You want to know how to get that again?
Stop pounding like rent’s due
and start listening like
her body’s the damn weather report.
Pressure rising? Good.
Back off? Better.
Stay tuned for scattered moans
and occasional tremors.

Making it rain
isn't about power—
it's about presence.
She doesn’t gush
because you conquered her.
She gushes
because you finally shut up
and let her sky break open.

So next time—
if you’re lucky enough
to find yourself underwater again—
don’t reach for the umbrella.

Lean back.
Close your eyes.
And let it rain.

52/52
 
Victim Statement
(Dear Poem Police)

I saw their eyebrows
and smelt their tea leaves—
and the coffee grounds in their teeth

The stew was brewing obsessively on their breath
Then composed a spelling faux par plopped over their opinions
With Out Thrust Tongue And Uttered Disregard for MURDERING Words

adverbs, adjectives, inging verbs —the word psycho flew at me in spittled
belittled morphemes and bi-polar phonemes until I origarmied their closure
Poem Officer, it wasn’t me, it was me psychically being righter than the nme

Now arrest that intelligently. Dear poem officer, arbitraitor of the deemed good
Dispeller dispiser regailler of the World slay us with your proclamations,
opinionize us with your onions in reverse, freshly steamed

like the coffee grounds stuck in nasty teeth
They were a muse, I saw their eyebrows
and fended of their 4 letter intent

with a 🎈

(14)
 
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Poems
After Billy Collins

Mine often seem
like Post-It notes, stuck

on the various random surfaces
I touch during the day—

the bathroom mirror when shaving,
the refrigerator

looking for ice for my Coke.
Or perhaps seeking milk for the wheat flakes

I eat each morning while reading
about the latest disaster

or why I'm cold all the time
(anemia?). They are not so much letters

as little reminders to myself
to pay closer attention

as I wander idly about
the phenomenology of this,

my once, my only, world.

Week 27 : Poem 1 : Total 32
 
Wild and Wounded West Virginia

They broke her—
but she never begged.
cracked her ribs with dynamite,
bled her out in boardrooms,
and called it profit.
Progress.
Patriotism.

They took her peaks—
flattened them into plateaus.
Ripped out her roots,
then blamed her
for flood.

Coal in their pockets.
Cancer in our lungs.
Millionaires made
from marrow and mines,
while mamas spoon powdered milk
into open mouths
with no futures promised.

She raised her kids
on prayers and pork fat,
on busted heaters,
on hope taped to the fridge
next to eviction notices
and old report cards.

And when those kids left—
not for glory,
but survival—
she waved with a shaking hand
and a mouth full of dust.

They call it migration.
We call it exile.

They call us poor.
We call it theft.

They call us resilient.
We call it survival with a limp.

The robber barons came
with contracts and clean shoes.
Signing the mountain’s death.
Stole her spine
and sold it by the ton.

Then left.
Left us holding the grief,
the ash,
the silence.

They poisoned the wells—
said boil the water.
They poisoned the jobs—
said work harder.
They poisoned the truth—
said you chose this.

Lies.
Wrapped in policy.
Hand-delivered by politicians
who never been to a gas station
with a locked bathroom
and one working pump.

The church is caved in.
The school roof leaks.
The playground rusts.
The grocery closed.
The post office shut.
The jobs?
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.

But the mountain—
she remembers.

She don’t forget names
or dates
or broken treaties.
She holds that pain
like a rifle under the bed.

Wounded, yes—
but wild.
Still.
Feral with memory.
Fanged with grief.
Clawed with fury.

She is not your charity.
She is not your cheap fuel.
She is not your afterthought.

She is a mother
with nothing left to give—
except revenge.

And when she rises—
because she will rise—
she won’t come gentle.

She’ll come like flood.
Like flame.
Like every name
you forgot to carve
into your checkbook.

You took everything.
Left nothing.

But she’s still here.

Wounded.
And wild.
And watching.



53/52
 
A plane flies under the moon
The sky is a bed of stars

The moon lies under starlit sheets
Cloud trails in a dark duvet

Two lovers fly undercover
these covers

There is no air between them
Their fear is gone

The plane passes the moon.


N0 5 of a hoped for 52.
 
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No ordinary dust


In a dark house
with male power lines
reaching through the years

My father was a tall dark sky
My moma was a mini dress
with little slits in the sides

In the yard there were
Motorcycles. Big black apehangers
Long multicolored bikes with extended forks

Everyone took off their boots and left them
where my brother and I parked our tricycles
Like outlaw horses nosed into the stoop

17/52
 
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Laura

My doo-wop princess
married jazz and poetry

campfire songs in girl
group harmonies, crashing

chords through three-octaves,
her mezzo-soprano soared

over New York's clattering
cacophony, neon proud or whisper

soft that silken range worn close
to the skin, surely she was

a weaver's lover, born
for the loom's desire*



Quoted end phrase from "Emmie, Eli and the 13th Confession."



Week 27, Poem 1, Total 24
 
"Halos In The Sidewalk
(for those who bloom where they are unwelcome)

We were never meant to be royalty—
but oh, how the sun loved us.
He placed halos on our heads,
and we wore them
like children wear Sunday dresses,
wrinkled but radiant.

We are not weeds.
We are memory,
clinging to cracks in forgotten sidewalks
where lovers once kissed
and elders once wept.
Our roots run beneath your stories—
you paved them,
but we remember.

Yes, they pluck us.
Yes, they curse us.
But we return.
We always return.
devoted.

To the child who gathers us
in a bouquet of belief,
we offer magic.
One breath,
and we scatter our souls
across the wind,
gladly.

They call us common—
but we know better.
We are the ones who come back
when no one else does.
Golden.
Uninvited.
Whole.

Call us fragile—
but watch how we survive
what the roses could not.
We are the bittersweet hymn
beneath your boots.
Soft.
And still singing.

Go on—
pluck us if you must.
But know this:
it takes a dandy lion
to bloom in the cracks
and still roar without sound.

54/52
 
A poem is impregnated.

A real nice ‘nutter’
a ‘mental,’ health wanker,
mmmmm cerebral strokes
Splat splat words
into a poem.

(16)
 
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IDENTITY

I am not a pronoun.
I am pulse.

I am

Uncontained by definitions.
Unrestrained by expectation.

I am

Simple,
and Complex.

I am

Not a label.
Not a product of certificate.

I am

Whole beyond your words.
Alive despite your packaging.

I am

Not unnecessary labels.
Not your profiling.

I am

memory and marrow.
Made of choice, not category.

I am

The question you misunderstand.
The voice you try to cut off.

I am

Unwritten by your charts.
Untamed by your checklist.

I am

one who speaks without translation.
form that doesn't fracture.

I am

Not the sum of your assumption.
Not an inconvenience.

I am

Authentic.
Genuine.
Me.

I am not a pronoun.
I am pulse.


56/52
 
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