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

Boo Bee's


Boo Bee’s
those haunted hives
where gravity wins.

They once sat
like proud queens
in the bloom of nectar,
perky pollen-catchers
buzzing with attention.

Now?
Floppers.
Droppers.
Retired from the pageant
of upright youth.

But...now and again

Halloween comes
with its miracles:
push-ups, padding,
double-stick tape,
witchcraft in a Wonderbra.

Comic Con and Ren Fair
resurrect the past with
corsets and cleavage,
lace and lanyards,
a second spring bloom
stitched into satin.

Still,
dressed up,
strapped in,
they ride the night
with all the lift
costume magic allows.

And when the mask comes off,
they sway like seasoned wings
who’ve known
how to fly.
 
You can't ice a cake you haven't baked

It's been a day;
Late for work ‘cause
the horse took forever to
move the cart;

After work, I had to do some
minor chores around the house
and yard, you know how it goes;
Dishes, laundry, dusting, vacuuming
and then go feed and take inventory of
the chickens–which was crazy, because
every time I thought I had the numbers,
there were suddenly more chickens;

With chores done, I decided I deserved
something nice for dessert, got out the
cookbook my mother had handed down to me
(I swear Betty Crocker needs to be canonized.)
Followed the recipe faithfully and slipped the cake into the oven, then began working on the frosting
But the day returned and I mistimed things;
My wonderful, fluffy, frothy, perfectly aerated frosting collapsed to just regular stuff I could have just bought at the store by time the cake
was done and cooled.

I told you, it's been a day.


Week:30 Poem:: 1 Total: 5
 
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Love is a field in blooms

Honey is something desirable,
viscous, a bee devoutly wished,
a consummation of perfumes in
perfect closure.

Wind lite the bees dream of
definitive ends to their wings.
Pollens rise, the fields fall
petals load colors onto stems.

In this consequence of obstacles,
the bee’s tongue, is a pistil in nectar,
fecund profound in rearrangement
love begins as a field in blooms.
 
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Candles

My mother kept candles
in a kitchen closet, high
over the built-in oven.

Candles stuffed tightly
together, ever more tightly
over the years as she stored

new ones into the always cramped
space. The candles were gifts
from nieces and neighbors—

some scented, some not, some
in holders, others not, all
different colors and shapes.

She never used any of the candles,
not even when the electricity went out,
for we had battery-powered lanterns

that never flickered and produced
better light. When she became old
and had to move assisted living

my wife asked why she kept the candles
but never used them. They were gifts,
she said, looking a little confused.

One must always keep one's gifts, you know.

Week 31 : Poem 1 : Total 40
 
Your Tide Still Holds Me

I never meant
to become a ghost
in your sand.

But I remember
the shape of your ankles,
how they vanished
each time I came near,
the way seafoam
could never touch
without taking.

The moon whispers your name
hanging, light
in the atmosphere
of not-forgotten longing,
etching in pull.

So I come to the shore
to gather.
To touch
and retreat,
again and again,
without end.

You think it was me
who returned.
But it was always
you,
lifting me
skyward

with the pull
of your tide.

83/52
 
In Pursuit of Shadows

I waltzed into dusk,
barefoot and begging for movement,
each step a question
posed to the floorboards of my past.

The room spun.
Mirrors blinked.
The hush
before
the rustle of something familiar
skirting the edge of my gaze.

Call it shadow,
call it the seam I stitched wrong;
childhood clothing
too small to contain
the lie I swallowed,
dressed up in Sunday’s best.

It moved like me,
but slower,
with more ache in the joints.
I chased it,
dancing and prancing
my version of Peter Pan,
threading needles of light
through the hem of what I’d refused.

Ballroom,
abandoned church,
the hollow of an old theater,
my bedroom,
any place with a stage
became a hunting ground
where I twirled
too fast to catch what only paused
when I did.

You cannot drag shadow
into spotlight.
You wait.
Still.
Until it comes to press its forehead
to yours,
breathing your name
in a voice only the bruised
understand.

Sometimes it sobs.
Sometimes it sings.
Once, it offered me
a slipper made of ash
and dared me
to dance slow.

So I did.
With my ghosts lined up like partners.
With my shame tucked in,
my rage in satin gloves.

Each step,
a funeral for pretending.
Each bow,
a cradle for truth.

And when the music stopped,
the shadow stayed
not behind me,
but beside.

84/52
 
Invasive species:
Appalachian Personality Dis

-order dish of the day Snake
-head fish served cold in a b
-ed of Chinese silvergrass, c
-omes with a Parrot feather d
-eviant bald pate pâté.

Cheese plate assortment of
fungus, chestnut blight, jam
poem parasitica, self-served
servile with a glass of insipid
maladaptive white wine, ing.

tastes of charcoal; character
-less unchilled.

27/52

Inspired by “You’re so vain.’ Fun fact W.B was born in Richmond Virginia.
 
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Aspiration Blues

Lunch plate special 2
pixilated patties dis-
appearing behind con-
fusing confections,

berry blue and sentimental
balloon POP pink flutter
and a free sundae hot
fudge counter no more
since Woolworths shut

downtown a ghost town,
lugubrious busses wheeze
a sorry fog of memory
and Mama's buzzed off
Honey. Bye bye bees.


Week 31, Poem 3, Total 34
 
The bus go by
a back water
blues guy

a back water man
unleveled, older guy
his eyes bedeviled,
unsettled fingers fret
like stinging bees

his guitar strings wrinkle,
pop, stop in stutter,
the words in his mouth
a hot fudge Sundae,
he wonders

why am I so high
on cranberry juice and rye
when my bus go by
on a Friday
a long time ago.

I get
no more lunch
on the menu
in this paint pixilated patty
hamburger of a ghost town

My confusion
memories confections
in affections for a guitar
slide walk on downtown
in memories my matinee a Sat’day

Main street was
sure pretty then,
as pretty as pink pie,
now the bus go bye,
by baby by bye.



(24)
 
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SWAN LAKE
In paradell

The occasion a prince’s birthday love’s hunting bolt arrives,
The occasion a prince’s birthday love’s hunting bolt arrives,
A swan beautiful wears love’s crown on a lake—
A swan beautiful wears love’s crown on a lake—
Love’s bolt arrives hunting a beautiful swan on a lake
the occasion wears love’s crown —a prince’s birthday

In disguise, in tears, she pirouettes seeking his attention
In disguise, in tears, she pirouettes seeking his attention
Dusk— alone love’s prince falls, a princess lies at his feet.
Dusk— alone love’s prince falls, a princess lies at his feet.
His attention in pirouettes, she in tears in disguise alone
seeking love’s prince. Dusk falls. A princess lies at his feet.

Doomed his mother demands his love he choose. An evil spell.
Doomed his mother demands his love he choose. An evil spell.
Odette's true love deceived, the heart breaks. Odile is revealed.
Odette's true love deceived, the heart breaks. Odile is revealed.
Doomed, Odette’s true love deceived. An evil the heart breaks.
His love his mother demands he choose, Odile is spell revealed.

—a prince’s birthday, the occasion lies at his feet, love’s bolt arrives.
His attention in pirouettes. His love his mother demands he choose.
Odile is revealed, an evil spell hunting a beautiful swan on a lake—
A princess breaks, deceived in seeking love’s prince.
Odette’s doomed love the true heart tears. Dusk falls.
She alone love’s crown in disguise wears.



Scroll up in linked thread to find @Tzara’s post on a Paradelle


No 19 note: Since its debut, there have been many reimagining, Tchaikovsky’s original ballet Swan Lake. This is a paradelle version.
Note, the above is the final edit of an earlier posted effort.
 
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In Complete Community

(a poem in percentages)

-

We begin with 100

as if wholeness were inherited,

as if unity was birthright

and not the long division

of stories we keep subtracting.

But do the math.

---

9.3% — LGBTQ+

Architects of joy and chosen family,

they taught the world how to parade pain into color,

how to kiss like revolution,

how to build sanctuary out of glitter and bone.

---

1.3% — Transgender Americans

Bridgewalkers between body and truth,

cartographers of the self,

they redraw the borders of what’s possible,

offering the rest of us freedom by example.

---

1.0% — Muslim Americans

They rise in rhythm with the sun,

bringing devotion into boardrooms,

justice into policy,

and poetry into politics with every Bismillah.

---

2.4% — Jewish Americans

Memory-keepers, wisdom-weavers,

authors of resilience whose humor feeds soul,

whose history teaches the cost of forgetting,

and whose stories build bridges across centuries.

---

1.0% — Hindu Americans

Steeped in mantra and mathematics,

they braid ancient science with modern tech,

turning faith into architecture,

and festivals into light made edible.

---

1.1% — Buddhist Americans

Calm in the engine room,

they teach how to sit inside storms

without naming them enemy

reminding us to breathe,

and to begin again.

---

0.3% — Sikh Americans

Guardians of justice with hands that feed nations,

they carry steel and spirit with equal grace,

teaching service not as sacrifice

but as joy with a spine.

---

0.003% — Native American Traditional Religions

Whispers of fire and bone,

they walk in time’s true direction

forward and back

planting songs where treaties once lied,

reminding land how to pray again.

---

1.6% — Indian Americans

Engineers of tomorrow with ancestral rhythm,

they cook with turmeric, code with precision,

balance Ganesh on dashboards

and galaxies in classrooms.

---

28.7% — Disabled Americans

Masters of ingenuity,

artists of adaptation,

they show us how to listen to silence,

build access out of exclusion,

and never mistake speed for wisdom.

---

19.1% — Hispanic / Latin Americans

The pulse of labor and laughter,

they raise nations while singing lullabies in two languages,

spicing the soil with ancestry

and re-teaching America how to dance.

---

7.2% — Asian Americans

Fierce alchemists of tradition and tech,

they carry scrolls and semiconductors,

martial grace and quiet rebellion

always more than the script permits.

---

10.2% — Multiracial Americans

Living intersections,

they are the jazz of bloodlines,

proof that truth is not binary,

and that the future is already here,

wearing more than one face.

---

12.0% — Black Americans

Authors of rhythm,

they built this country’s spine,

taught its music to weep,

its language to rise,

its people how to survive with brilliance.

---

1.0% — American Indian / Alaska Native

First stewards of soil and star,

they carry treaties in their marrow,

build futures with cedar and data,

and hold sacred what others forget.

---

0.2% — Pacific Islanders

Ocean-mapped navigators,

keepers of tides and tattooed wisdom,

they carry volcanoes in their stories

and sunrise in their bones.

---

But still

Add it up:

~91.6% of the nation,

written out of the definition of “standard.”

What’s left?

8.4%

who built the mirror

and claim it's entire reflection.

---

America often erases most of itself.

It says “We the People,”

then sharpens the eraser.

Gives you a bubble sheet

with one right answer.

This isn’t a melting pot.

It’s a sieve.

This isn’t inclusion.

It’s filtration.

This isn’t unity.

It’s editing.

---

Completion is not a myth.

It is a math.

And when you round down the decimal,

you round out the dignity.

When you delete the body,

you inherit a flag

with holes where the stars should be.

---

Percentage Key (U.S. Adult Population Estimates)

Identity / Group Approx. % of U.S. Adults

LGBTQ+ (all) 9.3%

→ Transgender (subset) 1.3%

Muslim Americans 1.0%

Jewish Americans 2.4%

Hindu Americans 1.0%

Buddhist Americans 1.1%

Sikh Americans 0.3%

Native American traditional religions 0.003%

Indian Americans 1.6%

Adults with disabilities 28.7%

Hispanic / Latine Americans 19.1%

Asian Americans 7.2%

Multiracial Americans 10.2%

Black / African Americans 12.0%

American Indian / Alaska Native 1.0%

Native Hawaiian / Pacific Islander 0.2%

Total excluded ~91.6%

Remaining “counted” majority ~8.4%
 
Can I Get a Side of Hope with That Venti Chai Latte, Please?

A writer's caffeine-soaked confession

By Bear Sage

-

So I’m standing in line,

debating whether this next poem is too honest

or not honest enough.

-

Wondering if the algorithm wants poetry

or just another trauma-sprinkled essay

served with a side of “resilience.”

-

I order the venti chai.

Oat milk, of course.

Three pumps, not four.

I’m saving room for regret.

-

And then, because I’m running on fumes

and existential dread,

I ask:

-

Can I get a side of hope with that?

-

The barista doesn’t blink.

She’s probably heard worse.

Like, “I’m writing a Substack.”

-

Hope, at this point,

is the draft I’ve opened 19 times

and rewritten 22.

It’s the line I deleted

that keeps whispering,

you were right to kill me,

but still won’t leave me alone.

-

Hope is the moment I click "publish"

thinking maybe this one will land,

maybe this one will find someone

at 2:37 a.m.

holding their own broken thoughts

like a coffee cup with a crack

they keep drinking from anyway.

-

And then maybe they’ll write back.

Or repost it.

Or just feel something that isn't

Buy now

Vote later

Work harder.

-

Hope’s not big anymore.

It’s lowercase.

Italicized.

Unsubscribed from most of its own newsletters.

-

But I keep writing.

I keep brewing.

-

Because some mornings,

when the caffeine hits just right

and the metaphor lands clean,

I believe again.

-

Even if just for a stanza.

-

Even if just until the cup runs out.
 
Observing

The world go by today
A Friday
And I am off
(Of the deep end)

Just sittin on my back porch
Admiring the ditch lilies
Still going strong
Tiny moths sucking on
The phlox
White raspberry….pink.
A huge bumble bee
Emerges from the pale pink bell
Of a hosta flower
I don't think they should even be
Able to fly
Yet somehow they do

I love things that fuck with reality...

Just sittin and
Observing
The world go by today
And wondering about things

24/52
 
P vs S

Poetry hits fast.
A punch to the balls.
It’s quick, fierce,
leaves you gasping.
No mercy.
One shot,
It’s over.
Pure impact.

Stories hit slow.
A punch to the chest.
Pounding relentlessly.
Dragging you down.
Chapter after chapter,
wearing you out.
Never stopping until you’re broken,
battered, and begging for mercy.

Both brutal.
Both beautiful.
Poetry leaves you stunned.
Stories leaves you shattered.
 
Poem in Which the Author Grumbles
About the Difficulty of Keeping Up
with the Requirements of the Challenge,
Composed (for No Particular Reason)
in the Form of the Onegin Stanza

This challenge sometimes isn't charming—
It's simply too much work to write
A weekly poem that's disarming,
Yet clever, witty, a delight
For those expecting the erotic
Or verse at least not too neurotic
To while away some idle time
Avoiding something too sublime.
Bam! There's the problem, fellow poets,
To walk the line 'tween thin and deep
And not put everyone to sleep
Is fucking hard and don't you know it!
Ah well. This task, at which I strive
From week to week, is to survive.

Week 31 : Poem 2 : Total 41
 
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