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

[Wonderer67]

Cold Chicken Salad

On a hot summer day
Nothing like it!

My wife bought some premade chicken salad
A few days ago
The blandest
Most boringest chicken salad
I ever et

So I souped it up:
A fine dice of onion
And carrots
Broccoli, stems too (I was out of celery)
Topped it off with a little bit of mustard
Salt and pepper to taste
And a touch more mayo

Now THAT’S a chicken salad!
So cold…
On a hot early August Sunday afternoon
Along with a coke
So refreshing after stacking wood
In the August moisture
Sitting on a stump
Near the woodpiles

A yellow jacket zipped around
Wanting a piece of the action
I didn’t mind
It was too good just being alive
And in this very
Moment

28/52

(If you want a full chicken salad recipe just add 2-3 chicken breasts (cubed) and some more mayo…)

 

[Wonderer67]

Not A Great Night…
But Not A Bad One Either

Heat lightning
Far off
Blue white flashes off to the north
Without sound
Nothing on the radar
Except the pale blue glow
Of my phone at 3:28

By 4:16 I give up on sleep
And step outside
Into air as thick as your breath, hon
Restless as your kegs
And my insides

One last dull flash
Even further out now
Am I living a Bob Seeger song?

Now the crickets are doing their thing
Dropping their relentless jams
A ceaseless background noise
So loud I don’t even hear it anymore

I pace the patio
Walking the perimeter
Straining my ears
I want to turn the crickets down
To listen for thunder
That never cums

4:40 Neck bent to the stars
Clear skies now… stars out too
No lightning for 20 minutes or so
Maybe a stray Perseid?
Sliding down the dark

I’ve always loved
A good shooting star

Now it’s just me
And the stars
Thinking of life and love and happiness and heartbreak
The usual freight

Too heavy for sleep
Might as well stay up

It’s almost time to get up anyway

29/52

 

[Ash999]

There once was a bookie called Morse
Who wanted to be rid like a horse
He whinnied “Neigh! Neigh!”
As the wife whipped away
And now he wants a divorce!

Then the Bookie: Mr. Morse
Invented telegraphic code
Which became for Progress: a Force?!!!
His sub-maso fetish he did decode!!
And today he is Famous , perforce!!!

 

[SmilingLez]

Then the Bookie: Mr. Morse
Invented telegraphic code
Which became for Progress: a Force?!!!
His sub-maso fetish he did decode!!
And today he is Famous , perforce!!!

There once was a code so bold,
It shook my core, uncontrolled,
With dots and with dashes,
It fired all my flashes,
A rhythm that never grows old.

 

[Ash999]

There once was a code so bold,
It shook my core, uncontrolled,
With dots and with dashes,
It fired all my flashes,
A rhythm that never grows old.

Tis' a Tribute to Samuel Morse!!!
' with Dots and Dashes'
This immortal Line has Poetic Force
Dots 'n Dash clashes
Lez owns the Vocab Bourse!!
Her Genius flashes ...

 

[_Land]

Rotten Anthem in Chrome

I am the splintered prophet
bolted to a sidewalk vein,
roots nailed into concrete coffins
while holograms scream commercials
across the smog-stained dawn.

My branches rattle like broken antennae,
catching only static,
only sirens,
only the laughter of glass towers
that drink the sky dry.

Rats stage revolutions in my hollow chest,
their teeth write manifestos
in pulp and rot.
I cheer them on
the only audience left
for a dying trunk with iron lungs.

Once I sang with rivers,
now I choke on subway fumes,
a cathedral gutted for circuitry.
Even the rain is fluorescent,
dripping neon scars down my bark,
graffiti I never asked for,
graffiti I keep.

The humans pass
face-masks glowing,
eyes wired to pocket suns.
They don’t see me raising
a middle-finger limb
at their endless scrolling apocalypse.

I am the last green heretic,
my anthem a cough of ash,
a scream disguised as photosynthesis.
When I fall,
let it be a molotov
splintering sparks into the skyline,
a final riot
from the casket in the park

 

[_Land]

When the Sky Split for Her

At dawn the heavens tore,
in reverence, in offering.
Clouds opened like temple doors,
and from their hollowed chambers
rose a table of light.

Bread of nebulae,
wine of first dawn,
fruit carved from constellations,
a feast prepared in her honor.

The ancients gathered in flame and drum,
their voices braided with thunder,
their hands striking rhythms
that shook the horizon awake.
The sun itself bowed,
laying its crown of fire
before her feet.

Her name braided the wind.
Her laughter carried in storm-song.
The rivers lifted silver cups,
mountains bent their spines,
trees clapped their many-leafed hands.
Even the stars
traveled closer to watch.

Each cloud an offering bowl,
overflowing with her touch.
Each echo of song
carving her memory deeper into sky.

And I, among them,
stood as witness,
my breath caught in the marrow of time.
I saw the glory they sang,
I knew the truth they declared.
When the sky split open,
it was to begin eternity
in her honor.

(Elizabeth 10-4-71 to 8-7-2025)

 

[Tzara]

Carry On, Jeeves

He looks like our poor Bertie Wooster,
Though crossed with a fierce banty rooster.
So he struts and he crows
But when chère Flossie blows
It isn't because he seduced her.

Perhaps it was Jeeves who arranged it.
If Bertie had known, he'd have changed it,
For B's todger was shy
But his valet is sly
'Cos let's face it, this toff is a strange git.

So scheduling this little jobby
Jeeves took on as kind of a hobby—
Lady Florence was game,
And though Bertie was lame,
All was set for the Grand Brighton lobby.

It happened one evening, off-season
(For a scandal would seem like high treason).
Florence dropped to her knees,
Bertie started to sneeze,
Mumbling Sorry, rhinitis as reason.

Poor Bertie, unable to finish,
Withdrew with a smile, rather thinnish.
Lady Florence, dismayed,
Turned to Jeeves, who conveyed
He would service her needs undiminished.

A manservant's duties are varied
But honourably out they are carried,
And whatever they be
They're performed perfectly,
One's employer's shortcomings left buried.

Week 35 : Poem 1 : Total 45

 

[42BelowsBack]

Rare ball Lightening
Explodes over the sea’s face
Swimming fish below

N0 28

 

[_Land]

The Little G

Even silicon kneels.
Autocorrect lifts its head,
refusing the smallness,
turning every g into God
whether I asked it to or not.

The code remembers hierarchy,
lines of language stacked like altars,
a quiet submission
built into every machine.
Creations of creation’s children
still bow to the first name.

Always capital,
always crowned.
Not a whisper,
but thunder at the start of the sentence.
The algorithms themselves
are preachers in the chapel of syntax.

Yet that God is He.
Not She.
Not They.
The capital carries the weight of men,
their scepters raised in pulpits,
their voices trained to declare
what divinity looks like.

A little g waits in the margin,
its back bent in refusal,
a protest etched in lowercase.
It asks:
if even our machines know to rise,
who taught them
which way to bow?

 

[SmilingLez]

No string.
Panic!
Fingers deep.
Pain.
Gotcha.
Quick.
Messy.

 

[Angeline]

Autumnal Improv While Listening
to the Chill Tones of Bobby Timmons

Summer is falling down,
tumbling toward cool not
fast enough for me,
longing for October chill
advent of winter.

Get down with you
Persephone young queen
of the undertow. Icy tears
will be Demeter's consolation,
frosted until we green again,
eager faces lifted to the warming

Sun though i'll be counting
days, counting the blessings
of strawberries and garden
fresh tomato sandwiches,
but watching the calendar

yearning for that wee nip
to right my world again.


Week 35, Poem 1, Total 39

 

[42BelowsBack]

Batchelor Gourmet

Summer
heaven

ripening red
unrefrigerated

heirloom tomato.
In hand moulded

folds of cool soft
breast like bread.

The formation,
tongue salted

butter double
layered red,

The cheddar melts
in the fertile crescent

of a hot toasted
tomato sandwich.



N0 29 lol inspired by Angelines fresh tomato sandwich line (ref her poem above).

 

[Xenofidelity78]

Bog Dragon

I could see the tooth

next to your finger

and this thought

well it started to linger

what could primitive man,

have begun to consider,

when they saw this thing,

among bog and tinder?

this beast of legend

made of gleaming skin

that could break turtles

and ate things with fins

it swam faster than their canoes

and could even outrun them on land

how frail they must have felt

how frightened as mere man

but now these things are no danger

indeed they are mere curiosity

only harmful if we linger

in habitat not meant for we

for we've shrunk their rivers and land

made it hard for them to brood

indeed we even hunt them in seasons now

turning the once feared - into food

 

[_Land]

Happily Ever After

They say it as promise,
two words braided in silver,
slipped on tongues like rings
~ ever after.

But time is a knife,
shaving eternity down to minutes.
After is a grave marker,
a gate swinging shut.
How can “ever” hold hands
with a word that begins
where everything ends?

Ever is endless horizon,
the river that never tires of running.
After is aftermath,
the smoke left when the fire collapses.
Together they try to make a fairytale,
but the syllables are enemies
sharing a bed.

Ever wants forever,
after wants closure.
Ever opens its palms to infinity,
after folds its arms
and waits for the curtain to fall.
They cannot belong
in the same sentence,
cannot dance without stepping
on each other’s feet.

And yet
we keep saying it.
We keep craving
a story so stubborn
that even contradiction
must bow to our need for love.
Maybe ever after survives
because the heart refuses
to learn the language of endings.

 

[_Land]

Our First Kiss


The slightest brush,
lip upon lip,
breath stolen by invitation.

A promised bite,
sparking at the edge of hunger,
tasting tomorrow in fragile sweetness.

Your warmth spilled against me,
skin humming like struck strings,
the scent of promise clinging
to the air between us.

Time stilled,
a hush inside my chest,
as the pulse of your mouth
told me everything.

Delicate,
delicacy,
the whole world trembling open
in that single touch.

 

[Wonderer67]

Coming Home and Coming Down

Offa deployment high
The adrenaline
The constant go
The hierarchy
Chain of command
Structure

In a way you miss
The people sending rockets and mortars over the hescoes and barriers
Motherfuckers setting off IEDs
-608 of them that 13 months-
In our Area of Operations alone

We practiced, adapted and got good at
The fine art of destruction
Reacting to shit
Or making them react to us
Flushing people out
Noticing a look
Or sensing when something was wrong

I missed it
I have to admit

But what I missed the most
Was my friends and my crew
Nothing will ever compare to that type of closeness
I missed them so much
Even closer than family members
Truly a brotherhood
I cried when I came home
I missed them so much

There was
No more smokin and jokin
No more black humor or funny stories
There was nothing to compare
To that kind of bond

When came home
I was happy as fuck to be outta the sandbox
But everything seemed dull
Gray washed
Filtered
Slow
No sense of urgency
Boring

They warned me about it

I was a 17 year old nihilist
It seemed as if nothing mattered or was important again
Except this time I was 40
And knew a tiny bit better
And had more to lose

I had an anxiety attack at Lowe’s
Figuring out what color paint to get
For my daughter’s bedroom
I had to leave
My ex didn’t get it
The overwhelming nothingness
The lackluster-ness of it all
So many choices of
“It-don’t-matter-to-me”

I settled on
Just the right shade
Nothingness

I remember getting out of there
And sitting back in my F150
While they finished up
“Cretin Hop” by The Ramones stuck in my head
Foot tapping furiously
Trying to calm down
Waiting
And embrassed
Thumb hammering out the rhythm
On the center console

I will always remember the shade of blue of that center console of my F150
And can still remember the off pink we eventually painted my daughters room
(It was called sunrise)

I remember that moment
Walking around the parking lot to calm down
Keeping the rhythm of that song stuck in my head
“There’s no stopping cretins from hopping…”

They warned me about it

Eventually I got used
To the boredom
The mundane unimportance of
Life and my job
Later, navigating a divorce
And bad dreams

All of that stuff became my new reality
I found new purpose

They warned me about
The come down

30/52

 

[Wonderer67]

Hopped Up

I rented a skidsteer
To wreck the woods for a week
Six magical daze!

It was therapeutic
I was dialed in
Intense
Filled with purpose

It was not wonton destruction
Alltho I was wantin’ destruction

Taking out invasive
Russian olive and autumn olive trees
Japanese Barberry
Multiflora Rose
And hateful vines
Oriental Bittersweet
Strangling and girdling
My good trees
“Fuck you!” I yelled as the vines
Came crashing down

My good hardwood trees
Were untouched
I followed my forestry management plan
To a tee
Making sure I didn’t take out anything good:
Boneset
Viburnum
Oaks and Black Walnut
Beech, cherry
And Shagbark Hickory

Dead ash trees everywhere
Firewood for Mrs Winter

I had only six days
To do as much damage as I could

Smashing…
Uprooting trees
Taking them out by the roots
So satisfying!
“Fuck you, ya bastard!”
So many Russian olives
Cutting vines
Chainsawing
Big branches to smaller ones
“Take that, ya prick!”
In and out of the cab and then back in again
My jaw ached
And my teeth hurt from pressing
My tongue against them

I will
Conquer this property
And restore it to native eastern woodland
God damn any one and anything
That gets in my way!

I threw track on the skid steer
My neighbor helped me
We were in lock step
Anticipating each other’s moves
Breaker bars and 6x6s
We got that sonofabitch back on the
The drive sprocket
Like good ol daze
Only took an hour

I was on fire
Tuned in
Manic
Singularly focused
Dictatorial*
Working till dark
In the August heat
I barely ate

After five days
And drinking thirty five gallons of diesel
I had to stop

But I didn’t want to

I was
Hooked and
Hopped up
On the high of destruction

31/52

*Ask Mrs Wonderer - thank you for understanding…

 

[Wonderer67]

There Will Be a Period of Readjustment

Coming back to work
My day job
The one that pays the bills

Was a teensy
Tiny bit like coming home
From Iraq
At 1/6367262th the scale

Everything seemed boring and mundane
I couldn’t get started
It reminded me of the feelings I had back in the day

Where was the action?
Where was the destruction?
Where was the smell of diesel?
Where was my sense of purpose?

It was easy to delete emails
Tougher to take action on them

The familiarity of my job
Was as dull as
Institutional green
Everything boring
Uninteresting and mundane

All the things I lied about
On my resume
“Focused self-starter…”
“Detail oriented individual with proven ability to organize projects…”
“Hard working team player with exceptional multitasking and project management skills…”

I couldn’t get started
I needed to destroy some more
Cuz that singular focus

Was what was really
Burning in my gut

They said there would be a period
Of readjustment

32/52

 

[SpermFactory]

A woman,
is a rocky bed,
on a mountain. She
is a range of pleated
plates. A subduction,
tectonic body uplifted
in collisions. A woman
is volcanism, an enigma
hot magma, erupting
lava, cooling, she is an
entirely new landscape,
the creator, weathering
a man into peaks and
valleys, wearing man’s
pants down to expose
the dome of man’s true
magnificence.

(30)

 

[_Land]

The Crone

She is not withered,
but weathered,
a river stone smoothed
by years of rushing water,
by laughter,
by tears that carved
their own soft valleys.

Her hair is a crown
woven of seasons,
silver as frost
on morning fields,
yet warm as the hearth
that never ceased burning.

The lines on her face
are not cracks,
but scripture,
testaments of living,
each crease a psalm
to survival,
each shadow a hymn
to joy returned.

I dreamed of her
walking into that fullness,
shoulders straight,
eyes lit like lanterns,
entering the circle of wise women
who would welcome her home
to her Cronehood.

But she was taken
before the moment,
before the naming,
and I ache for the ceremony
she never stood in,
the songs never sung
for the elder
she was becoming.

Still, I honor her:
the Mother who bore
and the Maiden who danced,
yet also the Crone she was
in spirit,
who taught us to listen,
to stir love like stew in the pot,
to plant patience like seeds
that outlived her hands.

And so, I sit with age,
with the beauty of it,
with its slow grace and gravity.
I hold it tenderly,
as if by honoring
the elder in myself,
I can give her
the croning she missed,
a final gift,
a circle completed
in her name.

 

[_Land]

“Dinner For Two”

I set the table tonight.
Your place untouched.
The linen still holds your shape.

“I would’ve been late.
You always moved faster than I did,
except at goodbye.”

I made your favorite.
The mashed potatoes, the rosemary lamb.
I burned the edges. You’d tease me for it.

“I taste the rosemary.
But it’s the grief that melts on my tongue.
So much salt. Have you been crying again?”

Only when I stir the stew.
It thickens with missing you.
Each bubble breaks with your name.

“I never liked that pot.
You said it held too much heat.
Like me.”

You were heat.
Every kiss, wildfire.
Every silence, a hearth.

“And you
you were the rain
that made it holy.”

I brought the wine.
The bottle we saved and never opened.
Will you drink it with me now?

“Only if we toast to what was.
Not what was lost.
Not what never will be.”

Then to the way you held me.
Like prayer.
Like promise.

“To the way you let me go.
Like wind through trees.
Like breath through lips that still whisper my name.”

Do you still sleep in our bed?

“Sometimes.
Sometimes I sleep in the ache.
It has your spine.”

I visit.
When the dreams are soft enough to carry me.
When your breathing opens the veil.

“I know.
I wake with your scent in my chest.
With your laughter in my hands.”

Then eat with me, love.
Feast with me one more time.
Not in mourning. In memory.

“Yes.
I will stay until the candles burn out.
Until the wine is gone.
Until your hunger quiets.”

It won’t.
But tonight, it softens.
Because you came.

“Because you called.”

Because I never stopped answering.

 

[Tzara]

Bird Metaphors

I made an owl-sound,
and she opened a side door
into her bedroom.
We left the curtains parted
so I could leave with the dawn.

But we overslept
and then I heard her parents
stir in the next room.
Awkward as a new fledgling
I stumbled away from her

as if her mother
would snatch me in her talons,
tear away my sin,
rend my remorseful body
like a hawk devouring prey.

Week 36 : Poem 1 : Total 46

 

[SmilingLez]

Wet Dream



She was there.

No warning.

No excuse.

Just there.

Thigh against mine.

Silent.

Her fingers traced mine.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Electric.

Her mouth found mine.

Hard.

Certain.

I answered.

Like I’d waited years.

She said my name.

Low.

Rough.

I told her things I never say aloud.

We laughed once.

Too close.

Then kissed again.

Deeper.

Harder.

The world vanished.

I woke shaking.

Sheets tangled.

Fingers tight.

Breathing fast.

I wanted her.

The dream.

Unfinished.

Fierce.

Impossible.

Alive.

Nothing else mattered.

Memory never leaves.