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Apologies to Lao Each day is its own microstep--Apologies to Lao by `fllnthblnk
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrific
Loss It is more than death: a loved oneLoss by `fllnthblnk
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
Tautophony In Clearfield the cars duplicate themselvesTautophony by `fllnthblnk
along the island-tipped Antelope Drive,
bombinating city to city: marbles spilling
across the contours of a tired sidewalk.
Every night I listen, knowing the darkness
of the room, the sleek stone of it
weighing down — it is too difficult to sleep,
to let my eyes wander the existence
of the ceiling, the lone bulb at its center.
I am a note, a song that curls on its side
to discover the chorus, the spareness of wind,
the groaning feline, the knick and knack
of a yellowed house slumbering into its edge,
its cul-de-sac — while the moon peeks
or doesn't, quiet behind the other sil
Sign Two-fingered peace on routine lipsSign by `fllnthblnk
meant a pack and a half:
day, night, the angled light between--
first light, last light--the darkness
revealed after another haunting dream.
For years, whisps left the remnants
to extinguish (tray, sidewalk, beneath
a trekking sole), ephemeral life
that knows the yellow, brick-lined hole
of the mouth, the inhalation,
the minutes of pause. Never cause:
the slow, 8-hour degradation of a job;
new miracle, new accident: another
WIC application; the alwaysness
of death: the hugeness of big business.
It does not know that, nor the subterfuge
of time and its enatation--the depths
of a new century.
Quiet, Now Listen. The quiet listens back:Quiet, Now by `fllnthblnk
the breath of a loved one
amidst sleep, your breath, watching.
Even now there is the celestial
tugging. The moon rising
just over mountain, forest or plain--
the overwhelming absence
that is the ocean, a dark tide.
The sun, without a roar,
on the opposite side
of our spinning world, so silent
through space, although a giant
amongst the backdrop of stars.
Bed Warmer My father thought it weird,Bed Warmer by `fllnthblnk
the coexistence of two species
where we spend a third
of our lifetimes. To him, we sleep
as robots, a soldier's stance,
our bodies cold and inert, rigid
as the television's remote, the day
rerunning as static in a dream-tapped
mind. But I don't mind, I tell him.
Best friend is the appellation
man does not bestow on others
so easily. Even now, a war cry of bullets
perforates the wrong colors of flesh,
a drunk man says he can drive, does so
into a mini-van, full of arguments
and twenty questions just seconds ago.
We know what good people we are--
the teen mothers, the cheaters
on Maury invite the devil's fork
of
Even in dream I am a poet. A galloping echoEven in dream by `fllnthblnk
of horses: their strong legs
pound along the green plain
unrolling from my mind like fog
lifting from a virgin landscape.
Such a rarity now, the free-fall wind
through their manes, wild blood
unbound by harness or saddle, crowds
cheering them through the cruel,
unending oval of a derby. Jockey-struck.
It is luck to view their untethering,
even in this ethereal place
where I stand, pen and notebook
in my perfect hands, even as the
Midnight I remember my first geisha sighting…Midnight by `Laurence55
Falling from the night, her robes were
splashed with ochre, and periwinkles.
Pink chrysanthemums
in jet black hair.
A fleeting, imperfect,
accidental beauty.
I am giddy.
We start with a gentle hello
then comes the dance
low slung in her hips
moving her arms in a studied grace
It is hard not to pay attention
to the small stuff
the secret gardens
rain is in the air
We’re not a literal people,
but I lose myself.
We write in
ritualistic cadence
and she becomes
the dark, naked grapevines
of early spring.
Every morning
I open my eyes.
It is a Zen notion
A reflection
Here i
How to Bake a Poem How to Bake a PoemHow to Bake a Poem by ~Mahi-Fish
5 metric feet in iambic squares
3 metaphors, diluted or finely chopped
2 obscure allusions with scholarly appeal
6 rhyming pairs
8 stanzas - four lines each
word play and imagery to taste
Preheat oven to desired mood
In large saucepan, melt iambic feet together with stanzas.
Stir in rhyme, but slowly.
Pepper with obscure allusions. Don't allow to clump.
Add generous dollop of metaphor.
Sprinkle in imagery and word play.
Bake on center rack until poem solidifies nicely
or is golden-brown.
Decorate with punctuation and capitalization.
Top with meaningful title.
Allow to cool.
Taste before serving
Bobbing in mellow waves OrangeBobbing in mellow waves by =Jazzman1989
luminescent orb
wafting on marshmallow clouds
into the distant horizon as a lone fisherman waits.
Waiting for a gentle tug, a simple nibble on his
synthetic rubber night crawler, yet nothing,
Love Poem For Ugly People +Love Poem For Ugly People by `queenhrosie
I don't like your whiskers. I don't like the way you say my name
as if it is ripping through muscle. I don't like it that you're ugly.
I don't sleep with ugly people. Ugliness in small animals makes
you want to hold them, as if you can shove beauty into a thing
just by squeezing until you can feel rib and organ. Ugliness in
you is your nose like a peninsula. Your hair like Spanish moss.
I promised you a love poem because I kissed you out of pity
and you asked me for a love poem. But I can't do it. You're ugly,
the landscape of hair on your
Business Management I misunderstoodBusiness Management by ~non-the-road
They wanted a huge profit
I got them Buddha
Stargazers TheStargazers by ~lupyne
time has
come again
for Halley to soar
through the night’s sky
The time has come once again
for a million telescopes around the world to tail its graceful movements
I remember, as I’m sure you do too, this was how we first met,
Up on the roofs, amidst th
Socks You can't always win a nobel prizeSocks by ~intimachine
or vicarious eyes
drive-by glances
momentary chances
while thinking of ways to rhyme
biohazard
with a 2 syllable word;
I spew lizard,
despite how absurd,
and whether or not
that strikes you in awe
or raises a brow,
or opens your jaw,
regardless of whatever you're thinking right now,
this has no relevance... to anything. At all.
Sometimes you write
about humanity's flaws,
write to grant laughter,
or analyze God,
but then when you write,
you imagine your bed!
so maybe you'd rather be writing
about... socks, instead.
It shouldn't take long
since i'm very much familiar
and quite frankly,
The New Bridge A machine torn straight from the pagesThe New Bridge by ~a-random-quigle
of the War of the Worlds,
it has dug claws into the soil of old Dundrum
and hunkered down on its haunches.
St. George's Bells peel its arrival.
Spider on spider on spider,
little feet disturb hairs
on the back of my hands,
and ivy sinks first roots
into concrete - the webs we weave,
the bridges new lovers build for each other,
rigging stretches to the sky
and wind plays the cables like a harp.
It is like a beached ship, you whispered.
Before it landed here on our small planet
a sail of purest whitest energy
stretched from that thin curved mast,
I replied.
Those pillars hide the shaft of
Lake Windermere We are sometime tourists,Lake Windermere by ~tangerinedreams
forever wanderers
in open topped buses
tie-dyed amongst Mercedes’.
Stringy haired,
smelling of campfire smoke,
our pockets filled with menthol cigarettes,
tin whistles,
and skipping stones.
We find ourselves
basking in the glow of laughter
under the dripdrip
of cave music.
Beers and sticky chocolate bars
fill our tattered canvas bags,
alongside leather flip flops,
discarded for bare footed expeditions
amongst spiders
bloodchilling streams
and daisy chains.
spilled wine he dances a kind of geniusspilled wine by ~IAmPoetry
against white walls;
all prim and branched out
the fireplace, calm as the setting sun,
carries me
to
him
fingers sweep each other
collecting dead skin and dialogue
we giggle like short-lived kids
playing with drugs
his smile vintage, lips dry as cocoa mix
now moist as dew kissed grass
the table acquaints us
panties wilt to the obese rug...
among spilled wine and cradle
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I've tried pursuing happiness. Happiness sought a restraining order.
