Category Archives: Thinking Aloud

Come and Play

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5

Pachynsis
my sacofricosis,
eurotophobia

and absolute medomalacuphobia
so ruins my chances at venus observa
that my gynephobia has its way

the words I do not say
‘come and play’

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Yes, I have issues – but none of them are listed in this write!  (Big grin)

Pachynsis–  An unusual thickening of the skin of muscle; in this case referring to male erection.
Sacofricosis–  The practice of cutting a hole in the bottom of a front pants pocket in order to masturbate in public with less risk of detection.
Eurotophobia–  The fear of  female genitalia.
Medomalacuphobia– The fear of losing an erection.
Venus Observa–  The clinical term for missionary position of copulation.
Gynephobia–   The fear of women.

When The Music Moves

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8

When the music moves the chef and the menu
I can not help but rock to the venue,

I grate and wind and fold and dip, all while cooking and that’s just my hips

Serving Foie gras to a Beyoncé bass beat?
I’ve played Metallica while serving Crème brûlée sweet.

I sway to a strawberry’s single sweet soliloquy
As I would to any doo-wop’s three-part harmony

My sifter sounds like maracas, the water running is backup hum,
And I’ll drop them all in heartbeat to do a Phil Collin’s air drum

Notes ringing crystal clear as an opera singer
Are like the perfect bite whose flavors linger

The perfect flavors require as much of a chef’s orchestration
As any conductor pulling together a musical temptation

And I dance as I chop and I chop as I sing and I sing as I fry, it’s a symbiotic thing

I can not help but rock to the venue,
When the music moves the chef and the menu

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Written for

Poetry Picnic Week 32: Topics on Twitter.com

Source Tweet: When Music Moves The Chef And The Menu

To those not familiar with Phil Collins I included a link to the reference within the poem. While the specific drum solo starts after the 5:00 mark, you really should listen to the entire song to get the full feel on why any of us familiar with the song will drop almost everything when that part comes to do the air drum.

Of Plans And Raivenne

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3

Plans change and now my day is free
To vegetate?
No not
I.

Shades await this
bluest
sky.

I must enjoy
This gift,
Bye!

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Yes, another Zeno poem (Ten lines with the syllable count: 8/4/2/1/4/2/1/4/2/1 and a rhyme scheme: a/b/c/d/e/f/d/g/h/d). Because the day is too beautiful to stay in for anything verbose.

Enjoy your weekend folks – I’m outta here!

Moshing

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33

Music blares through amplifiers
Heavy Metal
Bass line
Loud

My age shocks some
In this
Crowd

Me in the mosh
Thrashing
Proud

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Last week I went to an underground concert to support and critique a friend whose band was performing there. Let’s just say I could have given birth to most of the other attendees with whom I was front stage and center dancing up a storm. Conversations while different bands set up, comparing the ones performing that night to other older (sometimes much older), bands is when some realized I was not even within fifteen years of their age. As faces ebbed and flowed that night, it became something of a running gag for some whippersnapper in the know to grab a newcomer and have him or her guess my age. Yes, Advil was dear my friend the next morning, but this Mama held her own proudly that night.

Because when this mama rocks, it’s not in a chair.

A conversation I had yesterday regarding my love of head banging music reminded me of last week’s concert. I decided to immortalize it by trying another Zeno poem (Ten lines with the syllable count: 8/4/2/1/4/2/1/4/2/1 and a rhyme scheme: a/b/c/d/e/f/d/g/h/d).

That it also happens to fit this weeks dVerse challenge of “keeping it small” is an added bonus. 22 words total!

dVerse ~ Pets Pub | MeetingTheBar: It’s a small, small world — so let’s LIMBO like there is no tomorrow

All One Remembers

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Be it that simple rhyme given to the first friend
The classic ”Roses are red, violets are blue…”
Or on the finest parchment that can be penned
With a method and grace that evokes much ado

Poetry is the verbiage that traces the path of a setting sun ray
Whose impression lasts long after the indigo eve holds sway

We don’t deny that amphigory can crack a mighty smile
Cooling off the sensual steam from a sexy free-verse mix
Metaphor and imagery are just a part of a poem’s style
Though it glitters it’s not silver, is one of its many tricks

Mighty words can pool one’s anger enough to shake the rafter
Or fill a pool with gut wrenching tears if that’s what it’s after

Some say the true crux of a poem’s job is to entertain
It’s a bonus if a lesson happens to be learned
Poorly or very well done, both can bring much gain
And even the rich know its value is not in dollars earned

For when all is said and done, pens down, books close, lips seal
All one mostly remembers of a poem is how it makes one feel

>==========<

dVerse Poetry Pub : Ars Poetica – Poems about Poetry

My Baby, He Loves Me…

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9

Drifting on a mode so deep – had to put it to words so I can sleep
Some of you won’t like this I know – but the muse goes where it wants to go

My Baby
He Loves Me

He Loves Me Like Chi-Town

Gangsta All The Way, ‘Cause He Know I Don’t Play
Before He Could Love Me Here, He Had To Love Me There
He Had To Speakeasy To Find The Key To Unlock My Mind
Because Once Unlocked There Is No Prohibition To What He Won’t Do For Love
Because Once Unlocked There Is No Inhibition To What I Will Do For Love
Because Once Unlocked There Is Just The Mission To Love

My Baby
He Loves Me

He Loves Me Like Detroit

Do-Wop Singing, Joy Bringing, Hip Swaying, Motown Playing
Hot Car Driving, Always Striving To
Giving Me The Best That’s He’s Got
Giving Me The Best ‘Cause It’s Hot
Giving It All Until We’re Bloodshot

My Baby
He Loves Me

He Loves Me Like New Orleans

The Big Easy – Easy Like A Sunday Morning, Just As The Day Is Dawning
Like Cool Jazz On The Hot Delta, I’m Telling Ya’ll I Never Felt A
Who Do The Voodoo, Like He Do
The Bass Of His Sax Makes My Skin Thrum
The Bass Of His Sax Makes My Lips Hum
The Bass Of His Sax Makes Me Just Wanna Succumb

My Baby
He Loves Me

He Loves Me Like Compton

Timberland Wearing, Rough-Neck Swearing
All The While Smiling Cause We Doggie Styling
Free-Styling On Crenshaw Where They All Saw
The Liquid Ounce¸ Ounce, Ounces Of The Forty
Drip On The Flounce, Flounce, Flounces Of My Booty
In The Bounce, Bounce, Bounces Of The Hoopty

My Baby
He Loves Me

He Loves Me Like The Big Apple

Creating It, Making It, Taking It, Never Faking It
So Good It Makes Me Weep For The Sexing That Never Sleeps
Ain’t Got A Damn Thing To Say When He’s Laying Down The Broadway

Shoes On The Counter, In The Hall, Still Outside The Front Door.
Buttons Splattered, Clothing A Tattered, Scattered Mess On The Floor
No Shame In My Game ‘Cause Don’t You Know?
I’m Well Versed In The Language Of Fellatio
Going From “oh baby, oh baby, oh baby, oh.”
To “Oh Baby! Oh Baby! Oh Baby! Oh Baby! OH!”

Back Stinging From The Sweat In Trails His Nails Left
And Moaning For More ‘Cause I’m Not Done Yet
Tom Catted, Hair Matted,
Sheets Twisting, Sweat Glistening,
Cock Throbbing, All Out Sobbing
And That’s Just Him . . .

Menage A Trois? Yeah! Fuck That And Get The Strap!
Tongue Dripping On The Cunt Dipping For
The New Jack Trick Of The Deep Licked Long Dick
Where I’m Laid Down To Get Jacked-On
Where I’m Held Down To Get Sucked-Off
Where I’m Tied Down To Get Fucked Up

Stroking, Stoking, Toking, Smoking
Steaming, Streaming, Screaming, Creaming

MY! BABY! IS! LOVING! ME! UNTIL! WE! ARE! FUCKING! EACH! OTHER! AS! HARD! AS! THIS!

And Oh – Did I Tell You About My Baby?

He Loves Me…

>==========<

dVerse Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight Week 37

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

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6

A week ago Saturday, I should have been repeatedly glancing at the time, waiting for 5:17 pm Pacific Daylight Time to make a call that would have rung in New York City at 8:17pm Eastern Daylight Time. For the past few days I should have been teasing my friend, on how I wish I could have personally seen the expression on her face when the man she had been living with for three years dropped down to one knee and proposed to her, in front of the family gathered for St. Patrick’s revelry while she and I were talking on the phone at 8:17pm EDT/5:17pm PDT. Why that exact time? Because the proposer was seventeen minutes late for meeting up with friends at a pub in San Francisco for St. Patrick’s Day, when he first laid eyes on her four years ago. As I was in California for the weekend, I thought it was a grand idea to call from the West Coast at that exact time tying the events together.

Instead, a week ago I was trying to get drunk so I could fake happiness for a party I had traveled to the other side of the country for, but no longer wanted to be at, because I received the news from the fiance-to-be the day before, that my friend was killed in an auto-accident by a drunk driver. The shock of the news put me in such a state, much to the worry of my drinking buddies who (when I did not show up at the dance Friday night an hour after I received the news), could not reach me through my self-imposed communication silence while I grieved.

Today we bury the body that died, then we will celebrate the life she lived. The past few days have been a whirlwind as I had chosen not to talk about it. Not talking about her is not an option today. For the past few days I noticed when either 5:17pm or 8:17pm struck and felt a pang. Today, tomorrow, a week from now and for several more weeks to come, those specific time markers will be a bittersweet memory; she would hate that.

Eventually, she will be a sweet memory and while she’d likely gag at the use of “sweet” as adjective in relation to her, I know she’d smile at that.

Yet I know as soon as later today, instead of tears of sorrow , it will be tears of laughter streaming down my face as we all tell our favorite stories about her, because you cannot talk about her and not laugh. She would love that.

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Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

A Lesson Deferred

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3

Moonlit justice
of an imagined sunlit crime
Swung from an oak
a cruel pendulum mark of time
Some eyes tremble
Some eyes leer
all wonder at the marvel
of what happened here

Emmit’s a lesson some can’t forget
Emmit’s a lesson some haven’t learned yet

How many more
Must there be
Why does it take a man’s death
for us to see

As we travel down the road of another man
Who will never travel the same again
Truck tires designed to ride him above
Much better used to drag him down in the night
For a crime no more sinister than
He wasn’t born white

James Byrd’s a lesson some can’t forget
James Byrd’s a lesson some haven’t learned yet

And sometimes a child is shot
For doing nothing more
The walking home in the rain
From the local store
Was it the clothes he wore?
Was it the color of his skin?
He carried iced-tea and candy
What was his sin?

Some fifty plus years between hence and thence
To be reminded how fragile the balance on the fence

Stewart, Griffith and Hawkins lesson some can’t forget
Diallo, Bell and now Martin lessons some haven’t learned yet
How many more names will be added before the lesson is set?

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Letting off some steam in the wake of another senseless killing and wanting to bitch-slap Geraldo Rivera even while a part of me understands the rational behind the unintentionally inflammatory statement.

Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

Two Princes

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3

Two New York princes on a subway train
Two different styles, two different manes
Mister Business so perfectly dressed
While Mr. Free Spirit’s so casually tressed
One baby bottom smooth as always
One hasn’t seen a razor in many days
Mr. Business is the model of all things materially
But it’s Mr. Free Spirit who captivates me
Is it the flip-flop sandals on his feet?
Or that reappearing dimple in his cheek
Head bopping in beat to his own tune
In a way Mr. Business’ would never swoon
Business is cool as in ice, Spirit’s cool as in fun
Maybe I’ll take the money under another sun
But for today Mr. Free Spirit is the one

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Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

The Flip Side

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Him: You will never be as bad as you’d like people to think you are.
Me: True, but I will never be as good as you’d like to think I can be.

Had to “Friend Zone” someone who truly did not want to be there. Worse, by putting him in that friend zone, I may I have lost him as exactly that.

I know far too well how it feels to be on his side of unrequited. Knowing that I’m doing the right thing, instead of the easy one, does not make being on this side of it any easier.

Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012