Tag Archives: National Poetry Month

National Poetry Month: The Family That…

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Innocence
Trapped by danger’s sweet fragrance
Lust of thus oozed from my pores
Became yours at soul’s expense

At first kind
Cleaving to the ties that bind
Couldn’t see the seeds planted
Enchanted, my eyes were blind

Slowly thus
Your love a snake venomous
The intent as sheer as glass
Only I passed your litmus

Blood’s imbrue
Its desires call me too
In moderation, I know
It is so, I’ve become you

Puppeteer
In your hand for uses queer
Evil once ne’er dreamed to do
Now like you I find I sneer

Purity
That is what you once called me
Only on death we gain it back
With life’s lack, it comes to be

Come my blade
With you I’m all I’ve been made
Gleaming crimson from our gut
Final cuts, our dues are paid

So we lay
It has come to this last day
Laugh at your look of surprise
Evil dies, we pass away

A Good Girl Who Does

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As a thinker I excelled in science and chess
Bright in my other academics, I gave no less
Could mentally match just about whatever you bring
Daunted only by my emotional state, a very different thing
Ever curious, I took a shine to coition with ambition
Female born, however held a certain restriction
Gracious model of virtue? Hah! I never tried to be
Held back within all the rules of social complicity

Inquisitive, I felt it more honest than being just a tease
Justly stated, I would pursue my desires as I would please
Knowing that the names for me were much closer to ‘whore’
Love was but a word as the males I knew were free to ‘score’

Mainly, I felt you can’t grow a garden by reading a book
Negating convention I dared to do more than just look
Oh guys can easily convey how often they go to bat
Privately the girls aren’t ever to admit knowing any of that
Quietly I learned to hide how I came to know so much
Raging that a male is never asked to hide knowledge of such
So, I could hum the foulest limerick and still be called quaint
Talk knowledge of a hummer when I was barely twenty ain’t

Understanding people I had known only one or two
Vicious rumors and some cruel truths I muddled through
Watching eyebrows rise as double-standards reared its head
X-rated knowledge in a g-rated world was a hard path to tread

Years went by before I felt I wasn’t a freak
Zeroing in that I’m a rarity someone unique
Allowed myself to enjoy it all in its various forms
Because I refuse to stilted by social world’s norms
Carnal knowledge once bane, I’m now admired for
Day or night, finally happy, I don’t care any more

Every now and then I’ll get outrageous with a verbal gush
Freaking people out on purpose just to watch them blush

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And today’s form is an Abecedarius which is an alphabetic acrostic or a poem in which each line or stanza begins with a successive letter of the alphabet. Historically, it was widely used in religious aspects as the beginning of prayers, hymns and oracles. As time progressed, variations of the method developed and new types of acrostics appeared. Some methods included using the first letter of the first word (as I have done above), the first letter of the stanza or the first letter of the first word and last letter of the last word in each line.

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: The Art Of Rebellion

My Sin

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‘Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from my lips?
O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.’
– William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

i bask in the feel of silk across my eyes
i feel Him come so close then walk away
A teasing touch, but one that causes sighs
He knows i pray that this time He will stay
i arch my back with all that it implies
He reads me well i am His open book
He opens a window making me shiver against my will
Under the autumn’s breath He knows i can’t keep still
He parts me with blunt threats to more than look
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Whispering that only i make Him yearn
i know the svelte voice misleads
It’s an unexpected pleasantry i earn
Flechettes, blades, ben-wah beads
His tirade wicked and wondrous in turn
As i, His personal armiger do equip
His tastes for things shiny and steel
Their icy touch a torture surreal
Halts a Freudian slip
Sin from my lips?

It’s me He chooses first to disrobe
A weakness rarely on display
A hard pinch to already tender globes
Signals it’s one for which i must pay
Oooohhhh! He increases the speed to the probe
To the point where nice and naughty converge
Yes i do accept the blame
When His sacrosanct name
Is moaned in passion’s surge
O trespass sweetly urged!

And as His desire burns faster
Mine is halted as His get
Stark and hard He is my Master
Pliant and supple, i am His pet
His liquid heat drips as blessed oil from pastor
But my crescendo He orders to abstain
i tremble for failing Him won’t endear
With a brute mercy He releases me from my fear
Until naught but unrepentant memories remain
Give me my sin again

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Glosa form with borrowed lines from you know who.

The glosa is a Spanish form that also works well in English.   Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, called the cabeza, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial cabeza in consecutive order.  The sixth and ninth lines of each stanza rhyme with the borrowed tenth line and is the only required rhyme of the poem. There is no set meter or syllable count for a Glosa, however, a good flow is always recommended.
Submitted to:

Thursdays Poets’ Rally Week 44 ( May 19 – May 25, 2011)

Mr. Palmer

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Artwork: The Single Man — Gerhard Haderer

Did she make you mad?
Again?
An object of ridicule?
Again?
Did she leave her sad taint upon you?
Again?

Come get me.

I am there…
There whenever,
There wherever,
There whatever.

I’m not gallant,
I just know what you need.

Come get me.

For I know you
All of you,
Inside and out
To the letter “T”
I’ve known you before
The last one
During this one
And perhaps
After the next one

From your junior
’Till when
You’re much elder
It’s how we
Connect.

Come get me.

I’ve seen
Sides of you
No one’s ever seen
I hear you cry
And when you scream
You know
I don’t care.
I won’t
Imbrue you with
Needless guilt.

Come get me.

In joy
In anger
Or when
You just need
To take
Some of the edge off
When feeling
Awry.

Come get me.

And when you’re done
Spent, lying back in repose
I’ll go back,
Back to the shadows
From whence I came,
Until the next need
When you’re pressed to be

Happy again

I’ll be ready for you
Always
Or at least
As long as
Your arm holds out

Come get me

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Submitted for:
 Jingle Poetry – Pot Luck:
Week 46 | Love and its not being there.

I’m pretty damned sure this not what was expected when the subject of “Love and its not being there…” was thought up for this week’s Pot Luck, but.. it does fit the bill * wicked grin *

First Feelings Part II (The Reality)

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It was mine.

It was mine to give
to the one I chose.
Instead it was taken,
forever from my grasp.

Stole the most valuable item
That this fifteen year old possessed.

It was mine.
It was suppose to be a gift.

Somewhere out there
the potential recipient
knows not what was lost.

It was mine.
He stole my gift.

I had visions on how it
would one day be given.

It was mine.
He stole my dream.

For years what I gave
could never bring
me happiness.
It wasn’t The gift.

It was mine.
He stole my joy.

I should be able to reminisce
fondly when girl talk
falls to that time
but I remain quiet.

It was mine.
He stole my memories.

A stranger made himself familiar
in a place he should have never known.

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dVerse Meeting the Bar ~ Symbolism

One Hand

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Old Man in Window
The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh.
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas,
and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose,
yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.
~ Leonard Cohen (The Stories of the Street)

I spy out my window, pan the changed neighborhood
And decided all this change is not for the better
Variety has its place, yes, that’s understood
But it suits neither me nor my aging setter
And I’d change it all back, if only I could
Tales of old I tell to ones who know not hoe from staff
With cheeky little chuckles some listen to my lore
others, not so politely pretend not to snore
All too quick to set upon any misspoken gaff
The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh

In my country youth we rode the roads on horse
Potential fertilizer the only cause for alarm
Yes there were the rich who had cars of course
But that was a life far from my sharecropper farm
Get through the toils of the day our driving force
But a bend of brutal winter came to pass
And my quiet country road became a bustling city street
With days filled of noise glaze the tons of people to meet
Fragrant airy fields gone as different scents amass
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas

Not to say this city life did not have its good days
you’d note me as a liar if I told you so
It has been no bed of roses as the old folks say
But there are sweet things I’ve come to know
Oats have I sown in many ways
Yes, I’ve known my measure of passion’s throes
I’ve rented flats and owned several places
But with time and finances I’ve lost those spaces
My remaining sunset days spent in SROs
And I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose

Some concern fills my advancing years
As I outlive those who knew me well
The ones who get my sudden laughter and tears
Without a long explanation to tell
Only my Josie’s left to indent my fears
But even the end of her dog’s life draws nigh and so it goes
As I enjoy the lovely flower paid to entertain my night
I eye the bottle on dresser barely seen in the dim light
And I oscillate between my joys and my woes
Yes, one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.

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Entered in:


Thursday Poets Rally – Week 45

November 18, 1978

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April is National Poetry Month. Today is a not so gentle reminder of why we should not forget out past. So I won’t end with “Enjoy!” as I usually do. This time I’ll say “Remember!”

November 18, 1978

Morning dawns anew upon a utopia time
A place filled with fluffy white cloud skies
No poverty or hunger or the slightest crime
Where no one ever hurts and no one ever cries

A special place where all can belong
Where God is followed and faith so strong

Built on the words of a charming teacher
Very few noticed beneath the sheen
Of the dashing, dark-haired preacher
Was the susurrus of something mean

A ‘Peoples Temple’ built for equality, tranquility
Headed by a monster of no comparability

But just as all seems right in the dawn
Utopia shatters and blood falls like rain
Sweet cyanide sips are over 900 gone
Bodies die writhing and screaming in pain

In the end the ugly truth is passed
among all the dead bodies amassed

Many simply drank if their faith was true
Or were met with murderous fusillade
But why did the babies have to die to
In the service of this monster’s façade?

Some survived to find their own truth
Forever scarred by the ashes of youth

All they wanted was an earthly paradise
With races coexisting side by side
Who could have ever known the price
Would be one of genocide

Nearly forgotten shadows of a madman’s fate
Jonestown, November 18, 1978

Jonestown massacre 1978
[Bodies at the Jonestown compound under a sign that reads:
‘Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it’]

In case some forgot, never heard of, or were not old enough to know about, the Rev. Jim Jones and the horror of what happened in Jonestown, Guyana, November of 1978, don’t worry; man definitely finds a way of letting bad history repeat. David Koresh and the Branch Davidian massacre in Waco, Texas, was twenty years ago in 1993. If you don’t know/remember either event, tick…tick…tick….
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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

By Friendly Hand

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My large beauty
My ethnic birth
Female I am

All mocked cruelly
In brutal words
Spoken so quick

The flip remark
Said upon lark
Really did hurt

And did begin
A vicious rend
Upon my soul

My poise shaken
I’d never think
Because of you

The shot fired
By friendly hand
Hurting much more

Than the exact
Same something by
Strangers that pass

That you’re clueless
To meanings dealt
Under the joke

Give scant solace
To feelings hurt
Deeply in me

Steps to repair
The friendship torn
Begun by you

Yet to forgive
Then forget this
Really is hard

Where to begin
In healing such
Haven’t a clue

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Today’s form? A Novem