No More Last Days (#NaPoWriMo 30)

The last day of NaPoWriMo is a Lady Danger poem. If you've followed my poetry, that name will probably look familiar to you. She actually didn't pop up in any of this round of NaPoWriMo (I believe) which is very strange, so I'm glad she decided to grace us with her presence in this one.

No More Last Days

Lady Danger is six years in her death bed.

But she never goes cold,

Never stiffens.

Like preparing for impact, she stays loose

And revels in the blow.

She knows how this will end:

Sweetly,

But always incompletely.

There will be a final battle she won't win,

And her mourners will be mine:

The same people who hate to see a campfire die.

The same people who cling to the embers

And toast.

True, her eyes are closed,

But Lady Danger sees every creaking dawn,

Every wounded soldier,

Every cigarette turned mushy memory,

Everything withdrawn.

Everything unlike her.

Six years isn't long enough to kill a god.

It takes many lives to learn the word "NO."

The Pay-Off (#NaPoWriMo 29)

The Pay-Off

I enjoy science,
Which makes perfect sense,
But I prefer fiction,
Which makes no cents. 
If a story about science makes me rich,
Those cents in sense would make perfect recompense. 

Apartment 23 (#NaPoWriMo 28)

I remember chablis dreams and the clutter of Apartment 23.

Under the dust, I kept years, excuses, and joys

And reveled in the fact that those small years could still excuse such joy.

There, the apartment brought to a heavenly head

An open heart's last, desperate pump,

And I, made of that useless lump, a ship in a bottle

To set sail,

To see,

To sink,

To drink the saltwater and remember how dry I was.

Apartment 23 was a pit from which I never desired escape.

When I did, shock besieged me,

Though not as shocking as the returning beat

Of a heart I long thought dead meat.

That place still exists, a hovel on a distant shore

That visits me in chablis dreams, though they are few and far-between now:

Better for a consistent pulse.

And I remember:

The best places, you keep forever,

But they never keep you.

It's Only Fair (#NaPoWriMo 27)

It's Only Fair (#NaPoWriMo 27)

When both of you are good to go,
Don't be too fast, don't be too slow.
Enjoy yourself and take your time,
And keep in mind this helpful rhyme:

Someone you love, you want to keep
Close in waking, close in sleep.
So, if bliss is to your kisses follow,
Never spit when you can swallow.

His Side (#NaPoWriMo 26)

The greatest sorrow is a lopsided bed.

It does its own weeping,

While I lay on the edge of sleeping,

Alone in the insomnia you left behind.

Hints of Heaven (#NaPoWriMo 25)

Today's poem is a cento, a poem comprised of lines from already existing poems. My cento "Hints of Heaven" is composed using lines from poems in Walt Whitman's collection "Leaves of Grass."

Hints of Heaven

Have the elder races halted,

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power?

What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand?

I believe you are latent with unseen existences,

You who celebrate bygones.

I sing the songs of the glory of none, not god, sooner

   than I sing the songs of the glory of you.

Will you give me yourself?

Will you come travel with me?

Will you turn aside all your life?

A man is a summons and challenge.

We will sail pathless and wild seas,

And never be quiet again.

Kept (#NaPoWriMo 24)

Today's suggestion for NaPoWriMo is to write a lipogram. A lipogram is a poem that explicitly refrains from using certain letters. I wrote the following passage without using the letter "A."

Kept

For eons of blinks, I've stood looking out. Every night biding, every night begging, every night buying one more bottle of whisky to honor your turn to the window. Our connection, though brief, would be worth the cheers. But if you do not turn, if my biding, begging, or bottling continues, I will still drink. I must.


I know why you do not turn your eyes to me. I know why keep yourself bottled up, why you do not look out the window. I deduce you'd wish to dodge me, but it wouldn't do you much good. You know you couldn't see me if it were the thing you desired most in the world. 


It's not, though. You likely desire for me to return your eyes. 


But you know I won't, so you keep yourself turned, keep those soft pits hidden from my worship. It hurts, but not enough to let you win. 


So, I will continue to bide. I will continue to beg. I will continue to drink.


Do you not see, my sweet? You were right to keep yourself turned. To the end, we should both keep to our bottles. 

She Used to Twirl (#NaPoWriMo 23)

Today, I wrote a poem using a work of art as inspiration. This painting comes from Vince Coates, a local (and very talented!) artist in Frederick, MD.

My girl was candy,

Sticky more than sweet,

Bonding tooth to tooth

And tongue to roof.

Swallowing her is possible,

But she can never be digested.

She leaves me sore,

Stuffed, yet wanting.

I beg for just a few more bites

Until I split,

And of her,

Only a stick remains, unraveling:

Moist paper where my girl

Used to twirl in me. 

Amaryllis (#NaPoWriMo 22)

Thank you to my friends Nick & Lucinda for having a beautiful (though wilting) flower in their home for which to inspire this poem.

Amaryllis


Asleep in a year-long night,
She stands, gazing at stars thought eternal
While outsiders with hope-filled eyes cling to buds.
Then, the sun.
The trumpet of red petals.
The bow to a distant dawn begging for embrace.
She not only stands.
She reaches.
She touches.
But the sun is fickle, and night a bottomless belladonna.
She is crimson for a week,
Then, weak as her gray sets in.
Lips peel back in a swan song,
And her green fingers fan in a farewell to the sun,
Short visit though it was. 
The hope is gone when her dance is done
And the trumpets die away.
One last note in the dusk.
One last petal on the dining room table. 

Remember (#NaPoWriMo 20)

Remember

O, how my bones ache,

But the pen twists ever on.

Art lives forever.

O Love! O Phone! O Zachariah! (#NaPoWriMo 19)

Hark!
Whose phone doth ring in class,
Interrupting Mr. Tuttle as he teaches
Driver's Ed or Glee Club or
The asinine assignment that spawned Buddy Bands?
What reason could there be for such a ring,
Such a thing to tear Stansbury-hopefuls from their studies?


Look.
The gray phone rises, cumbersome but sleek,
Like the mysterious Tori Scott.
But it's not the phone that must atone for this disturbance.
Nay.
It is the tow-headed knave in the back row.
(Actually, he might not be headed so,
For his roots doth show!)


Hush.
He speaks.
His voice creaks when Kelly dances by,
Flouncing and bouncing her bangs so high that he turns,
And faces us.
He smiles that smile and whiles away the hours
In which we wait for him to say "Time In"
And whisk us away to the Max where my true basking can begin.


Screech!
Not even he could distract my view of that blonde Tom Cruise
Who doth capture my heart without subliminal messages.

His sweaters are iffy, true,
But he so easily woos me with schemes to get rich quick,
Get a hot car,
Get a quick kiss,
Sneak underage into a bar
Where we may dance with college kids,
And I may find my way into his fantasy of the future.
To be the faceless woman who will always be Kelly.
Whether I'm Jessie or Lisa or Stacy Carosi,
I will never truly be me with that Preppie.
But I care not.
Attack me, Zachariah, with whatever love you see fit.
Be my master and friend forever and I will never
Make you dance ballet to graduate.
I will never date my boss or ruin your prom.


O Love!
If you wish to make a swimsuit calendar of me, you may.
If you wish to manage my band
Or exploit my precognition,
I would allow it.
I would commission it!


O Phone!
It brought us together with a ring.
We might as well go to Las Vegas
And make it official.
Yes.
That is the wish and this miss's bliss, such joy as I could never dismiss.
I do not care that you have become your father.
While running wild is our yellow-haired and duplicitous child,
You whisper into your phone constantly,
Into that heavy plastic that I can never surpass.
Kelly and heavy plastic: those are your loves, not I.
Nor would I ask it of you.


O Zachariah,
Do not send me away.
I know I've been paraplegic and overweight
And I don't deserve you,
But I would do anything to hold your phone.
O to be that straw sitting in my lord's soda,
I'd let you cheat off my test,
I'd rat out Johnny Dakota
For one night in your anti-Valley arms.

Lousy Lullaby (#NaPoWriMo 18)

This lullaby won't soothe you.
I sing only it to remove you from arms I refuse to admit
Amuse you.


Does she sing you lullabies,
Even lousy ones in lovely guise, sung to revel in your
Sleepy eyes?


Or does her heart stop and start at the chance to use you?


Perhaps it's not the best
For me to sing during your rest and lay my head
Upon your chest.


But she doesn't sing at all
Or lay her head to catch your rise and fall, whether on the bed
Or standing tall.


She doesn't care if you're here or there, only to abuse you.


She's off and running,
Blatantly sunning herself in other affections while you,
She's shunning.


She's fine if you're far away,
If you leave after the deed is paid and never sings
To make you stay.


But I will not use you.
I will not abuse you.
And my lousy lullaby will fight, day and night, to never lose you.

To the Man I Love in Sleep (#NaPoWriMo 17)

To the Man I Love in Sleep

How careless you are with me,
And how enraptured I am.
With your slumber-tug, I find myself your prisoner,
Housed in a hidden place where I surrender all.
Gladly, gratefully.
Nimble fingers play me like an instrument which desires no finale.
Your symphonic breath moves through me as it moves my body
Into doing things I would never do.
I would never bend in that way,
Never allow your touch to break my vows
Or force me to my knees with gratitude on my lips,
Amongst other jewels.
Tied up in your fingers,
I swell and break against your shore
And long to drown consciousness
In your wake.
Though I am not tired, I sleep,
And beg the Sandman to shrink the Desert of Dreams
So I my find faster passage
To your bed.

Insomnia (#NaPoWriMo 16)

His lantern stings my misty eyes,

But a gray veil rolls in and softens the glow.

A final twist, A final squeal,

And exhaustion sets in.

I've felt it often without result,

Without seeing dream worlds

And waking refreshed.

Looking for trouble was the best sedative.

The knife withdraws with a whisper,

“Lullaby and goodnight with roses bedight.”

The pavement blooms beneath me,

Faster with my back pressing the flowers into the gutter.

This bed is colder than mine and grower colder,

But the world happy-fades and the pain's all right.

I think I will sleep well tonight.  

She Walks Her Booty Out of Sight (#NaPoWriMo 15)

She walks her booty out of sight,

With wiggle-bounce and fleshy flounce,

The best of butts sways left and right:

A luscious ass packed with each ounce.

She lures me in with heavy light

And dark of night, her hips do trounce.

One pound the more, one pound the less

Would unmake beauty in her stride.

And though her goodbye stroll looks best,

I'd rather that ass by my side

Where my hand rests on hills of flesh,

How perfect there to hence reside.

And on those mounds and o'er that place,

So soft, so deep, so quick to lull,

Venus's dimples cup my face

And show two jewels that never dull:

The majesty below her waist,

Beloved, my girl so booty full.  

Call Me Your Sparrow and I Shall Sing (#NaPoWriMo 14)

Call me your sparrow and I shall sing.

Whether you love my tune or not,

My song shall henceforth ring

For the bounty of your bed, still hot,

Still ruined from the rowdy fun

Of nest-making, twigs and all.

Remember how the wracking sun

Did remind us how branches fall?

Bows break when hence we wake

And the songs are at an end.

I shall be no sparrow in the day,

But come night, nestward I wend.

Hold on to my feathers and trust my wings,

For a nesting sparrow always truthful sings. 

Hailstoned (#NaPoWriMo 13)

Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a ghazal, which I've never done before.

"This is an old Persian form of poetry, and rather strange if you’re used to European meter-and-rhyme forms. A ghazal is made of couplets. Traditionally, the the two lines of the first couplet end with the same word or phrase, and then that same word/phrase is used to end the second line of each succeeding couplet. All of the lines are supposed to be of about the same length, although there is no formal meter or syllable count. If you want to get super traditional/technical, the last couplet is supposed to refer to the poet, either by name, or through some kind of allusion." (from NaPoWriMo.net)

Hailstoned

Hail, hail to the stoner girls with their lips in puckered smoke.

Hear the giggles and raucous wiggles that break apart the smoke.

Hail as the stoner girls slap their foreheads, kiss themselves, and sigh.

How high they dance and prance through low-blowing rows of smoke.

Hail, the stoner girls who prevail over logic, over grace, over time

And wick away the sorrow in sonnets of billowed smoke.

Hail to the stoner girls in attire fit for fire, for no one to see but the laundry.

Oh how they smile in their comfort, wreathed by sleepy smoke.

Hail no, they're dry, so I soak them with packs in pipes and puffs.

They hop to chomp it down, my gift to them: the smoke.

The El-Car Motel (#NaPoWriMo 12)

The manager has a beard again.

His divorce must be final---again.

It's been a while since my last stay at the El-Car Motel,

Many days since the inkwell consumed me

And removed me from my life aloft,

To that splendid shithole that gets me, and countless others, off.

He passes over the pen and I sign my pen name:

Paige Turner.

The joke is always lost on him,

Like the day-old Doritos wrapped up in his chin.

“Room 11, as always,” he says. “Rita just finished up.”

Ah, that should give the room a nice varnish of cum.

Although, I could it use and imagine myself by the sea.

...In a brine-soaked, hovel of a brothel by the sea.

Rita waddles down the path with her twat in knots

And flashes me a corner-bought smile.

Her john quickly departs in his own knot,

Hunched in shame, stinking of booze and bile.

But I shouldn't judge.

I'll be hunched in booze myself soon,

Alternating between keyboard and bottle,

Slashing away at the mottle of room 11's distractions.

There are so many things to take me from my work,

So many quirks, so much to revolt.

So I give into it, for five minutes.

I stare at every bolt, every stain,

Every sticky puddle I wipe from my chair,

Every drop from the ceiling, into my hair.

I give in to my revulsion,

Sometimes to my supper's end,

But once I'm done, once I'm empty,

My true purpose can begin.

The beer doesn't survive the ink, it bows out

And wine dances into the picture.

Smoke soon follows with deep lakes of liquor.

I move then,

slow in body,

but in mind,

quicker.

My phone rings and rings.

“Why did I even bring that?” I ask the phone itself.

Logic outside fiction has already been shelved,

Along with the Flying Dog, along with the Andre.

I look at my phone, then push it away.

God how I love him, but I don't need him now.

I need some more Andre and another word for “vow”.

This is my one thing: that destructively wonderful thing we allow ourselves, once in a while.

This is the thing that your smile waits for, though it may catch your tears.

He is all things to me but this.

This heaven, this incredible hell.

No man excels a flawless moon through filthy drapes in the El-Car Motel.

I'll see him in the morning,

Soon after I see myself: a stranger at this point,

But a stranger who can smoke the hell out of a joint.

When the morning comes with its hammers

And slams Ra against my door,

I pray for an apocalypse.

Then I think of him, of his sweet hands and sweet lips, and I curse myself.

The night for those thoughts is over.

Gone.

Not to be pondered upon for a very long time.

Not even if I struggle for prose or for rhyme,

I will keep it buried, as I have all these years,

But never forget all I've lived on my night without fear.

I don't clean the room because the room can never be cleaned.

Filth breeds like poison ivy in the El-Car Motel,

Oozing,

But oozing well, into secret happiness.

All that happened during my night will remain with me.

(You've had a chunk, not the brunt.)

But what comes from it, the stories, the poetry,

I dispatch.

And while I watch the world devour it, he will watch me with admiration,

Perhaps wondering, but never asking, “What is it you do at the El-Car Motel?”

Maybe he doesn't care at all.

Maybe he already knows.

I suppose it doesn't matter,

Because he kisses me, welcomes me home, envelops me, ravishes me, makes me feel like words do no more good than Rita's dragon-toothed blowjobs.

(Or so Bernie Hobbs told me in 2008. Please don't make me elaborate.)

I watch the motel shrink and think about my sins.

How lovely they were.

How far away and lovely.

The Train's Dawn (#NaPoWriMo 11)

Morning exists in a train whistle,
Far away but nudging me close. 
Roused by the howl and the mimic of the doves.
I see it is not yet light,
No matter what the whistle says.
Back in my twin bed, I feel like a queen,
Stretching beyond the length but never lacking for warmth.
Meanwhile, the train calls again:
“The sun is not risen, but you can be. Chase down the darkness until your shadow is on your tail and the sun is just a second place contender for the day.”
It is wise beyond my pre-dawn thoughts,
And I am up for good. 
As the train moves on, the whistle sounds again and again,
Alerting the rise of morning
And the futility of children's beds.

Standard Wild (#NaPoWriMo 10)

At the story's finish,

The author's fingers are itchy.

Dry ink troubles her.

She won't sleep tonight,

Wondering about her work

Roaming in the night.

When starlight drenches,

It is pliable again,

And out of her hands.

Will it be the same

In the light of a new day?

Or has it improved?

Do night's adventures

Change tales the same as authors,

Merging under stars?

Reckless and wild,

Both author and ink run free.

Becoming tales, untold.

She must let it dry,

Stop, and let the tale run on.

The End is the end.

But there will be more

Stories that fetch her to worlds

Where authors are changed.

Worlds of endless words

Where wild is the standard,

And ink cannot dry.