Post a poem, entertain me! (May be NSFW)

Alright, I was waiting around for Wordsmythe to start this, but apparently he's busy making dick jokes and being cool on other threads.

At any rate, after we threadjacked another thread and conceived of starting a thread like this, I decided to finally do so -- post your poems in here, not others' work but your own. Or just wax poetic about whatever. I guess I'll start it off:

Tuesday
Sticky - Slick blue capsules
Like little poofy minus signs
Roll about in the crevices
Of a hand that is not quite mine,
Alternating between two lines
Of Fate and of Love,
Erasing my children.

Sore eyes stare at the spotty mirror,
Trying to find the soul beneath.
All they see
All that is there
On that glassy green-blue sea,
Are contacts floating and adrift.

Nothing sleeps deeper within;
Nothing resides down below;
Nothing
Nothing
Except those two little minus signs
Shoved down my throat minutes ago.

Grief

Making a sandwich,
ham and gouda, spinach. Milk
filming the glass, the sun bright
on the table, sparking on my knife.
My throat closed and I left my meal, went
into the living room to lay
on the floor and let the cat lick
my salty cheeks.

My grandmother used to cut
the crusts off, the milk was whole
and creamy. The vinyl tablecloth,
brown and yellow daisies, underside
soft as kitten chin. I remember
I once took a pair of her earrings from
a velvet box, put them in my pocket.
When my mother asked, she said
she'd given them to me. That kind
of love, forgiving
everything.

Come on people stop being so Emo...

ok

feet

In summer, we used to go barefoot
all the time, across the pasture behind the house,
through the bush, down the gravel road, our small
narrow heels white with callus, black with dirt.
We rode barefoot our bikes to the corner store
to buy gum and candy and Archie comics, hopped
barefoot over their rocky drive to the cool linoleum
refuge of the floor. Barefoot we ran to the lake, barefoot
and stupid we mowed the lawn, toes
unfearful of the blades and turning green as
old 7-up bottles. I stepped barefoot on a spider once
on the deck, crunch, to make you scream
and laugh at the same time. I loved my feet
as I loved all my body, whipcord and swift,
their crooked toes, their flexible arch,
naked and unafraid to the world.

Our Bog is Dood

Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,
They lisped in accents mild,
But when I asked them to explain
They grew a little wild.
How do you know your Bog is dood
My darling little child?

We know because we wish it so
That is enough, they cried,
And straight within each infant eye
Stood up the flame of pride,
And if you do not think it so
You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,
What's dood, suppose Bog is?
Just what we think, the answer came,
Just what we think it is.
They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours
And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up again
They had forgotten me
Each one upon each other glared
In pride and misery
For what was dood, and what their Bog
They never could agree.

Oh sweet it was to leave them then,
And sweeter not to see,
And sweetest of all to walk alone
Beside the encroaching sea,
The sea that soon should drown them all,
That never yet drowned me.

-Stevie Smith

BlackSheep wrote:

-- post your poems in here, not others' work but your own.

But that's a cute poem, Lobster, despite the blatant anti-religionism.

There once was a big jerk named Hemi.
He had a face like a mutant Buscemi.
He played too much Gears,
And stared at boy's rears,
And his mom would put out for a penny.

baggachipz wrote:

There once was a big jerk named Hemi.
He had a face like a mutant Buscemi.
He played too much Gears,
And stared at boy's rears,
And his mom would put out for a penny.

Ah brilliant! A rally cry for Goodjers!

baggachipz wrote:

There once was a big jerk named Hemi.
He had a face like a mutant Buscemi.
He played too much Gears,
And stared at boy's rears,
And his mom would put out for a penny.

Is there a smiley that is crying because he is laughing so hard?

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Some poems rhyme
Some don't

There once was a goodjer named baggachipz
Who loved to dance and shake his hips
While listening to Linkin Park
He played grab ass in the dark
And now he's got a cold sore on his lips

Hemidal wrote:

There once was a goodjer named baggachipz
Who loved to dance and shake his hips
While listening to Linkin Park
He played grab ass in the dark
And now he's got a cold sore on his lips

Sweet... a poetry fight! Can't wait for the response.

There once was a gross oozing blister.
It flowed like an open Price Pfister.
Last night's memory explained,
And a blood test proclaimed,
That it came from Hemidal's sister.

More! More!

Fragments

Some say a woman's body, separated
part by part, THE HEART THE BRAIN
THE STOMACH THE TEETH THE EPIDERMIS
THE NECTAR THE HYACINTH THE APPLE
THE AREOLAS THE CLITORIS THE JUICE
is the finest sight over this dark earth desired.

But I say the desire that comes
out of joining, out of coming together,
is. Who heard suck, who sucked?
Did not the soft hands of Dica tear
off dill shoots to cap her lovely
dark curls?

Did not Aphrodite come to us
by the burning incense, by the boughed
altar of the apple orchard,
to rest among rose thicket shades,
pour down deep sleep, and upon awakening
fill our gold cups with clear, stirred nectar?

Did you not explore each dark
haired curve and corner of my body,
like the shipwrecked traveler who, upon finally coming
home, falls like water onto the wave ground sands,
oblivious to the eons' collection
of darkened, worn stones?

Though in my desire I seem
to see blue light-waves connecting
each part of you to each part of me
I want all of you all of me
THE BLOOD THE NAILS THE SKIN THE BONE
THE MOUTH THE TONGUE THE EYES THE SOUL

convenience store

it's not the street people
who try to buy a five-cent Squirrel Nut Chew
with food stamps that bug me, hell
somedays I actually give out that kinda change
and sell em a forty of Mickey's to boot.
see, the cheaper beers only come in forty ouncers,
dark bottles so you can't see what
one of my buddies calls ocher beer
you got your Magnums, Kind Cobras,
your occasional Midnight Dragon.

handling the drunks you can't sell to
big assed fine for that not to mention selling
to minors, your so called friends,
ain't so bad. you gotta understand
cuss words and I'm gonna beat your ass
what time do you get off work you little sh*t
are all part of the game. if some guy shows
you his bullet wound scar the one
that shattered his pelvis so he walks drunk
whether he's sober or not, even if he is a vet
or killed someone more recently you're sorry
but still no beer.

the people that actually get me
carry twenty dollar bills want their Benson & Hedges
ultra-deluxe menthol lights in the gold box
are too cheap to buy a lighter and tap their little boxes
on the counter so fast and hard they remind me of rabbits
we used to keep and let hump in the yard
shove their non-masturbating hand
in my face waiting for change
which is about seventeen one dollar bills
counted out real slow
and sometimes twice if I can help it.

And now an excerpt from beatnik theater
IMAGE(http://www.tamu-commerce.edu/libref/writers-read/beatnik.jpg)

Maintaining Servers
*Crash*
People Complaining
*Why God?*
Nobody gives me any respect
*Cry*
I wonder why?

p.s. - your momma

p.p.s. - What the hell rhymes with Minnesota?

Edit - wow, betanik. Kinda works with the IT thing, but not what I was shooting for.

Hemidal wrote:

And now an excerpt from betanik theater
IMAGE(http://www.tamu-commerce.edu/libref/writers-read/beatnik.jpg)

Maintaining Servers
*Crash*
People Complaining
*Why God?*
Nobody gives me any respect
*Cry*
I wonder why?

p.s. - your momma

p.p.s. - What the hell rhymes with Minnesota?

Winner.

Hemi, lemme help you out....

There once was a guy named baggachipz
Who thought his poems had all the rips
Dude's from Minnesota,
F**ks worse than Vigoda
despite all the leather and pouty lips

(Oh god, I'm so sorry...just had to take up the challenge of rhyming "Minnesota"....)

Roo wrote:

Hemi, lemme help you out....

There once was a guy named baggachipz
Who thought his poems had all the rips
Dude's from Minnesota,
F**ks worse than Vigoda
despite all the leather and pouty lips

(Oh god, I'm so sorry...just had to take up the challenge of rhyming "Minnesota"....)

Thank you sir. I needed two rhymes for my naughty limerick and I couldn't come up with it. So, I went all beatnik on him.

The guy liked to rave and to rant
Be dependent he really just can't
On his own two big feet
He's an island complete
He just can't put on any pants!

grammar and punctuation are optional
wordsflowtogetherdownthestairs and

sometimes
without

formatting

eecummings ruined a generation of literary students

They all spend their time in the van.
On Fridays they hustled and ran.
Her patience they tried.
Until One day she cried,
On kids there should be a strict ban!

Oh, is that what the plan was? I was unclear both regarding the copyright status of posts on this board and about the nature of any new poetic venture.

Frankly, I was hoping more for a workshop-style discussion.

Edit: Has anyone read Tony Hoagland's Real Sofistikashun? I like him as a poet, but this is a colelction of essays of a more theoretical nature. I'm really digging it so far.

wordsmythe wrote:

blah blah blah

Less yakking, more limericks!

The world isn't making much sense.
Everyone's tired and tense.
Before we all loose,
We should all take a cruise.
Or maybe go fishing in tents.

(I wrote this on the fly, forgive the rhythm)

Charles is getting older soon, so much left undone.
Sculptures never chiseled at, races never run.
Charles has a room at home, full of things half started.
Paintings never painted at, and travels never charted.

Every morning he takes a walk to the bench seat down the lane.
The bus stops. Charles sighs, and he goes to work again.

Charles is getting older now, so much left unsaid.
Lovers never telephoned, family prob'ly dead.
Charles has a room at home, full of bottles all half empty.
Not enough to start a party, but for him it's more than plenty.

Every morning he takes a walk to the bench seat down the lane.
The bus stops. Charles sighs, and he goes to work again.

Charles is so damn old now, so much for the life he had.
Can never make it to the loo, heart and bones are bad.
Charles has a room at home, he never unlocks the door to.
He can't remember what's kept in there, and is sure he doesn't want to.

This morning Charles walked into the street, past the bench seat down the lane.
The bus stopped. Charles sighed, and he went to work again.

wordsmythe wrote:

Oh, is that what the plan was? I was unclear both regarding the copyright status of posts on this board and about the nature of any new poetic venture.

Frankly, I was hoping more for a workshop-style discussion.

Edit: Has anyone read Tony Hoagland's Real Sofistikashun? I like him as a poet, but this is a colelction of essays of a more theoretical nature. I'm really digging it so far.

Have a work in progress? I'm all over it. At the end of undergrad (the first one), after so many writing/workshop classes (poetry), I found that my favorite part wasn't writing my own stuff, or having it workshopped...my favorite part was sitting around with 3-4 friends I trusted, and helping them with their stuff.

Roo wrote:

Have a work in progress? I'm all over it. At the end of undergrad (the first one), after so many writing/workshop classes (poetry), I found that my favorite part wasn't writing my own stuff, or having it workshopped...my favorite part was sitting around with 3-4 friends I trusted, and helping them with their stuff.

I agree. It would have been more true of my workshop classes (as opposed to other workshops I did) if I liked my classmates more.

baggachipz wrote:

There once was a gross oozing blister.
It flowed like an open Price Pfister.
Last night's memory explained,
And a blood test proclaimed,
That it came from Hemidal's sister.

Yes! I feel like I'm in Zoolander, when they start doing the dance-fight!

wordsmythe wrote:
Roo wrote:

Have a work in progress? I'm all over it. At the end of undergrad (the first one), after so many writing/workshop classes (poetry), I found that my favorite part wasn't writing my own stuff, or having it workshopped...my favorite part was sitting around with 3-4 friends I trusted, and helping them with their stuff.

I agree. It would have been more true of my workshop classes (as opposed to other workshops I did) if I liked my classmates more.

Feel free to workshop anything I post here... I have no problems with my elementary writing style getting screened and scanned.