[Skeeter]

Milk & Honey

Tiny hands gripping goat's teats
squeezing hard with a swift downward motion
was never enough for more than a squirt.
Mother's hands were strong and sure:
well-practiced motions filled the milk bucket
before bringing it inside the house.

This morning, I filled my cereal bowl
with the last of the skim milk
before topping it off with the rice
substitute my wife bought when
it was on sale and thought of the day
when my mother sold the goats:
briers in her knuckles kept
her fingers from forming fists.

[Role Modlin]

I guess I'll post mine in here too.

Day One:

Headache

Curled up on the sofa again
head smothered and hands clawing.
Sweat-soaked pillow over my face
the only refuge from the light.
I kick back at the morning
as it crashes through the room.
Blitzing the fortress of night
forcing itself into every crevice.
Shadows dissipate then die
muscles contract and joints scream.
Demons beat box behind weary eyes
spitting and flowing old school.
Rhymes and cadences from hell
spun by a DJ always on the beat.
__________________


Day Two:

Prom Night

Annie blindly pirouettes
through neon explosions
showers of lightning fall
as she parts the human sea
oblivious to the beat.
She partakes the dark elixir
I have boiled together
for just such an occasion.
She gorges herself completely
her lips moist with sweet toxins.
She whirls and twirls and spins
like a dervish dancing
electric currents flowing
blinding her from within.
__________________

[Pre-Ex-Girlfriend]

Yesterday's. Again, no title.


Just below its skin
the Earth digests my father,
filters out the unfair
impatient
irritating.
Leaves the laughter
love
life.

When I remind someone of him
it can only be a compliment.

[Skeeter]

Originally Posted by Emo_Rachael

Yesterday's. Again, no title.


Just below its skin
the Earth digests my father,
filters out the unfair
impatient
irritating.
Leaves the laughter
love
life.

When I remind someone of him
it can only be a compliment.

Wow. Those first two lines are amazing. The rest of the poem falls neatly into place.

[ryan a johnson]

A man finds a package hidden in the forest. His wristwatch hasn’t worked for years. The package was out in the open on the forest floor. He left his wristwatch at home. The package was hidden from plain sight because it was in a forest which was very dense. The wristwatch was a gift from a woman. The package was a cardboard box wrapped in clear tape. The woman was never there. The package was empty except for air. This is the heart tied with the wet rawhide of art.

[JerRocks2day]

I think I'll give it a try. Here's a new one I wrote recently. It's called 'Barren Burden.'

Barren Burden;

I feel so dirty and left out
than you've ever known me;
The hairs on my hand are
crying out to me;

This act feels like an hours worth
of time to be wasted;
And I stand here alone
watching me waste it;

If life is fragile, then I must've broke it.
As I gaze upon the lake,
I can't help but wonder why I haven't handled my prayers;

The night feels so young,
and I feel that my time has
no time for anything;
I've blown it all again,
but I need to leave it all behind me;

Maybe this town has nothing for me at all;
Maybe I should move out to start over again;
This new journey may not be difficult as it seems;

[ryan a johnson]

Now that the most important parts of my room are missing, the world is odd. At night, I dream of Steve Guttenberg. He is a good actor. I do not know why he comes to me in my sleep. As I walk, I see so many weddings in cars. I smell familiar scents in unnatural places. Richard Dreyfuss brings the police with vicious accuracy. I never need them. With nothing left, I will just wait for you by the fountain. Like in that movie about confusion.

[Skeeter]

April 3:
Fog

A light rain falls on layers of snow,
white stained brown over white
stained brown. Steam roils up
from the white, gathering together
for safety, peace of mind. The fog
makes the world smaller.

A couple on a bench in a crowded park
are alone, emboldened by the lack
of horizon. Edges blur, black buildings
become shadows - looming shapes.
The tops of the trees disappear
into nothingness, do not fade to a point.
The pedestrians walk slowly,
held up by tiny drops of moisture
clinging to the coils of their minds.

A tapping cane echoes through the shroud
and a blind man strides confidently past,
his fading shape etched into the fog.


April 4:
Hell Yes!

We've made a decree to only believe
in things that are awesome:

we've already had our first split
over whether Jesus was a pirate

or a ninja.


April 5:
Meeting Nietzsche in a Dream

Last night we met again,
this time in an underground cavern
re-fitted as a rundown bar.
Kierkegaard stands behind the counter,
gestures vaguely to a row of unlabeled bottles
and leans against a stalagmite.
A man with a greying beard
and a toga stands cursing
at the jukebox before a well-placed
punch causes a grinding shudder
then the opening chords of "Love Me Tender"
as he begins to dance with his shadow.

Friedrich is already sitting
by my side on a barstool
when I turn around, face
glowing green in the mirror
from the neon lichen
that has grown in the shapes
of beer bottles and abstract concepts
He gestures to the shape of fear
and looks to speak:

turns out he's a lightweight,
as he tumbles off his stool
and cracks his head on the floor.
Seeping out, the white and yellow
of a just-cracked egg begins to fry
on the floor of the cave, bubbling
along the edges before the man
in the toga steps and slips,
catching himself on the counter
while his shadow continues to dance.

[ryan a johnson]

When you’re fifteen and somebody tells you
they love you, you’re gonna believe them.
This is how the economy will be saved, meaning,
it’s the age of princesses and pirate ships.
That was some oversimplification.
Please observe that she’s cheer captain and
I’m on the bleachers. This is of little consequence
as my daddy said stay away from Juliet. I can
appeal to familial obligations until the sun dissolves,
but here is the truth:
I can’t help it if you look like an angel, but,
I read in an important book that we are all dying,
meaning, it’s too late for you and your white horse.


-- Full Disclosure: I poached the majority of this poem from a high-profile singer/songwriter

[ryan a johnson]

Leaves are the only things
that ever change.
Having said that, please,
never let me near
paper again.

[ryan a johnson]

I said the park looked like everything but what I meant was that I like to smoke on the roofs of bathrooms. Looking back, I believe the latter would have more clearly displayed my position as the guy who reads good books. Like the guy who dresses well. Like the guy who moves on to other pastures where the color is subjective. There is no real blame on La Mirada. Not even on the geese with their wings and toothless biting.

[Skeeter]

April 6:

After I Vacate the Pitch

I had forgotten that my body is as old as I am
and in worse shape: tension builds in my groin
like a Hitchcock film, reaching a climax as I turn
a little too fast, forcing me to take a breather.
A few too many screamers were invited to this screening.

My body is not finished with me yet: it invites
a green anole to take up residence under my ribcage
and he immediately grips my liver to keep from falling
into my intestines. Meanwhile, a Tikoloshe swims
through my thighs, occasionally raking my hamstrings
and quadriceps with his claws.

On Friday, I will banish them all and scold my body
fiercely for inviting so many hooligans, then
tie tight my cleats and return to the pitch.

[Skeeter]

April 7:

Take Pleasure

Take pleasure in every flat tire:
work with your hands, stain them
with grim and grease. If in the summer,
lie on the side of the road and stare
at the sky: if winter, wrap yourself
in a blanket (you do have one in your vehicle)
and wait for the tow truck to arrive.
Take the book from your glove box
(always keep a book in your glove box)
and relax, safe in your excuse.

[bananasmurf]

Skeeter I really liked your FOG poem ... so real to me and TAKE PLEASURE; it reminds me of my trip home when I was on a long drive to an airport to fly home, I got a flat tire in the middle of winter. I sat and relaxed while waiting for CAA to help - it was over an hour because of my remote location.

The clouds sail by
as the sun disappears
behind the horizon away with my fears.

I guess this has changed format so it shall be another poem.


The sky fades to grey
with the worries of the day
falling like the snow to the ground

They will always melt
when the warm embrace is felt
And forgotten when the season has gone.

If a flood may come
and the worries it is from
We'll pray for God absorbs them away.

He warms up our life
And takes all our strife
Even when that season returns.

The cycle is never ending
but His mercy's ever pending
So remember to lather, rinse, repeat!

Alternate ending:

The cycle is never ending
but His mercy's every pending
So always bring your cares and things to Him!

[ryan a johnson]

You ask, how much water should we drink before we die. And then I drop books when I hear about your father’s other snowman. I do not drop books. I let them commune with gravity. It’s funny how easily shoes become wet here with hills and puddles. Dripping then, like some books and half-frozen shoulders.