Random poetry behind the break. Gotta do something to re-sharpen my creative writing skills! >.<

Read More

Rest your head on the shoulder

of the wolf, little lamb. 

Feel the rise and fall

of his breath against your skin

Until you know him—then wait

for his eyes to close. 

She’s all thick hips
and long hair and
thighs that touch 
and a rear end that
shakes when she walks.

There’s fires in 
the apples of her cheeks
and peaches in her lips
and dimples that appear
like magic when she grins,

and I need a minute
when she walks my way
to keep myself from 
getting lost in the 
memory of a daydream.

Mandevilla 

Vines burst through my eardrums,
working their way up, weaving
patterns into tressels of thought
hiding behind the roses.

Spreading, twining more tightly,
coiling like springs around me,
only expanding faster, longer,
and pushing into hidden places.

Flowering in corners I shouldn’t
want to reach. I find myself
leaning toward the light,
grasping at broken sunshafts,

and when I’m shaded, I trace
the length of the vine, the
mark your voice has left behind,
just to see how deep it goes.

This is a piece I wrote today for NaPoWriMo. 

I’ve been writing still, but I kind of withdrew from my online communities for the past couple of weeks, so I haven’t been posting. I’m not going to post all of them here since that would be a lot of catch-up, but you’re welcome to check out the other ones in my NaPoWriMo gallery. 

Trying to catch up. This is what you get…

National Poetry Writing Month, Days 13 & 14:

Memory Problems

Forget is the word
that is stuck in my head
like “Jingle Bells” was in December.

There’s a reason it came
and got lodged in my brain—
if only I could remember!

The Planet of Squidor Prime

Jeff lives in a place
called Squidor Prime
where the weather is awful,
but the pudding, sublime.

His neighbor is Victor
whose sister is Jane.
They live on the end
of Guinea Pig Lane.

Every so often
Jeff walks past their door,
blushes and smiles
and looks at the floor.

Jane smiles and blushes
and pretends not to see
when Victor shoots Jeffery
right in the knee.

That’s life on the outskirts 
of Squidor Prime,
where the only thing common as pudding
is crime.

Got behind again; playing catch up…

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 12: 

Oh, and then there’s Amber—

She is wood fire, soft embers glowing
under October’s heavy harvest moon
in a the middle of a ripe Nebraska field.

Her dress rustles against the stalks
like whispers, and I can see her breath. 
She laughs like the crackle of dying fire,

and kisses like fall air and pumpkin pie.
Her tongue is warm honey, local, pure,
exciting, like a fresh caramel apple at the fair.

Her skin is dusky sunshine on my lips
and warm, like being buried in the sand.
Oh, she’s smooth, like glass, but she is soft

except her arms: they are drying resin, and I am caught.

———

A fellow deviantArt writer posted this format as sort of a poetry meme, and I needed inspiration. If you want to do one too, check out the link above for the guidelines in the artist’s comments!

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 11.

The Race

Dusty feet running, walking,
dragging down a dirt road
with no end. It makes me
think maybe the world
is flat and drops off
in a hole filled with water
a hundred feet deep, but
we are not surprised
to find it. We push
down to the bottom
with lungs that shouldn’t
breathe but do and we  
claw upward through
pounds of impossible 
pressure. We break the
ceiling and grin and gasp
and redefine life
for the ones who
have merely lived it.

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 10.

Sunlight’s warm against the
closed surface of my eyelid
where I’m stuck in a beam
only visible for the dust
floating through it.

There in the half-light I feel
a breath at my ear and
unseen hands on my hips
until I curl against a form
that isn’t real.

I’ve heard his voice so often
it lives inside my mind
and creates memories of a moment
that exists only because
my imagination drew it.

Heat rises on my skin
and I bite my lip while
desire rushes to my cheeks,
proving that though I can’t touch,
I can feel.

Playing catch-up after the holiday.

National Poetry Writing Month, Days 8 & 9.

Nitpicky

I notice things you
don’t, like the way 
the salt shaker is 
exactly three centimeters 
further from the ketchup
than the pepper and 
the drunk man one
seat over has a child’s
palm tattooed on his
left arm and how the
ice melting on your
lips made me thirsty. 

Wrong Places

There are fourteen ways
to leave a lover,
but she only ever
needs one. The moon
knows the shape of
her face better than
any man, because
at the end of the day,
she’s still looking 
for something that
doesn’t exist.