I wrote this poem for a friend taking advantage of my offer to write poetry based on a theme. She wanted a poem about "a field measured in millimeters, 'cause of the local population density." I think she heard that phrase on the radio or something. As sometimes happens with my poems, I hear this one as a song. Some day I really should learn how to write music.
How can I live in this place? Traffic jams and noise pollution Everywhere there's no solution Millimeters to measure playing fields The local population density yields A feeling that I just can't move I feel that I just can't move How can I live in this place?
A friend told one of her friends about my poetry service. She decided to give it a go with "Naugahyde", which I had to look up to find out exactly what it was. I came out with something I kind of liked.
I know it was an innocent remark, a tossaway, flippant answer to my pestering questioning. "Why do they call it Naugahyde, Mommy?" "It's where the naugas hide. Now go and play." To this day I shiver when I sit on that couch. Yes, I can sit on it now, after all these years. Yes, it's still there, in my mother's house. It tormented me throughout my childhood. I was terrified that the naugas would decide to come out of hiding and take me away, take my mommy away. Did they take daddy away? I never had the courage to ask my mother if the naugas had taken my father away. Sometimes I think that would be easier than the truth. Don't you love me, Daddy?
I wrote this by the seat of my pants in an email. The email said "Okay, here's a little writing, composed as I'm doing it:" and then the poem. It's not very good, but I get a certain satisfaction out of coming up with poems on the fly.
I love your naked skin against mine Warm and pressing me in the back Except when it's cold And I like that, too, When we've just fucked and I'm all sweaty And tired and warm and calm Then your skin is cold against my skin.
I wrote this at work, as a reaction to an experience I had on the subway commuting to work. I definitely wrote this to some music in my head. I really need to learn to write music so that I can turn things like this into songs.
A cop got on at Downtown Crossing; He was the last person on the train. I noticed his flashlight and his T cop badge And then I noticed his gun at his side. The T cop had a gun at his side. It was the side next to me, and the train was crowded So the T cop's gun was poking me in the arm.
I was inspired to write this by some wonderful food that was gifted to me. It is a blatant attempt at copying William Carlos Williams's poem This is Just to Say.
This is just to say I have eaten the chai and chocolate and chocolate bread pudding that was wrapped in foil on my desk Forgive me it was delicious so sweet and so cold
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
Clear, loud, and ringing, its ominous note comes last, announcing ruin into our night.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
I can't seem to be affected by the circumambient misery. I can say the words, but it's like something is preventing me From feeling the feels, from fully participating in their reality.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
I've heard that Aborigines eat parakeets, and that _budgerigar_ comes from their language, meaning _good to eat_. I've tried to imagine immense flocks flying in the wild, thousands, millions of parakeets, a green and yellow sea. The Aborigines must use huge nets, cast into the middle of the sea of _good-to-eats_, pulling in a few hundred at a time. Safety in numbers? Except, the Aborigines wouldn't have bothered with one lone parakeet, doing its own thing.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
I woke before six, got up out of bed, went to the bathroom, then back into bed. I stayed nice and warm 'til six forty eight, quickly got ready, so I wasn't late. This poem is dumb; I can't understand what makes someone want to read to the end. I know I just rhymed an "and" with an "end"; I couldn't care less, and now it's the end.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
"Speaking of segues," I say, and she laughs. It's a phrase I picked up from The Simpsons, parodies of disc jockeys trying to make a smooth transition between unrelated topics. Is it becoming a thing? You know, one of those things, those phrases, those patterns of speech that you only use around one person, where, if you forget yourself and say it around someone else, it isn't understood, not in the same way it would have been. Are we starting to have things? I've always operated with things, but I wonder if she'll just get tired of hearing the same things from me.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
Missive in the form of a hair pulled from my sweater while thinking of her.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
Searching for radio stations in the middle of Wyoming, my destination doesn't even occur to me. I'm counting down the hours and days, but I don't consider what I'll do when I get there. Wayworn already, all I can think about are the mundane details of the rest of the trip. Listen to the radio, How much gas is left? How much longer can I hold my bladder? Pass the truck. Stretch my left leg. Switch legs and stretch my right leg. I can think about the relief I'll feel when the trip is done. No more driving, driving, driving. I can sit. Just sit. I try not to let the specter of the return trip bother me.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
Parlous pleasures were in my sight on that cold December day. The wind was loud, the air was bright, as I heard the pilot say: "We're much too high for you to jump with any kind of care. If you don't mind, let's turn around, and safely land down there." I turned and gave a little smile and fell out, turning round. I thought about my life a while, before I hit the ground.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
I sometimes wonder if I'm more powerful than I think: A few choice words, repeated over time, can transform a person's view of the world. That feeling of vim is fleeting, though, as I realize the depth of my incompetence.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
The booboisie are like you an me, only dumber. The look at me, and all they see is a nerd. Why can't it be like it ought to be? In a word: Booboisie.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
My parents have become nothing but palindromes in my life. "Hi Dad, blah blah blah." "Hi Mom, wah wah wah." They ceased to be important to me when I moved away. And when I see them once a year, I don't know what to say.
Poetry based on Dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
No fetid piece of cake this be, Theora gave it unto me. I took a bite and I was wowed and almost said "Hooray!" out loud.
I composed a limerick on the spot over the phone in an attempt to amuse a
friend.
There once was a girl named Cheryl Who was raised in a manner quite feral. Her parents of late, A wolf and its mate, Had rescued poor Cheryl from peril.kevin@aq.org