sickly sweet and saccharine
are the poets of the age;
when no one’s sure of the way to gauge
what a poem really means.
pretty words, like “starshine skin”
that don’t really say a lot–
that’s the way their fame bought,
just banging on a can of tin.
it’s all noise and floral gesture.
they build a certain image.
poking the fluffed and glittering plumage
reveals another empty pleasure.
note: we’re not planning on completing napowrimo anymore, but we’ll still update with poems whenever we’re able to write them.
Passing words, passing histories–
The “we” that could have been;
Meeting eyes, dying flares
Dream yourself near-maudlin.
The future forks and branches;
All that might have been, was.
You pick one path to truly live,
The others run beside us.
I sometimes wish that I may peek,
At least, at what could be–
But I know we’re too finely made
To have become the same “we.”
He wrote in pencil, as most children do –
Because in learning, errors were okay.
Encouraged, even. No mistake was too
Persistent to be simply rubbed away.
From “my first day of school” to “three plus three,”
His pages grayened, smeared with graphite trails
(Some hastily effaced, so none would see
His little slips and trips, forgets and fails).
At recess, one fine, sunny afternoon,
A sparkling trinket caught his sparkling eye,
Its owner was away…might be back soon,
He thought, and seized his day ere she walked by.
He never did forget his teacher’s rage,
Or the sorry girl he’d wronged, and her tear-streamed face.
With his confession, he approached the age
Of knowing some mistakes can’t be erased.
–
A few years later down the line of life,
His English teacher said, “We’re using ink!
You see, in learning, errors are alright,
But now, you’re held accountable, I think.”
The student gripped his ballpoint steadily,
Beginning his assignment. Scribbling quick,
He filled the page with black quite readily,
And finished first, with ink still fresh and thick.
His errors, though, glared back at him; right then
He knew he’d have to start to live in pen.
to thomas
we slip beneath the gentle covers, slowly–
skin to skin, kiss to kiss;
your lips above, legs entwined below-ly
hand to hand, mister and miss–
a sore game of chess indeed,
a war of give-and-take;
your ear my mouth softly concedes
a happy lady your touch does make!
but better than this carnal joy
is the peace of downy sleep.
breath to breath, girl to boy–
this love, but for body, long keeps.
come morning, we wake to kisses–
skin to skin, Mister and Misses.
our skin is stretched tight
pulled loose on thick wooden bars
clean and raw and fresh with new gesso.
tickled with a brush,
we wonder what we will create.
an amateur still life, all careless impasto –
geometry with many facets –
perhaps a pair of old shoes,
perfect and ragged in new light.
patiently we wait.
hi this is our 2012 NaPoWriMo blog where we pretend to be poets like everyone else
hurrah
