I use this page to post a variety of pieces, both those just out of the sluice, and older pieces that feel fresh to me at the moment. I generally keep them up for a month, or a few at the most.
Look for new poems (and more) at the start of each month.
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Cute Gender Rhyme (new in June)
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Found this in my notebook from who knows when last year. But it’s cute! And perfect for Pride Month (and for scaring the haters). 😀
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CUTE GENDER POEM
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I’m a they & I’m a we
‘cause there isn’t really me
and there isn’t really you
‘cause you’re part of us too.
BOO!
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So this happened.
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In Response To: don’t get too close;
i’ll turn you into
poetry.
Paul Corman-Roberts
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Make me a haiku
spray-painted on the window
of a shuttered bank.
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Written in memorium to a poet whom I didn’t know, but boy a lot of people sure did. Hope he likes it.
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Brian Fugett
Who is Brian Fugett and why don’t I know him?
200,000 marbles spill out of the back of a truck
and I’m supposed to know which ones are his?
What kind of wig is he wearing?
Why is his glass full of ink?
Does he care more about pizza or the rain forest,
and whichever the case, should we set up donations?
Alone at a taxi stand in the rain, does he shiver or pine?
How many puzzle pieces does he carry in his pocket?
How many thumbs?
What’s his favorite weather?
What’s his favorite instrument?
What’s his favorite street?
Did he buy you coffee?
What were the last words he spoke to you?
Did he park his car nearby?
Is that him walking on the next block?
Does he whisper in the distance?
Does he shimmer in the light?
Who is Brian Fugett,
and how do you say his name anyway?
/Fū’-jett/?
/Fū-jett’/?
Fuh-gett’/?
/Fug’-ett/?
Fuck it.
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My fave poem in a while came out of a workshop prompt and an article in the Guardian about a small and one might say eccentric Icelandic publisher who puts out tiny editions of 69 copies only during a full moon, then burns whatever has not sold when the moon goes down. Yes, you read that right and you can read more in the article here. The press is named Tunglið, one of the Icelandic words for moon (surprise!), and is pronounced (near as I can transcribe for Amuricans): /toon-glid/ with the accent on the first syllable and a very hard “d”, which is apparently the sound of that lovely Icelandic letter. So I wrote a bewitching little poemsong called “Tunglið”, and here it is.
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Tunglið
I must go to Iceland for a full moon
because I will learn how to swoon and succumb
to my eldritch desire to oil and slide
my body back into the cave.
And once I am rock-sworn I’ll breathe by a candle
in order to handle my mind in the dark
of the first incantation of stone-breath and sanctum
that keeps me alive for a day.
And as the moon rises aloft of the mantle
I strive along with it to bay and to shine
as the sun breaches vacuum and ricochets hither
I know it’s my time to arrive.
And so I refind my resound and my whither
and catapult tendon and spine to the sky,
upon which I gather my sally and story
and flame away, flame away, flame.
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And here’s another recent in which, for some reason, I take apart the word “purchase” etymologically, syllabically, and etymologically by syllable. Go figure.
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PURPOSE
Not to chase but to pose, one purrs forth
purchase of a future, formless bursa filled
with anomalous currents. Such pie to vie for,
one might posit, a fortuitous fractal of firth,
unbegone berry clung to a bough with a fork
that reposes toward thriving or morte. Further
pure purpose, I say, lest fang be fractured
and fallow the marrow will lie. Now fly!
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