November #18

Each time I try to hide from one person,
I bump into someone else. In pairs they
walk, catching me off guard by light of day
or moony night. They laugh to watch me run.

Oh lovers, nameless friends, it's all the same.
For when I seek my meager solitude,
then in they swoop and I must not be rude.
Hello, hello! My gritted teeth complain.

Society is fine, but this poet
can only think when she's alone, besides
how many friends disguise contempt with lies?
Better to trust as far as can throw it.

Alone, aloof, suddenly I recant.
Who knew poems made one rather distant?

November #17

i once knew a man named chuck,
with him you don't want to fuck.
he'll cut off your toes,
and next your nose,
if you're alive when he's done you're in luck


Hey. It's a limerick. No complaints, please :)

November #16

How does one lose a poem?
Write it down, forget the words,
the sly turn of phrase.
Burn the paper.
Take the ashes,
scatter them at clifftops,
over a hungry ocean,
and watch it disappear.
It's still there,
irrevocable.
Those words, on those paper -
a real poem doesn't need presence.
A real poem sings, stays,
is permanent, undestructible.
A real poem burns beneath the collarbone,
aches to be let out,
to sing loud. Poems cannot be lost,
they can merely fly away.

November #15

I never knew you had tattoos,
hiding beneath your shirt,
black bands of meaning,
earned through needling pain.
I never knew you had tattoos,
and will never know why;
this is knowledge gained
not through you but
idle conversations with friends,
flipping through scrapbooks and memories.

November #14

why do i do things like that?
stupid deletable things,
but ones that still exist?
what's the purpose of reaching out,
when it's only to make a fool of yourself?
get it together, pig.
that'll do.

November #13

november is all about rain.
it never snows, it never shines,
but it rains constantly.
there are songs written about it,
and everyone knows the truth.
no matter what friendly facade november tries to give,
it will only rain,
in dark gray dismal days
with mounds of clouds piled like threatening ships
launching on their mission
to drown the world.

November #12

We raise our glasses,
red wine full,
to the ceiling light,
chinking them together as we praise
the glory of being ourselves.
To friends, to family, to thanks,
to world peace, panda bears, love.
To overeating, overdrinking,
family stress and football games,
here's to Americana.
Here's to us, we say,
full of ourselves as well as turkey,
and we down our glasses in fell single sips.

November #11

what's the purpose of spewing empty words,
words with no meaning or use,
onto private pages?
why pour your soul into locked books,
taking down notes on every day,
recording every soul's breath?
why bother to release?
why bother to share,
to share things no one wants?
the cruelty of writing,
the mistress that forces the pen to move,
and yet promises no skill,
no readers, no fame, no future.
the pain. the rejection.
the pointlessness.

November #10

2 x 4
tightrope.
narrow walk of wood
what would you risk?
what would lie
on the other end of the line?
at cocktail parties
it's easy to say
- money - enough money
- children - my children
- power - total power -
but imagine that ledge,
the teetling, toppling thin board,
the wild wind working
to pull you down.
what would you risk?
would you surprise yourself
with unknown bravado, or
reassure yourself with familiar cowardice?p

November #9

Suddenly I see
through the dark,
a silent sea,
on the other side of the world.
Miniature disasters
heal over -
a false alarm.

November #8

Why georgia,
your body is a wonderland.
I don't trust myself,
something's missing
and Im not myself.
My stupid mouth.
Come back to bed -
stop this train.
There's no such thing
as city love.

November #7

Thanks a lot,
good looking.
Help me get rhythm,
by the big river city of New Orleans.
I love you because I'm so doggone lonesome -
you win again.

November #6

I will possess your heart,
we will laugh indoors,
and I will follow you into the dark.
This is the new year,
the one in which
you will be loved,
and all your frowns will be fake.
This is what Sarah said.

November #5

Someday you will be loved
but you can do better than me.
I was your kaleidoscope,
blacking out the friction.
I was the line of best fit,
the sound of settling.
For what reason
will I follow you into the dark?
They're all different names
for the same thing
and I don't know
why you'd want to live here.

Novemebr #4

a scientist studies
the employment pages
blacking out the friction
from a movie script ending.
The ice is getting thinner
and there's no joy in Mudville.

General

I submitted 4 poems to the University of Delaware literary magazine, Caesura, this past week.

Additionally, while attempting to participate in National Novel Writing Month, it's going even worse than my attempt at 365 poems. Cheerio.

November #3

a dirty wind is blowing,
foul and viciously cold,
awakening dull senses
only to make them run away,
hide, escape from the biting bitterness.
november.
month of long cold rains,
angry gusty nights,
too dark twilights,
when we lose all our light.
hide inside, shelter yourself
from the sad and bedraggled
scenes outside. survive.

November #2

transition
into a new you, a new me.
regress into what was once comfortable.
getting used to spare time,
free time,
time that will gradually fill
with the things you once did.

November #1

you've gotta spend some time, love
spend some time to work it all out
you've gotta spend some time, love
spend some time, on you and me
so let me spend some time, love
let me show you what i'm doing
let me take some time, love,
and do what it is I need to do.
You've got to give your time, up
you've got to share it, with you and me.
You've got to live in the moment, love
gotta do it peacefully.