Obsidian, Version 1 and 3

About a week ago, I started writing an acrostic while I was grocery shopping using the words 'fight or flight.' I scribbled a bunch of lines on the back of my list and told myself that I would post the poem soon. When the time came to post, I couldn't find the yellow index card I had written the poem on. I looked everywhere! I finally decided that I must have inadvertently thrown the grocery list with the poem on the back away. I sat down to write another acrostic and when I clicked the 'save changes' button (on Xanga), I was informed that the site was down for maintenance. I clicked the back button on my browser repeatedly, but I could not recover my words. I then wrote a third version, which is posted below.

Version #3
For me--my reality
Is alive with constant friction
Glimmery sparks
Heated and hot
Tantrums of chaos

Obsidian, really; my fractures are
Real. Chasms of fire and belief

Fantasy, at least mine,
Lives where reality
Ignites, burns brave
Genuine, this flame
Helps me hold on
To my truth

About three days after I posted version #3, I found the first poem that I had written. It had been in my car the whole time!!! Anyway, below you'll find version #1. I was surprised at how different the poems were.

Version #1
Fantasy: magnetic, hypnotic
Insists on surrender
Giving in, giving up
Heated--the fantastic ignites
The composure of reality

Over, this thorough
Resolve. I am weak and

Filled with limitations
Life, lust, my appetites
Insatiable
Greedy and self absorbed
History, her story
To battle or break away

Paradelle*

The weight of his stare
The weight of his stare
Heavy enough to break bone
Heavy enough to break bone
Enough break, heavy weight
To the bone of his stare

I can feel his eyes
I can feel his eyes
Tapping at my spine
Tapping at my spine
Spine tapping his
Eyes I can feel at my

The way he looks at me
The way he looks at me
Presses hard, almost hurts
Presses hard, almost hurts
Hurts the way he presses
Looks at me hard

At the bone, I can almost
Break his spine
His weight: heavy, hurts, presses
He looks way hard
At the me of my
Enough to feel
Tapping eyes stare

*A paradelle is a modern poetic form which was invented by United States Poet Laureate Billy Collins as a parody of the villanelle. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words. Simply said, the last two lines of the first three stanzas use all the words in that stanza. The last stanza, however, incorporates every word that is used in the poem. As I stated earlier, the 'paradelle' is a parody. However, I think of it as a sort of word puzzle. I loved writing it.

Not all reviewers of Collins' book recognized that the paradelle was a parody of formal poetry and of amateur poets who adhered to formalism at the expense of sense. Some reviews criticized Collin's poem "Paradelle for Susan" as an amateurish attempt at a difficult form without ever understanding that this was, indeed, the point.

St. Louis!

Cougar*

young men--boys, really
extreme energy explodes
exponentially

these crossroads
between wrong and right
there are no high roads

so trite
consort crisis
weary of polite

immature bliss
physical perfection
hurts to dismiss

daydream defection
noiseless screams
phantasmal selection

sunbeams
bright and gullible
giving off steam
nothing but trouble

*The Urban Dictionary defines a cougar as "a 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing to do anything male."

This poem started out as a terza rima, which is poetry written in three-line stanzas (or “tercets”) linked by end-rhymes patterned aba, bcb, cdc, ded, efe, etc. There is no specified number of stanzas in the form, but poems written in terza rima usually end with a single line or a couplet rhyming with the middle line of the last tercet. However, as you can see, my last stanza is definitely not a single line or couplet. So my poem is kind of a terza rima, but, technically....not really.

'N' Words

In a nutshell--
I am neurotic
Navigating
neural pathways
networking with
negative notions
How can I stay
neutral?
Where is my
nirvana?
Naked, naive,
dressed in this
napkin thin
negligee
my necklace is a
noose
Come closer--
n e a r e r--
I'm ready to
negotiate

Related Posts:
'A' Game
The 'F' Bomb

Blogger's Delight

Join with me in congratulating
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B-Side Artist:
Mr. Ash (BygPowis)
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Ms. McCrary (Xcentric Pryncess)
Ms. Tery (MysTery)
Mr. Smith (Don)
This project has been in the works since early this year
and is finally coming to fruition. To check out excerpts of four of
the six stories or to purchase an advanced copy
go to the Bloggers Delight Book site.

Inspiration*

In between midnight and morning
my words wake me
traveling through
slumber to sight

I taste thoughts as my eyes open
spying the clock
next to my bed
angry numbers

In my mind's many rooms, words weave
into poems
I say only
where is my pen

*This is an example of a "minute poem." Minute poems are 12-lines, consisting of 60 syllables, with a syllabic line count of 8,4,4,4,8,4,4,4,8,4,4,4. Technically, the form should have rhyming couplets--but I just couldn't do it. I've also heard some people insist on this form being written in a strict iambic meter...again, this was just impossible for me. Sticking to the right number of syllables was hard enough. I was trying to describe one intense moment--an actual minute--when words wake me up and I am compelled to start writing poetry.

Fine Line

conscious--subliminal
love--hate
cop--criminal
sinner--saint
trite--seminal
brilliant--great
rude--cynical
learned--innate
intimate--clinical
crooked--straight

Argument

her lips
garnet colored, glossy
laugh at sobriety

exhilarated
she can blow
questions away
with a smooth exhale

her mouth
tells her mind
that there are
different kinds
of wrong

Blog Interview

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Untitled

pretty she is
ugly she does
maybe she's his
maybe she was

holy and haunted
madonna, whore
dismissed and wanted
a fascinating bore

sugar, spice
does anyone know?
fire, ice
yes and no

So...what do you think the title of this poem should be?

Shahrazad

his day off
is my day on
like Shahrazad
sensuous solutions
dark haired diversion

each day is
his birthday
filled with surprises
adult amusement

orchestrating
utopian fantasies
while maintaining
this week's manicure

my very survival
depends on the
ability to
enchant and
enthrall

spellbound, he marvels
at my mastery
wishing for infinite
days of leisure

as he travels
toward his dreams
I wish for a
distraction of my own


Scheherazade, more correctly known as Shahrazad and sometimes Scheherazadea or Shahrzād (Persian: شهرزاد ); is a legendary Persian queen and the storyteller of The Book of One Thousand and One Nights, also, though erroneously, known as the Arabian Nights.Her story is as follows: every day Shahryar (Persian: شهريار or "king") would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was betraying him. He had killed three thousand such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter.Against her father's protestations, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the King. Once in the King's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, Dunyazad, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The King lay awake and listened with awe to Scheherazade's first story and asked for another, but Scheherazade said there was not time as dawn was breaking, and regretfully so, as the next story was even more exciting.And so the King kept Scheherazade alive as he eagerly anticipated each new story, until, one thousand and one adventurous nights, and three sons later, the King had not only been entertained but wisely educated in morality and kindness by Scheherazade who became his Queen.

Sequence

his dependable
presence
makes his
absence
difficult andintense
(miss him, I do)
furtive messages
make me tense
these sensations
make no sense
simplicity tangles
into something dense
(dismiss him, says you)
we could
dispense
with this
obvious pretense
intimateprepense
(dis him, I will not)
in his
defense
his charm
immense
together
let us commence
(I'll kiss him, so what?)

Pawn

"...but who in your measly little world are you trying to prove thatyou're made out of gold and -a can't be sold..." ~Jimi Hendrix, Are You Experienced

he tells me
that he wants to
buy me out
I cringe and clap
exhilarated, alarmed
like a small child
watching fireworks

his cold truth
sears--dry ice
rough,
severe
even a girl like me
can be bought
and sold

My oldest son, Noah, and I love words. Though he is only 9 years old, I am constantly amazed by his vocabulary and wordplay. As you can imagine, Noah and I have a lot of fun with magnetic poetry. Below is Noah's first 'magnetic poem.' Of course, I thought it was brilliant--but I'm extremely biased.

Below is my attempt. When I showed it to Noah, he said, "I think mine is much better. Yours doesn't make any sense!" As I read my words now--I realize that he's right!

Hugs to everyone--Here is my previous magnetic poetry post.

Out Loud

his voice
makes my
poems cook
like a tin saucepan
on a gas range
his inflection--
feverish, hot

this choice
does satisfy
a brief look
a blink, a scan
moments of change
such perfection
within earshot

true, his voice
like big sky
an unfettered outlook
blue heat, he can
exchange
predilection
for fresh thought

Obvious

• a man who sends roses
• hip hop
• daytime diamonds
• full bodied red wine
• women shopping at victoria's secret
• bottle blondes
• phone sex
• children selling lemonade
• hangovers
• desperate housewives
• may-december coupling
• sequins
• soulmates
• false modesty
• too bright nail polish
• henpecked husbands
• winning in straight sets
• summer lovers
• sore thumbs
• poetry that tries too hard
  
  *the above "poem" is an example of catalog verse which is a form of poetry made by compiling long lists of everyday objects, names, or events, united by a common theme and often didactic in tone. I have posted catalog verse in the past, though I can't seem to locate the link. I do remember several of my readers telling me that catalog verse should not be considered poetry. Though this type of verse is not something I feel strongly about, I still consider the above example to be poetic. No less poetic, I would say, than a Haiku or Limerick. That's just my opinion, though. As always, I love to hear all feedback whether it is complimentary or not.

Fact

a fact:
I'm broken
somewhat cracked
damaged, disillusioned
to be exact
each day seems
abstract
surreal, vague
crowded and packed
the monstrous neuroses
which I attract
at every turn
so difficult to distract
eyes shut
avoiding contact
wishing for seclusion
refusing to react
ensconced, reclusive
ignoring tact
I'm better alone, that's
a fact

Dream

standing
at the top
of a polished
mahogany stairway
I see him
looking at me
twenty steps below
with one elegant hand
on the sturdy bannister
Black Snake Moan plays
somewhere
a soundtrack to something
unknown
he speaks
though I can not hear him
my high heeled foot taps
and though my heavy
undisciplined hair
tumbles over my
polished mahogany
shoulders,and
my heartbeat feels
like heavy footsteps
I can not move....

Slam Dunk

(For him)
I lay it bare
forswear
proper and prim

(To him)
I give promises
continual kisses
my necessary whim

(With him)
I forget all doubt
let myself out
all net--no rim

About him?
it's complicated
instinct--not educated
(What is the chance that I'll elude my illusions?)
s l i m

*technically, readers, this poem would be considered an example of envelope rhyme.' (the rhyme scheme being abba). However, this is not really a textbook model as I took some liberties with sentence structure and composition, especially in the 3rd stanza. But, whatever...right?

Bargain

He describes me
as expensive
and I feel
like a racehorse
or prime real estate

He says I'm money
but he takes, I give
an ideal
refined and coarse
raw and ornate

My smiles are free
I argue--defensive
a bargain, a steal
these words force
a constant debate

A riotous fantasy
labor intensive
he calls me surreal--
advertising, I endorse.
Currency incarnate.

Treehouse

our secret treehouse
is hidden high
built into the branches
of an immortal,
sturdy maple tree

under a canopy
of two toned leaves
our hideaway
is solid, secure
offering confidential sunlight, stealthy shelter

daring squirrels
and curious birds
watch us
keeping company
the treehouse is both
our center and edge

together, we snicker like
naughty children
this liaison confirmed
only by a
community of clouds

Confidential Anagrams

fictional den
of a confident life
confide, confine
incidental
contained dance
enfold--antic
an online fit
indicted, infect
financed toil
ocean tide
focal tied
fated
I can not lie
iconic tonic
inflate, innate
notified
noted factoid
end
finale


The words above are not really a poem--but I don't really know what else to call it. The above "poem" is a collection of anagrams made up from the word 'confidential.'

Predator

Blowdried
gloss applied
wild eyed
I decide
tricky thighed
satisfied
qualified
Me, abide?
Please. Go hide.
What I provide
is true and tried
step aside
I chide with pride
(our worlds are different)
we might collide

Hint

familiar
he is
(is he?)
his
cavalier
comments
make me
agree
(agree, me?)
to his experiments
yes
(I say)
God bless
surrender, relent
a shattered whole
fragments, soul
disorient
these compliments
(so familiar)

Les Affaires Comme d'Habitude

Le péché est client
de mon mari
nous avons vu
à une soirée cocktail et avons
fait semblant
que nous n'avions jamais rencontré
il m'a demandé des
questions banales
et j'ai feint l'irritation
Il a appelé mon mari
un homme heureux
je suis senti m'ai gêné
parce que
je suis si familier avec le péche
c'était difficile
pour moi le traiter
comme un étranger
c'était plus dur calme
pour reconnaître que
je préfère sa compagnie

Translation:
Business As Usual
sin is a client
of my husbands
we saw each other
at a cocktail party
and pretended
that we had never met
he asked me
banal questions
and I feigned irritation
he told my husband
that he was
a lucky man
I felt embarrassed
because
I am so familiar with sin
It was difficult
for me to treat him
like a stranger
It was harder still
to admit
that I prefer
his company

Concubine

a fickle bitch
his mistress is
alluring and maddening

she summons him
during fair weather
weekends
promising good times
enviable scores

he invests in titanium
for her
new technology
and endless instruction

he comes home
smelling like her
with grass stains
on the cuffs of his trousers

he dreams of her
while I lay beside him
in my new nightgown

when he wakes
he tells me of
a missed putt
for birdie
and I hear the
desire
in his voice

I know that he wants her
instead of me
even now as I
show him my
exquisite new nightgown
my flesh can not
compete

Compulsion

At 3:26 in the morning, I woke up thinking about the word 'fracas.' I could see the word behind my eyes, like it was written on a dry erase board with a bright blue marker. A tangible hyperlink. I wondered how it was spelled, with a 'ck' or just a 'c.' I sat up in bed and knocked my glasses off the nightstand. My husband moved and mumbled as I rolled out of bed looking for my dictionary. Fracas, I whispered, what a strange word. My husband sighed loudly and put a pillow over his head. I speculated on words that might rhyme with fracas: Bacchus or Caracas were two that I thought of. I hurried down soft steps with hard, heavy feet. I tripped over a toy truck and a framed photograph threatened to fall off the wall. I steadied it, bumping my head in the process. Mom, my oldest boy called, what happened? I went to his room to tousle his hair and straighten his covers. I asked him if he had seen my dictionary. Look it up online, he said grumpily, sounding like an old man. I made my way to the PC, trying not to turn on too many lights. I sat down on my creaky office chair and found the word fracas on yourdictionary.com. I learned that fracas is a noun. A fracas is a noisy, disorderly fight, quarrel or brawl. I supposed it might also mean an undue disturbance, perhaps in the middle of the night. I sat back, satisfied, thinking about commotions and compulsions and cerebral convulsions. I yawned and stretched, accidentally pushing an unstable book off the shelf. What a fracas, I said, softly--to myself. My baby started to cry.

I consider this post to be an example of a prose poem, which is basically a prose work that has poetic characteristics such as vivid imagery and concentrated expression. Prose poetry often uses no line breaks and/or stanzaic rules. Some people may not consider this to be a good example of a prose poem, however. There will be readers who see the above post as inane rambling or a stream of consciousness type piece. This would not be incorrect, though I still feel that 'Compulsion' is best described as a prose poem.

Secret Garden

The promise of me
has so much power
A magic key
at this dark hour
Self-deprecating
I dismiss
Calculating
he insists
I can own him, I think
with a suggested fantasy
A long lashed wink
well cultivated beauty
Unlocking the solid gate
to my secret garden
Unsettled, he can not wait
let me in, he pleads, again
again

Reddition (Il est s'insistant!)

J'ai visité le péché
chez lui
hier
c'était luxuriant
et plein de
trésors
que les murs ont été peints
le violetet
il y avait
la moquette sur
le péché de plafond est si original, j'ai pensé,
regardant autour
du péché marché vers moi
souriant
tout ceci pourrait être le vôtre
il a chuchoté
si vous juste vous rendriez
il a appuyé une clef de maison
dans ma main
il a brûlé ma paume


Translation:

Surrender (He's So Insistent!)

I visited sin
at his house
yesterday
it was opulent
and full of
treasures
the walls were painted
purple
and there was carpet
on the ceiling
sin is so original, I thought,
looking around
sin walked towards me
smiling
all this could be yours
he whispered
if you would just surrender
he pressed a house key
into my hand
it burned my palm

Yaaay!!!!!

Hi, Everyone!
I won't be around for the next few days because...I'll be in NYC at the BookExpo America!!! I will be there with my publisher, Diane Dorce of FireFly Publishing. For those of you who don't know my big news....
My first volume of poetry is now available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com!!! I don't think there is a picture of the cover up yet, so I'm posting it below:

Expect lavish lines/luscious lies in bookstores later this summer.

I want to thank each and every one of my readers. This book would have never been possible without your encouragement and feedback. I love you all!!! XOXOXOXOXO!!!!

I was tagged by DC. Though the rules weren't especially clear, I am assuming that I have to pick a muscial artist(s) and answer the following questions using song titles. The artist I pick is Bruce Springsteen.


Are you male or female: She's the One

Describe yourself: Brilliant Disguise or maybe Two Faces

Your best piece of advice: You Can Look (But You Better Not Touch)

Describe your last relationship: 10th Avenue Freeze Out

Describe your last crush: It's Hard to be a Saint in the City

Say something to someone you have a crush on: Prove it All Night or, maybe Lets be Friends (Skin to Skin)

Say something to an ex: 57 Channels and Nothing On

Say something to someone who hurt you severely: No Surrender

How do you feel right now: Wreck on the Highway

Word Association Redux

first : impression
agreement : yes
whisper : discretion
together : test
secret : confession
please : request
exposed : expression
technique : finesse
desire : aggression
more : undress
denial : depression
battle : obsess

Previous Post:
Word Association

Shelley: 3 Haiku

my sister-in-law

a walking talking barbie

my brother is ken

unproportional

her tits are phenomenal

and her waist is minute

she laughs at blonde jokes

and when I tease her too much

this girl's flesh, hardly plastic

lavish/luscious

lavish lines
luscious lies
these words are mine
a literal disguise
these lines
are lavish
luxurious and fine
my secret wish
rhymes divine
luscious
these lies
eternal and ageless
forever say yes
m e s m e r i z e

Heat

her appeal genetic
exotic
hardly cosmetic
fascination chaotic

forget psychotics
she offers bedroom athletics
making her magnetic
connection erotic

charismatic
enigmatic
attraction automatic
this heat poetic

Chaos

thoughts tangle
like unbrushed hair
questions quarrel
like school children
hurt hardens
like an ice cube
reason runs
like an athlete

inside of me

Note to reader: read this poem the way it's supposed to be read...

Boredom

Most days, it feels like
a part of me drifts toward
the ceiling
to watch myself
have inane and shallow
conversations about
broken fingernails or
my most recent pedicure

As I float around different rooms
in different places
I watch myself fervently debate the
arch of my eyebrows and I feel so
tired
remembering dreams I once had
I don’t remember saying that I wanted to
be a cliche when I grew up

I used to be an intellectual and
now all I can talk about
is my hair

Watching myself
detached
I realize that I have become
the type of woman
that I used to mock
before I got so tired and started
watching myself play
an endless game of pretend

Pretty Baby*

Written after reading Ginsberg

pretty baby he says
pretty baby he breathes
pretty baby come here
pretty baby don’t leave
pretty baby show me
pretty baby I need
pretty baby say yes
pretty baby believe
pretty baby where were you
pretty baby look at me
pretty baby stay here
pretty baby—please

*This poem is an example of anaphora which is a fancy poetic term for when the beginning of each line in a poem repeats the same word or phrase. In the above poem, the repetition of the words 'pretty baby' at the beginning of each line suggests obsession.

Rhyme Royal*

to be read while being beautiful

beauty is currency
honored everywhere
beauty--a master key
unlocking with pretty hair
her power is unfair
like new money flaunting big bills
real beauty takes little skill

a cross and a commodity
beauty dares
admirers to disagree
to disregard the blare
of her white hot glare
Burning but chill
beautiful girls fulfill

*mmmmkay, Darlings, this poem is an example of Rhyme Royal. This type of rhyme is associated with Geoffrey Chaucer, whose Troilus and Criseyde marks the form's first appearance in English. Basically, it is a seven line stanza with an ababbcc rhyme scheme. If I were really following the rules, each line would have been written in iambic pentameter. However, being the rule breaker that I am, each line in my poem has a meter all its own.

Persuasion

smile
laugh
touch
flirt

laugh
wink
flirt
kiss

wink
tease
kiss
please

tease
touch
please
smile

Untitled

i like pretty lies
more than ugly truths
deception can be satisfying
i can be
young
beautiful and
desirable
forever
so
lie to me
baby

Don't Lie

He wants to hit it and quit it
Of this, I have no doubt
I’m accepting—he should admit
He wants to hit it and quit it
Deception is lame, counterfeit
I’m not asking for a handout
He wants to hit it and quit it
Of this I have no doubt

Note to reader: This form of poetry is called a ‘triolet’ which is a poem or stanza of eight lines with a rhyme scheme abaaabab, in which the fourth and seventh lines are the same as the first, and the eighth line is the same as the second.
Previous Post: Triolet

Wordplay

To covet is covert
An alarm--an alert
Want is sometimes wanton
To connive--a con
Mysterious mistress
Assesses assets
Caress and confess
This sweet sweat
Marvelous, I marvel
Excellence excels
Here lives a heretic
My fantasy fantastic

Inspired by R. Frost

This is one of my favorite poems. It inspired the poem that I wrote for today.

Fire and Ice, by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

My Fire, My Ice

Fiery desire
Cold hate
Seems somewhat extreme
Unrealistic dictate

What about slouching toward nirvana
Or lukewarm interest
Tell me the temperature
Of a forbidden request

Must we burn
Or freeze
Forgetting the delight
Of a breezy tease

Perhaps sadness should boil
Oblivion could be mild
Survival of the fittest
Feelings gone wild

Sealed Envelope

He is a sealed envelope
addressed to someone else
that I can not open

an unwritten story
that begs to be told

a locked vault
promising treasure to keyholders
inaccessible

unexpressed ideas
that float in literary purgatory

an unconsummated
rendezvous
buzzing with tension

unfinished business
loose ends, wanting closure

his mind:
like a house with
a thousand windows
he slips away
easily, undetected
sitting outside of his isolated genius
hoping for admission
I wait patiently

Note to reader: this poem was written in a very different type of format that I can not seem to do on blogger. In any event, click here to read the poem the way it is supposed to be read. As you can see from the link, the poem can be read vertically or horizontally.

Request

Meet me, the text reads
And I want to speed through time and space
My skin pleads
Needs
His dark embrace

Meet me, he asks
And I feel so ready
For his tasks
He unmasks
Remembering makes me unsteady

Meet me, the message says
And I envision locks
Black and gray
Someday
Actuality mocks

Meet him?
Only behind sleepy lids
My familiar stranger
Danger
Our kisses hid

Kyrielle*

God have mercy on my soul
Behavior I can't seem to control
Violating my probation
Resisting anything but temptation

Deliverance so dull
Nobility's appeal null
Ignoring promises of salvation
Resisting anything but temptation

Of my questionable deeds
I need no confirmation
My shadow self feeds
Resisting anything but temptation

Demons adore
My deviation
Too entertained to abhor
Resisting anything but temptation

Reality borne of my imagination
Resisting anything but temptation

My realization
Resisting anything but temptation

*the name and character of the KYRIELLE derive from the Mass, whose wail of Kyrie eleison!--'Lord, have mercy upon us'--is a familiar element. The final line of every stanza is the same. There is no set length and both quatrains and couplets may be used.

February

You give off such heat, he writes
His words feel delicious
Email that ignites
My want is vicious

His words are delicious
Missives both solid and airy
My want is vicious
Sign of the times--my February

Missives both solid and airy
I giggle at his desires
Sign of the times--my February
Adoring the way he admires

I giggle at his desires
He asks to kiss my neck
Adoring the way he admires
Have I melted? I check

He asks to kiss my neck
Awakening with a double click
Have I melted? I check
Messages erotic

Awakening with a double click
Email that ignites
Messages erotic
You give off such heat, he writes

Note to reader: this poem is a 'pantoum.' For further information on this style, see my previous post.

On Demand

You're good for business, he says
Will you wear your hair down?
Flirting with his clients over filets
And wine--trying not to drown

In this sea of booze and trepidation
I entertain on demand
Swallowing irritation
Gesturing with my rocky wedding band

He uses my smile
To close deals
My style
His weapon--concealed

I turn it on
His clientele grows
A long lashed pawn
I pretend not to know

More is more
A merger, he and I
What I bring--he adores
His choice, I dignify

Pantoum*

Wrapping myself in a single sheet
In room 521 at The Ritz
I can hear my heart beat
My questions quit

In room 521 at The Ritz
Whispers burn
My questions quit
He helps me learn

Whispers burn
Room service brings more wine
He helps me learn
Replaces the privacy sign

Room service brings more wine
He plays with my hair
Replaces the privacy sign
Our luxurious lair

He plays with my hair
I can hear my heart beat
Our luxurious lair
Wrapping myself in a single sheet

*A pantoum is a strict, 15th century form of poetry that must be composed in full cross rhymed quatrains (abab, cdcd, etc.). It must begin and end with the same line, and this is how the rest of the poem unfolds: the 2nd and 4th lines of the first stanza become the 1st and 3rd lines of the second stanza, the 2nd and 4th lines of the second stanza become the 1st and 3rd of stanza three and so on until you reach the end. A Pantoum may be as long or short as you desire, but, when you do get to the end, you must use the two lines you will not yet have repeated--the 1st and 3rd of the opening stanza, they are reversed in order and become the 2nd and 4th of the final quatrain.

Decadence

Daytime naps
Cashmere socks
Admirers, nightcaps
Massages while bumping Tupac
Wine at noon
Pedicures
Silver spoons
First edition literature
Nude photographs
Procrastination without consequence
Rowdy laughs
Making time for nonsense
Feeding whimsy
French lingerie
Languidly
Foreplay on fairways
Unapologetic
She offends
Skin and soft fabric
Her husband and boyfriend

A Grown Man

He gives me tokens
Of his affection
Soft spoken
Adding to my collection
Glittery trinkets
His gifts make me glow
Forget
The boy I used to know
He makes time sprint
Sharing remember whens
Hints
Of back thens
A grown man
Solid, a boulder
My man
As I grow older

Manicures

Men are like
manicures

Never perfect for long

Chips and cracks
appear at the first hint
of duress

The bolder the hue
the more glaring the imperfection

Ragged truth
hiding under glossy lacquer

Like manicures,
men are ready
for replacement
or change
After a few short days

Word Association

Error: human
Forgive: divine
Secret: delicious
Stars: align
Affair: remember
Seduction: wine
Yes: more
Strength: spine
Tryst: luxury
Rise: shine
Ravenous: you
Together: fine

Enigma II

My phone rings endlessly
Selfishly
His questions full of fantasy
Whispering 'til I agree

He asks about my hair
Tells me to free my ponytail
Chanting--a prayer
Breathe, he says, exhale

I give
He takes
Do I forgive?
Oh, I ache

He hangs up inspired
Satisfied
I am admired
Our connection classified

He leaves me tired
Alone
Sleepy but wired
Holding my phone

Sleepwalker

I sleepwalk
At all hours
A model on a catwalk
My submission empowers

A sleep voyager
Navigating furniture and carpet
A drowsy provocateur
Grace and oblivion: a duet

Confident in my travels
Hip swinging, he tells me, so fine
Fluid, composed by Ravel
Operating in slumber--divine

I wake in different rooms
Coming to, enveloped in confusion
Trying not to assume
That daybreak is an intrusion

My nocturnal wandering
My nighttime journey
Risking everything
For my moment of free

Sonic Repitition*

Tip it back
Eat prozac
Try to attract
Say no to crack
Give feedback
Follow the pack
Leave Iraq
Cut some slack
Use Kodak
Bet offtrack
Shop Frontenac
Talk some smack
Drink cognac
Paint it black
Own your mack
Don't be wack
Just the facts
Have my back?
Hit the sack

*sonic repetition is the repetition of sounds in a poem

Ars Poetica*

I can't help it
I like my writing to rhyme
Do you hate me?
I hear you
Louder and clearer
Than my own voice
You think I'm hopelessly uncool
(I know I am)
I need to be more avant garde
(This is true)
I lack modernity
(Yes)

I wish I could string mismatched
Words together with
Careless brilliance
Without rhyme, though,
My words seem incomplete
Half written
Like a child's wish list
An unfinished argument
Waiting for closure
Or maybe not
I have to make sure my shit's backed up
Giddyup
I couldn't resist
My rhymes exist

*A poem praising poetry or written about poetry, or even about the poem a poet is writing at the moment.