Last night’s PACKED #poetryparty house, panorama by Joshua Kristal.
thorny fingers flick the flesh
and i have thought
iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou
and you’re there but i cannot touch you
i cannot touch you
“This — For the Moon — Yes?” by Carl Sandburg.
from Slabs of the Sunburnt West, published in 1922.
“The Sound of the Trees” by Robert Frost.
Mountain Interval, 1916.
Lots of guest poets posting this month over at the poets.org Tumblr. I will be one of them in two weeks. Now you know this.
Tomorrow I am...
Poem submission by Kentiya Dyree
I heard she was beautiful. There is no accounting for taste, but I heard she was algebraically delectable. Hardly detestable. That girl is a wrecking ball. I heard she shook her hair behind her shoulders and wept to the moon. Wailed at it too…once when it was blue. I heard she held her near-perfect body hostage for Lent. She made it pay rent, ‘til it was spent. Hallelujah.
Lenny and Lisa have a daughter named Zoë.
I heard she was difficult. There is no geometry for taste, but I heard she was symmetrically divine. Completely refined. But that girl can unwind. I heard she beat the snow from her boots with the blade of her stiletto. Lost her rhythm and rhyme with her libretto: aceto-. I heard she was at her wit’s end. Death and all his friends dance around her grave again. Hallelujah.
Lenny and Lisa have a daughter named Zoë.
But they gave her to the light: quite bright white night. And they gave her to the night: trite blight right fright.
I heard she was beautiful. There is no accounting for taste, but I heard she was algebraically delectable. Hardly...
Worth the read.
Well. This just goes to show…
I heard she was beautiful. There is no accounting for taste, but I heard she was algebraically delectable. Hardly...