Two Woodpeckers dueled as she slyly seduced them.
John G. Lawless
©3/18/022
our swords unsheathed
it is our time to spar
sparing no blows
no matter
how hard
flesh feels the wounds
with love and lust filled
thrusts trusting
to make a mark
scar the heart
pain changes to bliss
torturing each other
with touch just so
then i give in
taking
your sword in hand
guiding it towards
a hole made
many months
ago showing
you where i want
you to take me
even if
a little
death
is all i get
please
kill me
every
day
merci
I hold my sword in my hand.
Wield it with skill and precision.
Watching my opponents.
Knowing when to advance,
Lunge.
Slight Attaque au fer to start.
Parry.
Waiting for that opening.
Passe.
Passbackwards.
Parlee.
Position is everything.
Knows well.
passbackwards.
Feint.
There lunge, in vein.
With quick step, yielding parry.
Prise de fer.
Coupe.
Under the intellect of
My pen.
My sword.
Touché.
melting snowball
Fall-out started with the spring-break competition;
Errors were made as team effort slid downhill.
Then when name-calling sparked a partition,
esprit-de-corps broke to a stand-still.
“Butterfingers!” the dig of choice,
sabers, rifles drop in flight.
“Cretin!” answers a voice,
winter guard backbite.
“Bozo, Clod, Clown”
teenage jeers,
meltdown -
tears.
written March 20, 2018
Line Gauthier's A Melting Snowball contest
There in the ghetto,
rising with the pain,
it is as if the one deprived of consciousness—
targeted by ignorance, ego at the helm,
was born to anger—
there, where raw emotion rules,
there the roots are suddenly exposed,
the unctuous light prevails, sardonic
in contempt of an intruding day.
The night is queen,
her reign upon the sodden street perpetual;
the housetops' failure to release it, slumbers,
drones through the torpid hours tenacious
as the sponge-like air of summer.
There are no choices here, no one
to single out the breath as savior,
to tender just the moment as a space
to set apart...no one, save the self.
Below persona,
buried as a blanket earth keeps faith,
the fever rests and bores into the soul.
The Trojans march and tears are burning.
It is night.
It is ever night.
~
rapier in hand
satisfaction demanded~
franks roast over fire
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.