Tired Muscles, Cortexually Speaking
Straining against the ice-cold rhetoric-
Spewing from a winter of discontent; alive
Only because statues never die, they just
Spout specious diatribes from the halls of
Congress, under glaring tv lights; illuminating
Lascivious lip-smacking gargoyled journalists
Intent on destruction, in any way, at every
Opportunity, America....but I did promise a
Thaw! it was the prelude title before the title
Of this penumbras poem...
I need only look outside, to the nearby tree-line
Tubes snaking thru the maple trees, yes! a
Sugarbush!
Nature is real, statues are not!
My spirit seeks joy
I know where to look, vaya con dios...
FALLING FROM THE HEIGHTS
Who knew the road would fill with gravel’s pain?
My feet, sore bare, beneath the calloused peat.
The sun beat hard, no friend the serpent’s bane.
Fate’s sweat does drip, with chains, the dark complete.
The street does twist and wretch, the cliffs enormous.
The vertiginous heights of panic feeze.
Unpaid regret, ill storm felt ginormous.
Unholiness does creep upon my knees.
Good pleasure pled, my youth to harken please,
whilst time did serve the stench of gargoyled feet.
And greening eyes would steal the gold, and seize
the king’s pure daughter, then his regal seat.
The plummet ferocious does tear my skin.
The dirgelike wind does moan and fleece my sin.
3/8/2018
bane - woe, curse, destruction
feeze - a state of alarm or excitement
my first time
by
Jude Kyrie
She was not a fresh faced
honey girl from my class.
Nor a woman who
took money to rid
college boys of their virginity.
It did not happen
fumbling in the back of a car.
Or lay in the grass of a meadow
under a moonlit sky.
It was in her small walk up flat
up three flights of dimly lit stairs.
I can still feel my legs weaken
in anticipation of the unknown.
Inside the untidy table
had a full ashtray
a half bottle of red wine.
A Picasso reproduction
Gargoyled from the wall.
She was full of experiences.
That I could only imagine.
She pulls a strip of condoms
from her night table.
The bedroom window
open wide
the summer breeze
whispered
Hush Hush.
It’s your time
It’s your time.
She took me softly.
Gently almost like a dream.
I cried out as my boyhood left me
draining into her
in its irrecoverable loss.
Outside the breeze
had turned to wind
Blowing my
uncertainty and doubts
far Into the night.
She was my teacher
and I her avid student.
Later the door closed
as I left her.
Her memory now
indelibly burned
onto my soul
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.