Tag Archives: sonnet

pane

25 Monday Nov 2019

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Mist moved beyond the tree tops. “Let’s resume,”
you said, guiding me. We’d hid from the snow

after school that day up in your bedroom—-
with your mom downstairs. You bit your pillow,

keeping your groans in. Off in the forest
dead things rattled; a wet dream, all rime wings,

toothy gristle, stirred. Hoarfrost and dark lust
make for some corrupting magic; somethings

good grades can’t save us from. You soaked my palm
as you curled and jerked — letting a touch more

chill in. Chill and conjure. Even your mom,
sensing cold queer power, paused at the door

while frost and nightmare pressed against the pane,
watching you watch me lick you clean again.

surge

23 Saturday Nov 2019

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With sea salt I drew the five-pointed star
and then stepped inside. I too am the heir

of nine sisters and their nine waves. El Mar-
La Mer-El Mar: they sing it like a prayer

but it’s still conjure. I know the help curled
kelp brings wrapped around my wrist. But unlike

Mer-lin I’ve been exiled from the dreamworld
of this surge. All that which gets pulled, tide-like,

like the moon, have all forgotten my name.
I still think that love can heal the mischief

others have caused here. I still give a damn.
El Mar-La Mer-El Mar: prayer to reclaim

wreckage; prayer that with the sea and enough
of your love I won’t need a pentagram.

NOTES:
El Mar is the Spanish term for the sea and La Mer the French. In the ancient Arthurian legends the wizard Merlin was, “born of the nine sisters of the cold sea, and cast up on the beach by the ninth wave.” There is a type of kelp, Nereocystis, that gets washed ashore on the beaches near where my parents live. It looks like a bull-whip ending in a large bulb with finger-like fronds radiating from it. As a child I’d wrap a bit of the whip-end around my hand and feel the sea pulsing inside.

venus red

21 Thursday Nov 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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After the movie I scratch dried cum from
your dress. I might be a sloppy fuck-toy

but an indiscreet heat made the maelstrom
in your cunt rage. I know that you enjoy

the storms your body makes. “Mama told me
just bad girls do this.” On our second date

your neck bloomed with a venus-red hickey.
On our third your toes curled. Boring and straight

were your classmates. “I’m a storm-witch,” you said.
“I make my cunt typhoon.” No one at school

got you. “They think I’m weird.” I understand.
I felt the Wyrd in you, too; that wild dread

for the forbidden, a greed that’s not cruel,
a thirst for all that’s beyond this wasteland.

NOTE:
One definition of Wyrd is the Teutonic term for Fate. As Beowulf said: “Everyone in this life will go lay themselves down on the bed where Wyrd has decided to nail them.”

harrowed

20 Wednesday Nov 2019

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She said: Nothing kinky. You said: Don’t break
my heart. Neither of you got what you asked

for in the end. Now she’s gone and heartache
won’t save you from what approaches unmasked,

naked in ways that you could only pine
about. Winter’s twisted passion will say:

She called you apu, daddy, but you’re mine,
I’ll call you enyém, all mine, little fey.

Once you’d have harrowed hell for her. Now hell
looms to consume you. These cold months don’t creep,

they rush thirstily to you in ways that she
never did. That’s also kink, like the smell

of ice on the wind, snowfall’s hiss: Don’t sleep,
love, just watch what I do to your body.

NOTE:
Those who possess a vague unworldly knowledge of their own doom are said to have the fey on them. In Hungarian, “enyém,” means mine and, “apu,” means daddy, as in, “apuci lánya,” daddy’s girl.

grisly sex

17 Sunday Nov 2019

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For my birthday I give you a butt-plug.
Rubber and wide. “It’ll stretch you open,”

I say, as you hunker down on the rug,
pulling off panties stained with my semen.

All day at school you wear it, feel it throb
deeper each time you sit down. After class,

after your clit’s havoc, you want macabre,
grisly sex. I’ll pull the plug from your ass,

I’ll leave a gaped dark O where my cock shall
go … now it’ll fit when I press myself in

you. I want to fill you … full. “Naaa,” you say.
“What?” “Sodomy is eur sin: naa anal.”

That was that. Still, shame that for me it’s sin
that keeps sex from being a straight cliché.

Note:
This is a re-write of a poem that I had written a couple of months ago. I know not everyone enjoys anal sex but I will admit the reaction I got surprised me: “Ahm naa ganin tuh wark aroond wi’ sum metal up me arse.” I had never realized she spoke with such a thick Geordie (Newcastle) accent.

damn-cans

15 Friday Nov 2019

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Prayer stink of diesel fumes, heavy with spew
and retch and thirty-three sailors sublime

depth charge billow; surging, rippling through
lean meat hull. Old-school counting time;

the way any cult embraces its fate —
a hint of dark ecstasy. Coffin boats —

how the drowned baptized them. Damn-cans with hate
of brine crushing through the screams in our throats

and the rivets and the hull. Lone language
of war sounds like submariners at prayer,

counting down seconds until the next blast.
Would you speak love to me in such carnage?

Would you kiss me? or let the sea’s anger
hush me love while you stare numb and aghast?

red thread

14 Thursday Nov 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry, sonnet

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— after a loss.

If love is what we make of it, then what
counts is not who we’ve lost but everyone

waiting for us at the end. “Love, spirit,
baby cat, I’m so proud of you. It’s done.

You’re safe. Sleep. Wait for me. I will follow.”
“His heart has stopped,” the vet said. I woke to

a strange empty bed. No nuzzling. No
medicine to prep. No deep sing-song mew

for food. Maybe my faith (“Love, wait for me.”)
is wrong? Maybe there’ll be no one waiting?

It’s hard when all you have is a red thread
joining you two. My altar looks lonely

without him sprawled in a sunbeam, grooming
his dark coat, burning with flecked shades of red.

scoundrel

12 Tuesday Nov 2019

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If you love someone, set them free, we’re told.
If they come back then you’re not the villain

they claimed you were. Your: “I’m being controlled,”
seemed an odd grief, since your, “I won’t question

what you want, just use me,” started every
letter. Your mom in Tulsa said that I

was a scoundrel, making you do pervy
things in public. Perhaps. I won’t deny

that I loved your genius for not getting
caught in a world that calls what we do shame.

Yet your last words said how you loathed sexting.
Odd … but reason enough to stop this game.

Perhaps I’m bad. Perhaps you’ll learn to burn
on your terms. Either way, I won’t return.

eris

11 Monday Nov 2019

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When I awake the world pulses and throbs
angry and demanding. Once more I feel

frantic. Even the promise of blow jobs,
skag and mayhem does not please. What appeal

sublime excess brings feels dull when compared
to this ache. Once more I’m sick, dim and grim

when I want to be veiled, feral and scarred:
your own incubus itching for more. Dim?

Indeed. My neck contains not one love bite.
My mind is off elsewhere. My thoughts scattered.

Eros will not please tonight when Eris,
goddess of chaos, calls. Chaos in moonlight.

All else feels absurd. There’s no other word
for me but, “loss,” no other pain but, “this.”

plead

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Last night, two a.m. at the hospital,
with your loved one’s blood on your jeans. Ruin

and his screaming are still stuck in your skull
the next morning, all that noise while someone

tried to save his life. I brought him home. He
slept pressed close to my side. Can a tumor

grow and bloom so fast in days? They showed me
some X-rays. What difference does it matter

if it wasn’t there on Tuesday? It’s there
now. Death takes in threes: I lost Kriszti last

week and maybe J.R. today. Then who?
One more shock. Two weeks ago I would swear

life was good but pain is subtle and vast
and I can only plead: “not yet, not through.”