20/30: The dictionary of obscure sorrows

Vemödalen
Because what can I write about you that has not already
been written?  The loving of you creates within me myriad
obscure sorrows.  Vellichor: You are an antique bookstore, all
dustsmell and ancient knowledge, and I am sitting in the floor
in the middle, hopeless in knowing I can never
read all you contain.  Onism: I hate every other body
that has known yours before I could.  Hate every
past lover who took your body inside theirs, hate your mother
who carried you first, who nursed you at her breast
decades before you touched mine with a newborn's
wonder.  Mahpiohanzia: because no matter how hard I try
I cannot make this body jump up and fly through the air
around the globe to be with yours.  Aimonomia: If I know
your good name, in its entirety, might you cease
to exist altogether?  Nementia: There are times of the day
I can taste you on the tip of my tongue but can't remember
how you got there.  Gnossienne: because you
are a house with so many rooms I will never
explore them all.

SHARING A RESOURCE WITH POETS

I've been working on these bookmarks for a long long time now.

CLICK HERE FOR A LOT OF AMAZING HELPFUL POETRY STUFF

My bright idea has been to start saving awesome poetry links and organizing them.  It'll never be perfect, but from time to time I click alphabetize on them cuz why not or try to sort out stuff that hasn't made it into a folder yet.

Anyway, within you have some general poetry related stuff, and then folders.  One is links to super amazing awesome poetry if you want to have a read or watch a video.  One is a folder with links to amazing sites for prompts.  One is a folder of links to publishers and publishing resources.  There's a folder of scholarships and a folder of advice.

Share it if you'd like, but please let people know (and know yourself, too) that I'm always looking to tighten this resource up so if you have stuff I should add holler back, or find a link to a dead end let me know.

19/30: write about the weather, but not really

There are rains here in Taiwan like I'd never seen.
Go to bed, rain.  Wake up, rain.  In between?
Rain.  And I love it.  Love it all over
everything, all inside everything, everywhere I go
it goes with me, everywhere I look it's all I see,
it gets in my food, in my drink, in my eyes, down
my ears and into my brain.  I wear it.  I breathe it.
I sleep with it and arise into it.  It bathes me
and my world; it soothes, it nourishes, sings, it


There are winds that blow on the southernmost tip
like I've never felt.  Just try camping.  The winds
will shudder the tent you'll feel shaking, sleep stirring,
rise moving, and in between, dancing.  Just listen
how the ocean sings with it, too, take naps on the beach
and ignore the stinging sand, take a jar of sand home
like setting it on the shelf could keep the wind with you,
like you feel your hair blowing when you look upon it,
and you feel how it felt on your skin, you can feel


And now here I am
in the town where I live
and his wind and his rain
have gone across the sea.
Left me with all this
fucking
sunshine.
Left me

18/30 - A Gram of &s

An eleven line form whereby the theme/title of the piece, its letters are used to make new words that end each line.  Get help finding your words here.  No fair changing words - adding "s" or "ed" or any of that nonsense.

Infatuation:
What it boils down to is I think it would be fun
if we spent a fortnight, just you, me, a futon,
and a kitchen full of food.  We fuck like Titan
gods, all thunder and smolder, like we might attain
some immortality from this electrified union.
After this, after us, after you I find myself unfit
for any others.  I want to curl myself into
the concave of your body like some infant,
like your skin could become my new outfit.
I think of your mouth and feel hungry and faint,
missing the way it makes me come like a fountain.

17/30: things are starting to get weird... need more prompts and more TIME in my days to write.

The month before she left she began
eating walnuts, cashews, almonds,
hazelnuts, peanuts, pecans, then
garbanzos, barley, sunflower seeds, pepitas,
chia, flax, buckwheat, and lotus;
anything that would sprout.  She spent
her nights standing out in the desert
with her mouth wide open, begging the moon
to kick-start some tide.  The night the rains came
she gave birth
to an exodus
and rode away on a river of vines.
It was Mother's Day and she was giving birth
to herself.

16/30: prompt ~ write about something you will forget

Poem Removed because Wicked Banshee Press is publishing it!!!  I'll post the link when it's up.

15/30: Prompt - write about something that will never happen

HALFWAY DONE WITH THE MONTH SUCKAS!  LET'S PARTY!

(oh yeah i'm supposed to give you a pome):

The day you called me and said

I’m sorry, truly, for all of it, I woke up speaking

every language.  Rivers flowed

from their deltas to their springs. I checked

my bank account to find all I needed and more;

politicians quit telling lies.

I looked into the heavens and saw

the sun going round the Earth,

the earth going round the moon, I reached up

to slice a hunk of cheese off the moon

and ate it calmly with wine while I watched

the parade and the bands go by.

14/30: copout

Exhausted today, underslept, but desperate not to fall behind this year, please forgive my self indulgence:


Without supporters,
kind friends with kind words this might
be impossible.

14/40: prompt - write about something you are/n't good at

Please forgive me.  I slept all day then cleaned house all night and now it's 6am and the sun is up and I feel delirious.

Faking confidence is largely in the smile.

Smile like you’re selling it, like your asking price

is twelve million point five, like you just

got your teeth cleaned.  Smile

like you got those vibrating panties on,

like you got dinner home waiting, and a

naked lover for dessert.  Then the walk.

Somewhere between march

and swagger, less saunter more slide.  Walk

like you own the place, like the VIP list

has one name: your own, in all capital letters.

Walk like you just stole home, picking pockets

the whole way.  Last the voice.  Articulate

but not elitist with a volume they’ll hear

without pissing them off.  Be sure to practice

at home, in front of the mirror,

have some friends over and see

if it sticks.  Once you’ve mastered the art

you can go out and conquer and come home

and climb in the bath and peel it all off

and curl up with Earl Grey and sleep.

12/30: After Jan Beatty's "Shooter"

Poem Removed because Wicked Banshee Press is going to publish it!  Link up when it happens.