Hebdomad

The entire world
wants me to think I'm insane
tries to tell me
today is Thursday

That can't be true, I know it
down in the slinky marrow
of my ancestor's bones
in the way the day hangs

loose-fitting like a cloak
like a Friday cape
across my shoulders
tickling my ankles

Also, I know that today
must be Friday, because I love you
and I only love you on Fridays
Thursdays I love music

or art, or sometimes food
Mondays that dog with the curly hair
or the memory of games
played with my sister at age seven

So you see, it can't be Thursday
for I love you, I am sure I do;
I know it in the marrow
coiled asp-like in my bones

Such a deviation would be
impossible and we all know
impossibilities -and dragons-
are reserved for Sundays

Anyway, days do not care a whit
about foolish probabilities
they know that they exist
sense that it is their turn to be today

Hard to slice, cleave, septisect
a circle equally, hard to
break the hebdomad, harder still
if you take more than your share

Leaving none for dance, for cats
cartoon shows and drawing
for zoos and museums
traveling and my black ruffled skirt

And I love you today.
Under a weakening sunset, with
the week-end moon up between clouds
hide-and-seeking its way

into freedom from the urban yoke
So take your one-seventh
and be glad of what you get
Keep Thursday for, to, yourself

...the newspapers too?
The six-o-clock news?
Your three-year-old cousin
Everyone we know?

...Oh dear, this is terrible
the days have switched themselves
And if I give you Thursday too
where will I put cold milk?

Or was it daydreaming or apples
or painting with ink
I've lost my love-schedule
but I love you, so it must

be today, or tomorrow
even yesterday will suffice if
it can be Friday in this bed
in this quiet kingdom of sleep

gently woken by Friday's sun
I have Friday feet on my legs
running to meet you at the door
wrap my Friday fingers in yours

you love me every day (you say)
I suppose I can manage two

~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~

There, I've written a non-explicit, non-bitter love poem. To...no one.

Poems to Burn, Rhymes to Spare

Some poems are made of nothing but fog
flittering blithely by on gleaming wings
so full of holes they barely stir the air
the slightest breath sends them spiraling
delirious butterflies giving their all
to one last haphazard mating before dying.

Some lyrics skim banal feet between the waves
threatening to dig into the surface
of the eagerly waiting mind, and yet
never penetrate to feel the current below.
The most adventurous of these wade prettily
haunting the shallows for fear of depth.

Still other rhymes bludgeon you
assault you with heavy, relentless visions
force row upon row of disgusting words
into your throat, until the juice of acrimony
leaves tear tracks on your neck
and pools above your collarbone.

But there are those verses,
those seductive turns of phrases
that romance, take, and leave you.
The motions of their miniscule paws
send electric shocks down your spine.
Leaving perfect footprints indented in your back.

Enigmatic is its middle meter
offering up flesh shadowed with letters
generous and mysterious by turns
filling your covetous hands and eager mind.
Fever stains seeping from curve to curve
creeping and fretful, just like lust.

Stanzas building to a frenzy of ecstasy
tinged with that perfect dash of half-truth.
Driving gasps, writhing vision, slipped control.
Until adrenaline explodes in your ears,
heart's thumping rushing through your head.
Molding its time to match the meter.

And you awaken from your pleasured trance.
Shivering, you wipe the remains of ecstasy
from the crinkled corners of your eyes.
The oddly slack skin on your cheeks may be wet.
Your lip has been wounded, bitten and bled.
But your soul is merely turned inside-out.

And the poem will have left. Without so much
as a soft press of lips hovering over your brow.
Wrapping itself in your best satin sheet
striding out the door, down the hall,
and into another's open bed.
Deliciously filling another one's mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My, what sharp hyperbole you have, grandmother...and such big words, too! <-- More Poems

Note: This poem really bothers me. I wouldn't have worked on it for two months if I didn't think it worthy of attention, but something about it just doesn't flow...I guess that's the point of narrating this way in poems, though.

The whole idea behind this is the way different poems can affect a reader. I'm not saying these are the only poem 'types' possible, just the ones I choose to cover here.

Some are lovely to behold, with vivid, sparkling words, but fall to pieces once studied for some real content.

The second stanza's targets are full of smooth lines, empty boxes, and shallow water. Again, they lack content.

Other poems are visceral, biting, and poisonous. They attack the reader with a barrage of wold or violent images. Instead of stroking and slowly building, they shock and disgust. Those poems can be effective and a necessary experience.

The final type get under your skin, reverberate through your mind, and forever change you (for better or for worse). They are like lovers that explode your world but do not stick around to comfort or pick up the pieces. They'll watch the aftermath from another's arms, though.

Archer.

Marred

Three
jagged
points
three
smooth
sides
A weightless caress
slides over tough skin

See that
sweat-grey
edge
With a
sporadic sense
of pride
We know I have connected
my sanity with the tide

So that it
rises
and falls
Lifts,
crashes,
and stalls
And falls harder than before
At least we found the shore

seven fingers
are brittle
pages
A partnership of scarred runes
Our story
carved
in holy flesh
marred with half-moons

This is
our graffiti,
our precious treason.
Terrifyingly beautiful
beyond
all reason

~~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~~