Category Archives: poetry friday

Today was the hottest day Portland has seen in three years

Today was the hottest day Portland has seen in three years

(With apologies to Edward Gorey, the alphabet, and poetry in general)

A is for Andy, asleep in his bed.
B is for brain, boiling hot in my head.
C is for Celsius, one million degrees.
D is for death, come quickly, and please.
E is for everything, it sucks, ’cause it’s hot.
F is for FUCK YOU THAT’S WHY, YOU BIG SNOT.
G is for Gawd damn why am I not dead yet?
H is for Hell, where we’ve arrived now, I bet.
I is for icky, our moods and our feet.
J is for Jenni, who perished of heat.
K is for Kelvin, another fine scale.
L is for losing our minds as we wail.
M is for Mama, who can’t even think.
N is for nightcap, but it’s too hot to drink.
O is for OH LORD WHY TODAY?
P is for playground, with water that sprays.
Q is a question, a prayer and a plea.
R is for romance, GET AWAY FROM ME.
S is for sunshine, we got too much thanks.
T is for thunderstorm, absent our ranks.
U is umbrellas, packed safely away.
V is vagina, dripping sweat all fucking day.
W is water, there’s never enough.
X is for xylophone, because x is too tough.
Y is for yellow, the sun in the sky.
Z is for zebra, maybe a stampede will come by.

dreams & reprints

dreams & reprints

We floated alone on the sea, smooth as glass and green as absinthe, in a rowboat more appropriate for a Monet painting than the open ocean. He wore nothing but a plain white t-shirt and I’d placed a patio umbrella in the oar hold to shield us from the harsh moonlight (Luna shone down with a knowing smile and sleepy eyes). The boat lacked a bottom and we had no oars, yet we remained afloat and dry and moving slowly east. He looked at me – through me – like he could read my mind. “Nothing is free,” he whispered. “I know,” I replied, and slipped below the surface. From below, I could see him fashion a new boatmate from water like clay; she was tall, beautiful, dark-haired with perfect breasts. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.

Claude Monet, The Boat
1887, oil on canvas.
Museé Marmottan, Paris, France

I didn’t have any poetry yesterday, and the piece that flirted with my mind in the wee hours has proved to be a tease. I’ll try to win back the verse’s heart (something about taking solace at the base of an oak tree), but no guarantees. Instead, today you get a love poem, one published in the Winter 2004 issue of Northwest Passage, the literary journal I edited senior year at WOU. The author’s only listed by initials and it’s been too long for me to remember real names, but it’s a good piece. I don’t usually like love poems, but I ADORE stuff with a little twist at the end, hence my affection for Silverstein. In any case, enjoy.

S. W.
Like a Dog

I love you like thunder
Pink and purple hues

I love you like a song
Harmony of string, voice

I love you like desert sun
Burning, radant, present

I love you like a river
Flowing, constant yet changing

I love you like a tern
Petite, playful, strong

I love you like a dog
I want to lick you

irony in the key of communication

irony in the key of communication
I’m drowning in your silence,
doubting my visibility,
treading water in concrete.Words collected like oil on wet pavement,
leaving an irridescent slick,
beautiful but dangerously meaningless.

Only when the soot stung your chest
did you take a breath,
too late to save yourself.

Brick by brick I came down,
but saved all the pieces “just in case,”
and now I’ve rebuilt my wall just for you.

poetry friday#1

poetry friday#1
Orpheus lost Euridice forever by looking back.
His music had charmed her,
the gods, Cerberus, everyone,
but a sweet song cannot sustain life.Excitement was his hubris,
his fatal flaw became hers.
While he lived with the loss,
she died with it, whispering “farewell.”

You cannot have her back, dear boy,
she’s as gone as legend,
and you need to change your tune.