happy new year…

it’s midnight,
the ball dropped,
another year passed

you kiss me
celebrating,
our lips meet

over your shoulder
my eyes focus
on the distant horizon

like the snow outside

the snow layered
on empty tree branches,
against frosted window pane
insulates, isolates, quiets
the sounds trying to echo
across the hillside

a double V of geese
skate across hard, grey skies
late for far away wintering
faintly honking in the distance
while the neighbor’s dog barks,
mouth moving,
but I hear no sounds

cocooned in comforter strata
I am sequestered
far from your production,
watching your lips forming
words I will not hear,
sounds I do not process

 

 

Aside

The REAL way to “love”

Another go at Panda’s challenge. 🙂 I like this one much better LOL… http://ruleofstupid.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/a-journey-through-a-body-poem-and-challenge/comment-page-1/#comment-2920

From head to heart
they say love starts
with starry eyes aglow
but we all know
it happens below
in the space tween
stomach and arse,

But lest we forget
it oft stops at the chest,
warming the cockles within
it’s a love secret
that’s been loosely kept,
Boobs are better pushed UP
than tucked in.

journey to love

And another challenge…nothing like a dare to get the blood boiling and (writing) juices flowing! This one comes from a Panda…and is as follows:

The challenge is to write a poem about a journey through (using?) the human body as metaphor.

You must mention at least the bum or colon, stomach, chest, heart and head – and other bits if you like ;) It can’t just be a description of the bits, but otherwise, make free!

So … here goes…

Love at first sight,
I’ve always been told,
is how it happens:
eyes paving the path
from head to heart.

But your words,
clever phrases,
layers of meaning
stop the breath
in my chest – aching
at their beauty,
stomach
twisting with desire.

Just a book
sans cover, blinded eyes
leading heart-
missives forging
tentative promises,
our journey begins.

THIS WAS HARD … bad Panda. And I agree – I don’t like it. And … I used but instead of arse or colon. 🙂

 

taste of salt on your lips

Here goes the next round – have fun all! The challenge is posted here ramblingsfromamum so take a peek! Words are river, salt, and book.

patchwork quilt beneath
stretched out across the grass
just beyond mud
along the banks of an almost river

spine bent
the book lay forgotten
as your lips traveled
up mine

then tasting
the salty nape of my neck
beneath the ringlets
heat left there

acorn – haiku/fun-ru

🙂 A very clever prompt for a haiku … http://unfetteredbs.com/2012/12/29/re-new-haiku/#comment-6922 and more fun here http://stephenkellogg.wordpress.com/2012/12/29/acorn-haiku/

UGH Had to tanka it. 🙂 Does it count? It’s still an attempt!

precariously
I stretch – toes on the last rung
just beyond my reach
the acorn, a fat Buddha
serenely watching me sweat

 

 

 

Cherry pie – Challenge prompt – From Johnny Crabcakes :)

So our little joke has become a pass along challenge prompt – entitled “Three nuts and a squirrel”. Johnny has provided the next one – here – http://aprayerlikegravity.wordpress.com/2012/12/22/she-made-me-do-it-poem-promptchallenge/ – with the words truck, safe (the object), and crust. Theme: Romantic or sensuous. 🙂 Have fun and link all efforts to his post above!!

Here is my attempt:

Cherry pie

Grandma held no truck
with that romantic nonsense,
she said. All that flowery
lovey-dovey bologna
didn’t make the world go round.
Hard work, a hot meal
every night, and a way with a pie crust
would cement things together
for the 50 year Anniversary
Spot of Honor in the Sunday
section of the paper.

But I remember hiding
under the table cloth
one sweltering Saturday summer night
when Grandpa came in late
scented sweat and cut hay;
Grandma, her hands wrist deep in pie crust,
and nape sprinkled with ringlets,
tendrils escaped from the bun
holding back her waist-length hair.

I should tell you, his hands left grease marks
against the blue gingham of her waist,
and her sigh echoed in the stillness of the kitchen,
competing only with the hum of the Whirlpool
and their shuffling feet.

Her head tipped back
onto his shoulder,
his lips tasting her ear, neck,
as her hands hung flour coated,
suspended motionless, in mid-air.

They slowly moved in a circle,
his hand navigating
between the little pearl
buttons, the tie at her waist,
to cup her breast over layers
of strictly starched white cotton
before sliding away
to clean up at the sink.

I still remember now
the shine of the tin on the pie safe as
Grandpa savored every bite
of his dessert at Sunday dinner, and
how Grandma’s cheeks flushed
as he proclaimed
that he asked for her hand
in marriage, because of
her light hand with the crust.

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