Instead of doing NaNoWriMo properly, Kirstin and I have been doing poetry exercises. I am working on novels, as well, but I'm not forcing myself to write a set amount by the end of the month or anything, and anyway I really want to work on my poetry. I won't be faithful about posting everyday or anything, but I will try to post some of the random bits of word fluff on here from time to time. Anything I regard as worthy of further development I'm going to hold back, but I'll let the internet have the random busy work I'm not sure I want to keep.
11/2/11
She was a rogue planet
wandering far from the nebulae
of sin and guilt that birthed her
wrapped in her own mantle
shadow and tinsel, alive
warmth in the sea of cold.
Her heavenly body inspired us
her gams oh-la-la'ed in nets
her scarlet woman lips arched up
daring damnation
welcoming adoration
she made it all a joy
a gift of natural beauty
that shone against the contrast
of its dark backdrop.
11/5/11
She doles out each penny and calls its number
math is a new language she greedily pours
out onto my desktop, trying to speak
between myself and the keys.
The clinking march and rote to interrupt
my writing, to wrest my attentions
she must think I give all my love
to this glaring screen and lecherous hum.
Each time I sit down it's the same battle
and sometimes I am the child when I scream
pounding the desk with petulant fists
she looks on, dark eyes solemn
and pats me gently on the back.
11/2/11
She was a rogue planet
wandering far from the nebulae
of sin and guilt that birthed her
wrapped in her own mantle
shadow and tinsel, alive
warmth in the sea of cold.
Her heavenly body inspired us
her gams oh-la-la'ed in nets
her scarlet woman lips arched up
daring damnation
welcoming adoration
she made it all a joy
a gift of natural beauty
that shone against the contrast
of its dark backdrop.
11/5/11
She doles out each penny and calls its number
math is a new language she greedily pours
out onto my desktop, trying to speak
between myself and the keys.
The clinking march and rote to interrupt
my writing, to wrest my attentions
she must think I give all my love
to this glaring screen and lecherous hum.
Each time I sit down it's the same battle
and sometimes I am the child when I scream
pounding the desk with petulant fists
she looks on, dark eyes solemn
and pats me gently on the back.
11/7/11
We spend so much
of our lives on stoops
smoking as we choose
which words go where
while the clouds roll in
with the bass beats
the pumpkins degrading
slowly into the flowerbeds.
You strike lines through stanzas
because my narrative runs
to prosaic mutterings
you tell me you want
to embrace poetry
digging into its flesh
to plant your spring irises.
