Nuru Trio

Yes, we looked into some nuru gel
to give him private sessions of our own.
Merci monsieur et mademoiselle.

A friend sandwich, pleasure to the bone—
hands up thighs, breasts down backs,
no skin on slippery skin we’d not condone

to match our bodies’ heat to his climax,
and his to each of ours as well. So very well.
What better way for three friends to relax.

in response to maggie’s
Afterthought 1105—Nuru Binge


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Naptime Lullaby

Cuddle-bunny, baby nap,
close your wee blue eyes.
Lie down cozy in my lap
and touch the starry skies.

Cuddle-bunny, baby nap,
rest your wee sweet head.
Lie down cozy in my lap
and make my breast your bed.

Cuddle-bunny, baby nap
to mama’s lullaby.
Lie down cozy in my lap
with moondust in your eye.

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Metaphor is the soul of poetry.

Poetry need not have form. But without metaphor, poetry is incoherent babble.

Poetry need not have rhyme. But without metaphor, poetry is dead on its feet.

The great Hebrew leader David spoke of his Lord in metaphor as shepherd and fortress, obviously never having his grip on reality questioned for recognizing forces that were true to life.

One of the greatest civilizations the world has known was built by the Greeks on metaphors of the gods that revealed the basic elements of reality, obviously never actually having held the Golden Fleece itself.

From the earliest eisteddfod, bardoi sang to the moon in metaphor, obviously never envisioning collision with the earth in recognizing the connections that served their harvests.

Just as mathematics is the language of all of science, so is metaphor the language of all art.

The singer who sings without metaphor becomes as a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.

The dancer who dances without metaphor is nothing.

The painter who paints without metaphor gains nothing, blesses no one.

Metaphor is love. And love is metaphor.

Metaphor reveals truth.

The face without metaphor hides its own lie.

Any who is ignorant of metaphor is less relevant than a rock, which with the wind and the sun and all of life constantly exchanges the metaphors that give meaning and place to things.

Any who is arrogant of an ignorance of metaphor is emptier than the void of space, which in the light that connects the stars and the gravity that decides the fates of worlds is spun on metaphors that both decide and violate the laws of nature.

And what fool would be proud of living in denial of metaphor?

For good cause were David, the Greeks, the bardoi and so many others so crucial to humanity so deeply immersed in poetic metaphor.

Without metaphor, there is no fire. No wind. No water nor earth.

Without metaphor, there is no meaning.


[margin notes]

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Thanks Giving

—For you

        Thanks for what I know will come
        from the loving touch of your kind hand
        to turn the worst I came here from
        so as to kiss the best you’ve planned,
                thank you, thank you, thank you.

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Moon Mastered

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀An orange waning moon snaps a bitter bite
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀out of her eastern climb through her own broken
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀skies. She can’t believe in a love she can’t master.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She lies in her master’s lap. He makes the moon
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀see what he wants her to believe, bite by bite
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀of poisoned fruit broken off the shadows’ climb.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀So steep, so sheer a climb is night to master!
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀In a lake of tears, broken and dark, the moon
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ripples on each bite of wind, too hurt to believe.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀”Why bother to believe? Your day’s done. Climb
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀into bed, I won’t bite,” tugs the leash her master
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀has over her mirrored moon, dirty and broken,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀then having herself broken any vow she’d believe
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀worth keeping, the moon quits her cursed climb,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as easy for her to master as an anorexic bite.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A sip of blood, a bite of innocent skin, a broken
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀word, a lie given her master, a dream to disbelieve
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— her night must climb into the fall of her moon.

written for Get Listed ~ Of Catnip & Moons
at the imaginary garden with real toads

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This Joke’s On Me

⠀⠀⠀⠀Does this face look like I’m laughing? I’m not
⠀⠀⠀⠀in amused enough a mood to get off making fun
⠀⠀⠀⠀of my friends behind their backs. Snide smirks
⠀⠀⠀⠀backfire. Ridicule ricochets. A cheap potshot
⠀⠀⠀⠀boomerangs with a vengeance back on the one
⠀⠀⠀⠀teasing. Jokes on friends aren’t what works.
⠀⠀⠀⠀What in my reaction has you so perplexed?
⠀⠀⠀⠀What, me give up applause to any ribald pun
⠀⠀⠀⠀merely because I’ve treated them like jerks?
⠀⠀⠀⠀Seriously, your punchlines tell me who’s next…
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Knock knock, hun.

prompted by Daily Prompt: Too Soon? at the Daily Post

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The Algebra of Truth

Say that two plus two equals three
because you can’t remember the answer you were taught,
and all you are is wrong.
You are no liar. But you are still wrong. Not different. Wrong.

Say that two plus two equals three
because that’s what you were taught to believe,
and you should find yourself a new teacher.
You’re still no liar. But belief doesn’t make you any less wrong.

Say that two plus two equals three
as the basis for your art,
and you might have a good future as a fiction writer.
You’re still no liar. But you should learn to distinguish.

Say that two plus two equals three
because that’s the punch line of some riddle or joke,
and you’re not all that funny.
You are no liar. But you are really not all that funny.

Say that two plus two equals three
when you’re the accountant for a company with losses of 2+2=5,
and you’re not just doing your job.
You’re a liar. Because you know the truth.

Say that two plus two equals three
when you’re the engineer building a bridge people will use,
and you’re putting lives at risk.
You’re an irresponsible liar. And you should lose the lawsuit.

Say that two plus two equals three
when you’re the nurse with the needle dispensing lethal drugs,
and you’re choosing to do ill.
You’re a malicious liar. No good will come of your lies.

Say that two plus two equals zero
about someone who has always treated you like more than infinity,
and you will never be able to take it back.
You’re a pathological liar. Even the goddess turns her back.

And then there’s you,
who finds others you can mislead with your version of two plus two
and you know what you’re up to.
You’re worse than any liar. You’re your own lie.

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She who will not keep her own word
nor stand behind it nor accept responsibility for it
rather uses a word as she would any lap dance move
can hardly be expected to recognize others
true to theirs.

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Clarior e Tenebris

I had a father once. Wasn’t all that bad, as fathers go. I’ve had worse. Over there, in that other corner. Where it wants me most.

So back to my father. He was all into family, heritage, and shit. And in painting his family coat of arms over everything he owned.

Which I’ve been. Owned. Not only by him, but he got it running. Ran far enough with it to pass it on, make a profit on the deal.

My ex, he found it all so amusing, my monogram and all the rest. Did he ever take one single thing of me seriously? Ever once?

Always had my answer ready for me without listening in for the question. And always the same one, too, like some damn missionary.

The one friend I had before I went and got myself abandoned, though. She thought it fit what little poetry I had. Obscurity. Light.

It doesn’t work for me outside. She would nod. It only blends in white on white out there. She kissed softly. It doesn’t work. Out.

Unless I am alone. Where I belong. Where it’s dark. Where nobody comes. No windows to tell me the time of day. No doors in or out.

Jesus? I think I know which one. There are so many of them. Mine sat beside me in high school algebra. I copied off his test often.

We all thought he was bright too. Brightest bulb in the class. Didn’t need our dark-witted heads to tell that. He came prepared.

Turns out it was mostly tricks. He knew the shortcuts. That’s all that made him look like a god to all us lower forms of intelligence.

But hell, any light when it’s dark, right? Except I heard he’s taken. Got himself married and kids and pets. All the good ones. Taken.

Next thing you know they’ll be sending him up to stand in for us. To save us all from evil. To Washington, I mean. That’s how it’s done.

These bright types, we think if we get them to represent us, we won’t look as bad as we know we do. We all go along with the con.

So back to my father. He did that. Represented us, I mean. Saved us. Promised us the world and everything coming after that too.

Except I don’t think Jesus voted for him. He was of the other political persuasion. The ones who think they have the inside track.

My ex, he thought I still had a crush on Jesus. It’s true, there was a time I would have married him first. Kids. Pets. And house.

It wouldn’t have worked out for me. The Jesus trip, I mean. That’s how every god ever created has had it turn out. So as not to work.

Yes, I know. My father told me. My ex beat it into me. My one real friend warned me before she left. Even Jesus had a thing to say.

I only want to know one thing. If that light’s so damned crucial without the dark it’s in, then what’s the dark doing here anyway?

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I’m up. Spark of a smoke. Red wine.
To your whispering voices I’ll add mine.

Let our stars’ stories be rewound
in common circles witness tightly bound.

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For I Will Consider Maggie

For I will consider Maggie.

For this week’s poetry prompt given me by Poets&Writers urges me to do so.
For Maggie is responsible for my addiction to poetry prompts.
For she recognized prompts to be no more artificial than any other impulse to a poem.
For she would do this prompt far more justice than I.
For she will always serve as my most constant poetry prompt.
For she is rightfully to be considered.

For she is not considered often.
For she is not read well.
For she is not heard out loud.
For she is ignored.
For she is shrugged off.
For she is quit.
For she is abused.
For she is lied about.
For she is unknown.
For she is left.
For she is threatened.
For she is hated.
For she is targeted.
For she is unwanted.

For she gave me Denise.
For she saw through my hurt and my rage.
For she took the time from her own.
For she went to Boston without me asking.
For she broke through.
For she is owed our lives and our love.
For she has the eyes of the goddess.

For she is the dance in her daughter’s joy.
For she is the art in her son’s craft.

For I will consider her in my most vivid dreaming.
For I will hear her voice speaking poetry of every word.
For I will find her in every crowd and sense her in every solitude.
For I will remember her with every thought.
For I will feel her touch, her embrace, her kiss.

For she is beautiful.
For she has the gaze of a whispering fog near the morning sun breaking over the mountain’s edge.
For she has the smile of a laughing brook that can’t be kept from leaping out free.
For she has the hair of a wild wind wrapping imaginations up into storms of light.
For her thigh is eager and her wrist is ready.
For her back is hard and her breast is soft.
For her kiss surrenders with no formula.
For her body loves with no rules.

For in her scars she takes no pride nor hides no shame.
For in her marks are map to her mission.
For in her cuts she hears the voice of her poetry.
For in her bruises are manna to her calling.

For I will consider her word like sweet herbs in my throat.
For I will consider her verb like fresh spice stinging my tongue.
For I will consider her inflection like scents of spring rain to my nose.
For I will consider her form like dance of the planets among their stars.
For I will consider her imagery like staring at the sun without blinking.
For I will consider her metaphor like making love in the secret bed of moonlight.
For I will consider her voice to be the echo of the goddess she serves.

For I cannot here or anywhere consider her enough.
For I cannot now or anytime consider her too much.
(For I cannot keep myself from revising and extending even this scrap.)
For I cannot stop considering her.

For I will consider Maggie
                    a true friend.


for maggie
as prompted by Poets&Writers


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I came out this way,
this in need of warning,
for want of misgiving
bent over its learning
left off the page.

Hear that sound?
That godawful rattle
like winter still grinning
in the empty bottle
followed down.

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