I Scream, You Scream

source

The temperature’s rising

You’re getting so hot

Relief from this fever

Would sure hit the spot

Something delicious

and sinfully sweet

that seduces the senses

and cools down that heat

Maybe a taste
Too much is a sin
But once you have started 
you have to give in

Sometimes it’s messy

and gets in your hair

but when it's the good stuff

you really don’t care

If you're not careful
it drips down your chin
a dreamy rich cream
that makes your mouth grin

Some like it dark

and some like it light

And a mix of the two

For some is just right

Single, double, or triple

(more might be chancy!)

There’ll always be something

To tickle your fancy

Some like it plain

Simple and neat

Some prefer extras

To make it complete

A squirt of whipped cream

or maybe a drop

of chocolate syrup

with cherry on top

Using your tongue

Can be lots of fun

A lick here, a lick there

and, wow, it’s all done!

When your body’s on fire

From toes up to lips

Go grab a cool sweet

Do you catch the drips?

Submitted for Theme Thursday, Ice Cream

Warning: Video not for those easily offended by suggestive male dancing and/or backsides!

Cazwell - Ice Cream Truck by INgrooves

Thought For the Day, Week, Month...

“Grow that dream you had at five years old

the first time a pencil callused your kindergarten fingers

You ran all the way home screaming

“Look Mom! I’m a writer! My hand is changing shape to

prove that I’m a writer”.

Grow that,

in every crack of pavement

the soles of your feet can find.

— “Alaska Says Sun” —Andrea Gibson

In the Sunset

Edward Hopper House at Dusk 1935

In the sunset

where the day hides its most vulnerable moments

I think of you

In the most tender hour

between light and dark

I still feel the ache

of a lost friendship.

submitted for The Mag 119

God In the Synapses

photography by Daryl Edelstein of mosaic by Isaiah Zagar

On my knees

I pray to the gods of pain

Offerings, sacrifices upon the altar

What I won't give up if they will spare me

just for this day

this trip

this event

Do they even hear my pleas?

Are they laughing?

Searching for God in the synapses

between neurons

I realize it's already too late

That familiar haze has descended

a gauze curtain over my brain

I am here yet

Not

My ghost is living my life again

Panic

I must abort abort ABORT

before...

Scents of patchouli and blueberry drift

into my consciousness

I retreat into the dark

I am a bat

I need to sleep, sleep, sleep

but the gods deny even that

They play with me like

a cat does a mouse

Infliction of pain is more satisfying

than the kill

The eye twists in its socket

while a vise tightens around the temples

A garage band has parked its amplifiers 

inside my skull

Bass and drum pounding, pounding nonstop

Head shatters

Dozens of jagged fragments

each holding its own misery

The bed has become a tilt-o-whirl

no way off

The gods won't be bribed

to stop this ride

I make one final appeal

for unconsciousness.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Fireblossom Fridays, Stress

and Sunday Challenge, Featuring Daryl Edelstein, Part 2

If You Give a Mouse a Rorschach

Dewey

The professor’s name sounds pleasant

Early spring mornings

Birds chirping

What makes it look like a bird?

Or a bat

Or a butterfly

Wings

McCartney’s band after the Beatles

Looks like a beetle too, a little

Are my associations getting loose?

I wonder how many things I should find

“We’ll search forever more…”

This class is sorta stressing me out

I found that monster in my dresser drawer

I hate Number IV

Do you think I’m decompensating?

“Stuck inside these four walls

Sent inside forever…”

This is just for practice, right?

Submitted for dVerse Poets Pub, dVerse Poetics, Stream ofConsciousness Writing

More Arting

A not so accurate painting of some flowers growing in my front yard. I was feeling in a sunny mood!

Receiving Communion

Sometimes you don't notice a thing

until you feel the lack

I never felt like a Jew

until I was the only one around

in a small South Carolina town

My speech became a foreign tongue

my holidays unacknowledged

my religion suspect

my food nowhere

Shared memories

shared recipes

shared experiences

vanished like the 'g's on the ends of words

On a visit home they returned

as I opened the front door

Enveloped in thick, fragrant air

a big shiny pot atop the stove

slowly simmering golden heaven

Parting lips anticipated warm luscious liquid kisses

a soupçon of salt

to keep it interesting

and more...

fluffy white clouds succumbed to my spoon

little round angels in heaven's tub

I swallowed the whole show

This was my communion

source

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Ella's Edge, Food Porn

Far From This Tree

source

1977

Parkland Junior High

You were older and tougher

and to this day I don't have a clue why

you targeted me

You said it was because I had threatened

your friend's little sister

which was untrue and ridiculous

Maybe you believed it

or believed it enough

to justify

The taunts I could deal with

but the threats brought me low

with shame and fear

Usually vague

"I'm gonna get you"

but sometimes mind racingly specific

"I'm gonna tear your earrings outta your earlobes"

Of course, I stopped wearing earrings

Changed my route from school

Even faked illness to stay home 

and away from you

Friends were no help

They were scared too

even the boys

No adults knew

I hated you but

I hated myself more

for being afraid of you

for retreating

for writing poems

instead of standing up to you

Fast forward 20-odd years

another middle school

Bus ride

The cool clique of girls throwing paper

in my daughter's hair

Although I've taught her to use her words

she turns around

punches one of them

hard

 I smile with pride.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Bully

Playground Games

The Circus With the Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall

Come over here 

and join the fun

We'll make you dance 

We'll make you run

Don't be scared 

I'm just a clown

We'll play a game

I'll hold you down

Let's all pick teams

Which do you choose?

Now don't complain

about that bruise

And don't go home

and tell your mother

unless you want

to get another

Do you think

that it's not fair

because we like

to pull your hair?

Don't start to cry

We're all just friends

We'll meet up when

the school day ends

There is no use

to make a fuss

They're playground games

Come play with us!

submitted for Thursday Think Tank, #97, Playground, at Poets United

and The Mag, 118

Untitled (A Naani Poem)

Jack Moebes/Corbis

Joseph McNeil (from left), Franklin McCain, Billy Smith and Clarence Henderson sit in protest at the whites-only lunch counter at Woolworth during the second day of peaceful protest, Feb. 2, 1960.

Woolworth lunch counter 1960

School lunch room 2012

Black and White separate

What progress?

submitted for One Single Impression, 221, Black and White

and Poetic Bloomings, In-Form Poet, Naani Poetry

Red

Red

he said

Not quite, dear

Crimson, she said

with maybe a small touch of cardinal

or perhaps a bright shade of vermillion

Carmine? Scarlet?

Any thoughts?

He said

red.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Mini Challenge, Tetractys

and One Single Impression, #220, Crimson (alas, too late)

The Forest Edge

source

I wanted to walk in the forest with you

I took your hand

We stepped to the edge where vines grew thick

and flowers smelled sweet and dangerous

like the perfume we purloined 

from your mother's dresser

As our lips touched

I swear I heard the dryads sing

and I ached to follow but

you turned away

laughing

How many times

have I returned to that day?

How many times 

have I tried to find that mossy forest entrance?

But the path is closed

In its place, a tangle of dried brambles 

and withered blooms

scentless

like a dusty bottle of evaporated perfume.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Where Is Your Forest?

Sometimes Words Are Just Words

I get it, Buk

Life and art, art and life

but sometimes

An old man ogling a young girl in a mini skirt

is just an old man ogling a young girl in a mini skirt

And frankly, Hank

Your cock is not that interesting

to be featured in so many poems

So while you may think yourself beyond hip

when you sing the praises of the

Middle Class White Male

If you ever called me a whore

I’d slap the cool right off your face

and make you feel the sting 
of what’s really real

Rest in peace, man.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Kenia's Wed. Challenge 

Inspired by the style and content of Charles Bukowski's poetry, which I attempted to appreciate again for this challenge and still don't find very likable. Here is a link to read some yourself.

Olivia Wilde's Jawline

Olivia Wilde's jawline, she said, is perfect

I was deep in my brooding

and resented the interruption

Just look at it, she said

So I did

As usual, she was right

That jawline was flawless-

square but not too square

the ideal angle

for a line of stars

in my favorite constellation

or a tiny row of butterfly kisses

It was as if the goddess herself

had sculpted that jawline

from her own stash of divine clay

right after making conch shells

and right before creating orchids

So I forgot why I had been brooding

because, once again, she had reminded me

of the sublime.

What If?

"The best thing a parent can do for a child is love them and take them for who they are." Maurice Sendak

(Mr. Sendak lived with his partner for 50 years but was never able to tell his own parents that he was gay.)
 

What if I can't fall asleep

from the monster under my bed?

What if I miss dinner?

Will I starve until I'm dead?

What if I ran away from home?

Would you look for me?

What if I said I hated you?

Would you hate me back times 3?

What if sometimes I don't want

to have a baby brother?

What if I still suck my thumb

or wet my new bed cover?

What if I'm still scared of thunder

or afraid of the dark?

What if you love my sister more

and leave me at the park?

What if I do bad at school

and I'm really not that smart?

What if I think about you dying

or imagine us apart?

What if I make a bad mistake

and can't ever make it right?

What if I'm not good at sports?

do you think you might
Love me if I say I'm gay
still love me If I dared?
'cause I don't want to lose you
and I'm really, really scared.

submitted for dVerse Poetics, Sendak & the Wild Things, at dVerse Poets Pub

God's Gifts

Gail Potocki. Encouragement for the Heart Growing Fonder.

Ain't no sin to use 

what God gave you

That was her belief

And the good Lord blessed her double

The only thing more perfect than

her body was

her brain

She worked them both

hard

and kept them finely tuned

She was a woman

who could be as sexy as

she wanted

and as lethal as

she needed

a kitten or

a cougar

whichever suited her best

No shame in a little

tease and tickle

if that's what it took 

to get her way

and if not, well then, she didn't mind

a little blood 

under her bright red nails

It was her belief

that if the meek 

were to inherit the Earth

they wouldn't get anything from her

without one hell of a fight.

Up In Smoke

tobacco barn in Calvert County, MD (source)

My daddy was a farmer

in the Old Line state

We never had much coming up

but food was on our plates

When he died, I got the land

I work it to this day

but my son, he has to leave

'cause farming just don't pay

I swear to the Lord above

I'm a peaceful man

but when they curse my family name

I've got to take a stand

It ain't my fault

if what I farm

has brought your family grief

It's part of Southern heritage

I grow tobacco leaf

Now I make an honest living

and I think it's pretty sad

The schools are teachin' children

that what I do is bad

They're tearing down tobacco barns

My family's goin' broke

My way of life is goin' to Hell

Tradition up in smoke.

traditional Southern MD tobacco barn (source)

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Dirt Farmer (Marian's Music Prompt-Tribute to Levon Helm)