Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jan 2013 M Clement
RIKKI
II
 Jan 2013 M Clement
RIKKI
II
My dad cried when he saw the Statue of David in the seventies.

He hung huge cheap prints in his foyer years later. I thought it was weird.

I’d always stare up at David’s penises - these Greek dongs poking me in my eyes.
 Jan 2013 M Clement
RIKKI
Incense
 Jan 2013 M Clement
RIKKI
My nervous stomach always makes it hard to **** during a vacation. This isn’t MY toilet. After two weeks of self-inflicted constipation in my friend’s cousin’s tiny pueblo, I couldn’t hold it anymore.

I took a huuuuuuuuuge dump. To my horror, it was so huge it wouldn’t flush. Oh God no.

I smuggled a grocery bag into the bathroom and put it over my hand as a glove to pinch the link into smaller sections. Flush *******! Even the pieces wouldn’t go down. I pulled them out with the bag and threw it in the trash can outside as fast as I could.

I kept waiting, horrified, for the trash truck to come please don’t discover my **** in there please don’t discover my **** in there until the day the trash can got full.

In these little pueblos, what I didn’t know is that there is no trash truck. They burn their trash. My **** was in there.

They burned my ****.
 Jan 2013 M Clement
Chuck
Our eyes met; it was love at first sight
Our first date, we envisioned our
Future children and our home
Cuddling in a single bed
Love, we just fit
Married soon
Dreams are
True
To my love!
Nonet - Nine syllables to one!
 Jan 2013 M Clement
Sarah Writes
I live at the bottom of a lake
I am a fish
There are gills in my ears
‘Cause there are things my blood needs to hear
I have fins in my mouth and they propel me so far
The only way to stop is to bite down real hard
Sometimes I miss the air, even though I’ve never breathed
I drive around the lake bottom in my little moving machine
I call it a Notcar
I try to find my way to the other side
It’s blue out there or maybe grey

I died at the bottom of a lake today
I ran all out of imaginary air
I fell asleep at the wheel of my Notcar
And drove right into a telephone Notpole
My friends all gathered round my little fish-shaped grave and I learned something
They don’t tell you in books or movies,
That Dead speaks a different language than Alive
So I couldn’t understand a word my fishy friends said
It sounded like this:

I’d always hoped my death would have some meaning
Or that at least my life would
But mostly I just tried to understand things
Like all the different rooms in my brain and why underwater never smelled like rain
I loved a few boy fish, had some very fishy affairs
I loved my friends the most, they were such pretty colors
(Dead sees colors differently than Alive, so now they look like this:                                    )
The day I died was special like every other day which is to say
That it was not Notaverage
And I died in a pretty Notspecial way
And because I can’t hear Alivewords, or see Alivecolors
I’ll never be sure if I left any mark

I live at the bottom of a lake
Most days I think that I’m an alien
On Tuesdays I feel pretty human
The lake I live in died
It left behind little shells in the sand at the playground
And pretty rocks with ripples
It left rings on the mountains but not like rings inside trees
These rings mark a countdown to death, rather than a count out from birth

The lake is a ghost
It sings to me in my sleep, but I don’t speak Dead
At least not yet
And furthermore, I don’t speak lake
I speak a language called Notdeadnotlake
And so do all my friends
Sometimes I wonder why the ocean was so thirsty that it called my lake back home
And I wonder if I’m part of Something Bigger too,
Whether Something Bigger is feeling thirsty
I think I might be part of a big strange creature made out of all the things I sometimes feel like:
Lakesludge and matches and sunshine and fish with sharp little teeth
Notgoods and notbads and spiders and bats
Sadhappys and angryfucks
Starsparkles and earthworms and fairywings and dinosaur bones,
It has really big ears and stubby toes
And all it needs is some alien or Tuesdayhuman to feel complete
Or maybe it’s made of lakeghosts and fishghosts
And wants nothing to do with me
I live in what used to be Glacial Lake Missoula. This poem was inspired by that, a dream I had, and a book I was reading at the time.
 Jan 2013 M Clement
August
Two Sense
 Jan 2013 M Clement
August
Someone left the gate open
I didn't even try to walk through
No one attempts to understand me
That's why I don't like any of you
I'll read my writes & you'll listen
But I know it's only so you can talk
I'll write out things about me,
But they might as well be chalk
clap clap clap
Clap my dusty words out of your erasers
Clear the air so that you can fill it
With your proverbs, your opnions
You really only care about the importance of your bit
And I don't mind
It happens all the time
© Amara Pendergraft 2013
 Jan 2013 M Clement
Chuck
A square, white, four bedroom, one bath country home
With fourteen kids, parents and much family love
We didn’t have abundance:  fiscally poor
But we had each other:  banked on our family
We shared our victories and or trying pain
We were a modest Scottish Catholic Clan

Isolated, we were not to our immediate clan
Our uncle’s lived within a trot, fifteen in his home
We kids worked and played on the farm without pain
It was an adventurous labor of extended family love
We worked, laughed, cried, and played as a family
In the early years, we young ones were anything but poor

However, in grammar school, we learned the meaning of poor
And materialism and envy, outside our cloistered clan
But together we lived and loved as a close nit family
Sure we had disagreements, not material goods, but a solid home
White paint peeled on the outside, yet inside was painted love
Still, there were poverty jokes, ridicule and masked pain

Every family has strife, baggage, and superfluous pain
Our parents didn’t drink; we had faith, yet fiscally poor
Ole Dad plumbed toilets; Mom slaved in the house, both with love
So we wouldn’t trade riches for our impoverished meager clan
Summer berries to pick, winter sledding, spring kites, and forever home
Kickball games, splashing  in ponds, nature hikes and family

We were not taught to show emotions, hug, not an “I love you family,”
Albeit, an honest, polite, and proud Scottish Clan
The old house was eternally warm; it was our forever home
Until 1999. Dad passed from cancer still money poor
Yet rich in the knowledge of family and that his true pain
Was never saying that word; on his deathbed he whispered “Love”

Though our patriarch was laid to rest, we rose with the word “Love”
Eventually, the house was sold, but always one huge family
Mom spends her days in a retirement home remembering her clan
As time passes and memories fades, it lessens the pain
Of the loss of a noble father, economically poor
Yet with a strong work ethic, church, and love, built a home

Fourteen children now forged fourteen homes on love
Many, still, financially poor, but rich in forever family
Correcting mistakes that caused pain, while perpetuating our clan
Thank you soooo much if you read this Sestina. It is a time-consuming form. I was definitely challenged. This is autobiographical yet set even further in the past. I used old references and a simple language to capture that old country feeling, like the Waltons, for those of you old enough to remember that show.
Thanks again for reading this long Sestina. I hope you enjoyed it. It may be my last.
 Jan 2013 M Clement
Timothy Brown
I would just like to say
that if today,
you did not go poo
then,
my friend,
something is wrong with you
© January 20th, 2013 by Timothy R Brown. All rights reserved.
Next page