ARTY ACTION

[mollybloom]

I want to write a poem for you, like you give me a sentence, quote, picture, idea, color, event, memory, etc. and I'll respond with a poem.

I'm hoping this'll give me the creative incentive I need to fuel through this month while I jealously watch everyone else NaNoWriMo.

So! post! Get a poem!

Comments

[salvation122]

Driving ninety miles an hour with the windows rolled down.

[mollybloom]

Astrological horoscopes say Libras
understand and appreciate beauty
more than any other sign, that the
alignment of Venus in the early October
month blessed them with the capability
to experience pleasure through the 5 senses
much better than anyone born at any other
time, which is why it seems appropriate
that a Libra would show a girl that he loves her
by taking the doors off his jeep and driving 90
down a bumpy country road during the Fall.

[freud_chicken]

I was walking across campus today whistling "war pigs" and shivering because it's fucking cold in Wisconsin when I suddenly discovered a good mood.

[gibsonhunter]

[mollybloom]

Sir Henry Cole
sat outside every evening,
on his chipped porch
that his wife once used to sweep
the leaves off every day before dusk,
and watch Jim, the blond flush,
the long furred mutt that’d crash
through every pile of damp leaves
in their barren gray English yard.

She died with little affair,
just nodded off one evening
in her favorite armchair
in the middle of darning one of her
grandchildren’s socks. Sir Henry
loved her, the way he loved
football and English beer,
but he buried her in a simple hill cemetery
with her best rosary and warmest
sweater and wept only when
the leaves came in at his ankles,
and there was no one to sweep them off
anymore.

Jim went later, shriveled and arthritic,
a stock of cold, affectionate bones,
expelling in the winter and Sir Henry
buried him under the snow.

[gibsonhunter]

Very good, thank you.

[mollybloom]

Needs editing, but I'll wait to do that. :)

[jkirk]

These kinds of days are the only time I feel alive.

[mollybloom]

A cloud head this thick yearns for snow. It
wants to be taken, begging to be blanketed,
barebacked, bitter, choked utters.
But we, hunkered between the shielded rows,
wish for the springtime, when the air doesn't
stick fiercely in our lungs and the bushes
sprout berries we can stain our mouthes red with.
We grope for roses, picking them by the bucketful,
ripping our skins on the hidden, jealous thorns.
But if you bleed on the white of the rose,
let the rose stay. Let it rot, unpicked,
virginal; "don't paint the roses red,"
she giggled
before I picked her clean.

[jkirk]

Wow, nice. Thanks.

The first one is always shitty, and then you'll get another one to make up for it.

[mollybloom]

"Times like these are why god created drinking problems.”

But, I disagree, times like these are why god made poor poets,
those hulking sulkily in libraries and coffee shops, searching
for love nowhere but darkened corners, rapist alleyways,
where you imagine the air smells like blood and every sound
could be you, me, a cold bum looking for a bit of warm trash,
or someone else looking for you or me,
but there’s something to be said of these poets,
these dowds staring at the bottom of their glass
every evening. I would say that they are needed,
that they inspire without being inspired. God created
times like these, times where you sit and moan and
claw your hands, to drop you down a peg, to keep you in check,
to keep you faithful and romantic, to make you the one slinking
around coffee shops, looking to be broken again, looking for a muse.