Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 10
Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.

Topic : Write a poem inspired by a guilty pleasure. 
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

Youve seen my face on my business account
Possibly my candid personal page
Moving from one stage to another cage
The limited informational fount
I give you.  But no matter what amount
of my identity I lose with age
I'll always find an outlet for my rage
3 anonymous avatars to count
Political pages on Instagram
The artificial groups plaguing Facebook 
Lurking in the dark alleys of reddit
I love to troll these fools until they scram
Call them ugly names and insult their look
They'll never know im the one who said it

Before the Dog

I imagine him sipping
two fingers of bourbon
finishing a sudoku.
Pencil sharpened,
each number centered
precisely within its box.

He wrote 3 and finished
his drink,
considers the pencil’s point.

A shadow covers the puzzle.
He’s sitting at their table,
a pretext in a room
of empty tables.

And then they all converge.
No witnesses.

"I Watched the Monkeys at the Zoo"

The males arrive, their chests held high
They bare their teeth in ritual grin
Displaying strength with a practised cry
Each vying loudest to belong within

The females circle, smooth their hair
And sip fermented fruit and smile
Weighing the prospects gathered there
Feigning boredom all the while

Until at last I flicker the lights
And apes pour out with shriek and boast
New pairings slink into the night
Locked in the gaze they crave the most

The floor is slick with sweet remains
Tomorrow hums the same refrains

---

Mostly Holy Wrote:Aaaah I messed it up! I do not think my volta lands, and I somehow managed to format it completely wrong, in three quatrains instead of two sextets! Ugh. 3/10 for effort, maybe? I am busy today so I may not have time to fix it, so here it is I guess

Singing Solo

She knows her solo well-
the rise, and fall
of each passage.

A lighter touch here,
more forceful there,
her contralto, legato.

Steadily she builds
her crescendo, holding
on sustained vibrato.

Then, the sweet, deep
release- to the sound
of one hand clapping.

(11-10-2025, 11:19 PM)Mark A Becker Wrote:  Singing Solo

She knows her solo well-
the rise, and fall
of each passage.

A lighter touch here,
more forceful there,
her contralto, legato.

Steadily she builds
her crescendo, holding
on sustained vibrato.

Then, the sweet, deep
release- to the sound
of one hand clapping.

That was great, Mark. A true guily pleasure. Good to see you.

Shame


Why does he feel ashamed,
this one who won’t be named,
for reading poetry
and complimentary
evaluations?

They say his work is good
(as he eats his own dog food),
so what makes it guilty pleasure
to re-read, absorb and treasure
his own verses?

—I dash for Em and Any . . . 

Pleasure without guilt
is quilt-made heather.
Love without shame en-
flames sin for the claim.

"I Watched the Monkeys at the Zoo"

The males arrive, their chests held high
They bare their teeth in ritual grin
Displaying strength with a practised cry
As females circle, coy and prim
Weighing the prospects gathered there
Feigning boredom all the while

The young swing wildly, without care
Their elders groom with word and smile
Until at last I flicker the lights
And apes pour out with shriek and boast
New pairings slink into the night
Locked in the gaze they crave the most

The floor is slick with sweet remains
Tomorrow hums the same refrains

(11-10-2025, 09:18 PM)Mostly Holy Wrote:  Okay now at least it is a sonnet, and I do not give away the twist too early, I still think it is terrible tho 

CB 250 RS

It thinks I ignore it, we haven't spoken
since I fitted a new back sprocket
and gold link-less chain.
I know I promised never to ride again
but why have cheese in the fridge
if you can't stand in the half light
being watched by the dog
as you sneak a good slice.

I agree, I need my knees
and the road are full of cars,
pot holes and wet leaves
but the sweet twin port single
bangs a beat like a Jumanji drum
pulling me into its game

At night it calls out my name
so I covered the cage
and there the bird sleeps
until next week
when the wife goes into town shopping

Oxana

Her cheeks were like pigeons humming.
Like hummingbirds, her eyes took space
to heart—like a goddamn mumming.

At first, she wasn't for chumming.
A keen nose scents mischief through grace.
Her cheeks were like pigeons humming.

Woeful humour, callous plumbing,
with gulping timing, kept her pace—
by heart like a goddamn mumming.

Cut spiteful deals, candid slumming;
though, like her stubborn name, saved face.
Her cheeks were like pigeons humming.

Each month, she debuted, becoming
a pixie with heartstrings that lace
your heart with that goddamn mumming.

How she mimed a lasso, summing
each blink into another chase . . .
Her cheeks were like pigeons humming
by heart—like a goddamn mumming.

Movie night

The high heels,
the skirt I deemed too short -
Eyes stuck to you, like glue.

The woolly sweater,
Made for colder weather.
On the hottest day
To take it off,
Wool an - itching flame -
Falls between the couch cushions.

A pullover, I see.
Sweatpants for you -
And me?

On the couch
Watching TV,
I watch you
Enjoying,
You see?

She rests her head,
Right before we go to bed.
Screen, black.
You scratch your head,
Diving under the covers,
Covering me
With love.