<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - All Forums]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Tue, 10 Nov 2026 15:46:52 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[LPiA-26 Nov. 10]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27752.html Tue, 10 Nov 2026 01:07:33 +0000 Tiger the Lion]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27752.html 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?]]> 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?]]> <![CDATA[The Rig Veda]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27751.html Mon, 09 Nov 2026 20:59:02 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27751.html The Rig Veda (Edit 1.0 - Datsun)

Quarks are permanent,
or whatever the standard model says
these days, our picture of the firmament 
dividing waters. Though stars must die,
they live ten billion years, five billion
the age of the earth, two million 
humankind unto today,
reoccurring in flesh or silicon,
recycled rock or gold, from the burst sutures
of supernovae. Only entropy
does not reset, a one way street to the past, 
and so you don’t remember the future
unto the last day’s dimming of the vast
infinite void. Is it that, or perpetual 
rebirth -  who knows it well
or at all? Even the gods were wrought 
in the fire of the last world's end,
and cannot know 
or tell.

Original:
Quarks are permanent,
or whatever the standard model says
these days, our picture of the firmament 
dividing waters. Though stars must die,
they live ten billion years, five billion
the age of the earth, two million 
humankind unto today,
reoccurring in flesh or silicon,
recycled rock or gold, from the burst sutures
of supernovae. Only entropy
does not reset, a one way street to the past, 
and so you don’t remember the future
unto the last day’s dimming of the vast
infinite void. Is it that, or perpetual 
rebirth -  who can tell? 
The gods who were wrought 
when the last world fell,
they know too well, 
or perhaps they do not.
]]> The Rig Veda (Edit 1.0 - Datsun)

Quarks are permanent,
or whatever the standard model says
these days, our picture of the firmament 
dividing waters. Though stars must die,
they live ten billion years, five billion
the age of the earth, two million 
humankind unto today,
reoccurring in flesh or silicon,
recycled rock or gold, from the burst sutures
of supernovae. Only entropy
does not reset, a one way street to the past, 
and so you don’t remember the future
unto the last day’s dimming of the vast
infinite void. Is it that, or perpetual 
rebirth -  who knows it well
or at all? Even the gods were wrought 
in the fire of the last world's end,
and cannot know 
or tell.

Original:
Quarks are permanent,
or whatever the standard model says
these days, our picture of the firmament 
dividing waters. Though stars must die,
they live ten billion years, five billion
the age of the earth, two million 
humankind unto today,
reoccurring in flesh or silicon,
recycled rock or gold, from the burst sutures
of supernovae. Only entropy
does not reset, a one way street to the past, 
and so you don’t remember the future
unto the last day’s dimming of the vast
infinite void. Is it that, or perpetual 
rebirth -  who can tell? 
The gods who were wrought 
when the last world fell,
they know too well, 
or perhaps they do not.
]]> <![CDATA[The Weekend Dreams of Salamander Cal]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27750.html Mon, 09 Nov 2026 17:40:56 +0000 Naish]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27750.html legs slick with tangerine and coconut.

He wants her to make eggs when it rains—sunny-side up, 
splashed with Tabasco.

Saturdays, she's barefoot by the woodshed,
watermelon sweating on a tray, 
while he splits maple.


Sundays after church, she's on the porch, 
Bloody Mary in her hand, 
cigar smoke on her lips.

But weeknights 
he tends his salamanders. 
For Caterina, two ounces of ham.
Lorraine, the maraschino.

Then four fingers under
 
his waistband,

he dozes on the sofa
until the next day wakes him.]]> legs slick with tangerine and coconut.

He wants her to make eggs when it rains—sunny-side up, 
splashed with Tabasco.

Saturdays, she's barefoot by the woodshed,
watermelon sweating on a tray, 
while he splits maple.


Sundays after church, she's on the porch, 
Bloody Mary in her hand, 
cigar smoke on her lips.

But weeknights 
he tends his salamanders. 
For Caterina, two ounces of ham.
Lorraine, the maraschino.

Then four fingers under
 
his waistband,

he dozes on the sofa
until the next day wakes him.]]> <![CDATA[Texas in July]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27749.html Mon, 09 Nov 2026 11:08:17 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27749.html Texas in July

By midnight I was tired of pretending 
this was real. There’s nothing more pathetic than a man 
faking an orgasm, and Javier was somewhere else 
when lightning touched his guts. The sex was good enough
but something buried deep in that apartment 
smelled like someone rich had died
while working on his tan, a sheen of oil
on all the molecules, like Texas in July.

It crossed my mind that I would kill
to have the last two hours back, before he looked at me
like I was something he could drink. “You'll die
if we do that again--" A line cut out between his legs
full of sin and Red Bull, grinning 
like he just grew wings. I’m not young anymore
we both knew it was true, but when an angel tries so hard 
to fall in love, sometimes you have to lie.]]> Texas in July

By midnight I was tired of pretending 
this was real. There’s nothing more pathetic than a man 
faking an orgasm, and Javier was somewhere else 
when lightning touched his guts. The sex was good enough
but something buried deep in that apartment 
smelled like someone rich had died
while working on his tan, a sheen of oil
on all the molecules, like Texas in July.

It crossed my mind that I would kill
to have the last two hours back, before he looked at me
like I was something he could drink. “You'll die
if we do that again--" A line cut out between his legs
full of sin and Red Bull, grinning 
like he just grew wings. I’m not young anymore
we both knew it was true, but when an angel tries so hard 
to fall in love, sometimes you have to lie.]]> <![CDATA[LPiA-26 Nov. 9]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27747.html Mon, 09 Nov 2026 00:13:37 +0000 Tiger the Lion]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27747.html Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 9

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 Musical Instrument.
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 9

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 Musical Instrument.
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> <![CDATA[Aubade (v2)]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27748.html Sun, 08 Nov 2026 22:27:26 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27748.html Aubade

Therapy's the worst. The talking does no good:
no one understands anyone they haven't slept with
yet. A plant in every office, so when you think back
on how you've always shit on those who loved you,
there's a metaphor for hope. Then the flaccid questions,
like you're some retarded child: What feels like spring
to you right now? What do you really want? I want to go
back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be so hard
he walks home sideways like a crab, I want a second
heart. When he turned forty, Dad finally made my mom
the happiest woman alive and started seeing Doctor
Schlumpberger. They'd read the books together,
do the work, my stubborn father dog-earing the pages
he would never cry over again. We all knew it was bullshit:
there's no real cure for life. One December night
out in the Castro Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay
and being much too young and beautiful, the wrong guy
took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke up
missing certain parts, a knuckle blue and sunken in,
a crowbar in my gut. My breathing slow and even somewhere
far away from me. How quick the sun came up behind me,
how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—I don't know,
I guess this morning someone looked at this thing and decided
it was trash?

Previous draft 
Aubade

Therapy's the worst. Everyone I know already understands themselves
better than anyone who hasn't spent a night inside their body. Their offices
all have the same anemic plant shoved in a corner, so when you think back
on all the ways you've shit on everyone who loved you, you see something
green and living in the room, which helps with ideation. They ask these flaccid
questions, like you're some retarded child: Let's explore your feelings, what is it
you really want? I want to go back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be
so hard he walks home sideways like a crab, Doc—how bout you? When he
turned forty, Dad finally made my mom the happiest woman alive and started
seeing Dr. Schlumpberger. They'd meditate together over every child, my father
summoning his ancestors to give him strength and better vision. We all knew
it was bullshit: there's no real cure for life. One December night out in the Castro
Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay and being much too young and
beautiful, the wrong guy took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke
behind a dumpster with my hands still zip-tied to my feet, a crowbar in my gut.
My breathing slow and even somewhere far away from me. How quick the sun
came up behind me, how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—Hey Doc, this morning
someone took one look at this thing and decided it was trash? 
]]> Aubade

Therapy's the worst. The talking does no good:
no one understands anyone they haven't slept with
yet. A plant in every office, so when you think back
on how you've always shit on those who loved you,
there's a metaphor for hope. Then the flaccid questions,
like you're some retarded child: What feels like spring
to you right now? What do you really want? I want to go
back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be so hard
he walks home sideways like a crab, I want a second
heart. When he turned forty, Dad finally made my mom
the happiest woman alive and started seeing Doctor
Schlumpberger. They'd read the books together,
do the work, my stubborn father dog-earing the pages
he would never cry over again. We all knew it was bullshit:
there's no real cure for life. One December night
out in the Castro Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay
and being much too young and beautiful, the wrong guy
took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke up
missing certain parts, a knuckle blue and sunken in,
a crowbar in my gut. My breathing slow and even somewhere
far away from me. How quick the sun came up behind me,
how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—I don't know,
I guess this morning someone looked at this thing and decided
it was trash?

Previous draft 
Aubade

Therapy's the worst. Everyone I know already understands themselves
better than anyone who hasn't spent a night inside their body. Their offices
all have the same anemic plant shoved in a corner, so when you think back
on all the ways you've shit on everyone who loved you, you see something
green and living in the room, which helps with ideation. They ask these flaccid
questions, like you're some retarded child: Let's explore your feelings, what is it
you really want? I want to go back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be
so hard he walks home sideways like a crab, Doc—how bout you? When he
turned forty, Dad finally made my mom the happiest woman alive and started
seeing Dr. Schlumpberger. They'd meditate together over every child, my father
summoning his ancestors to give him strength and better vision. We all knew
it was bullshit: there's no real cure for life. One December night out in the Castro
Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay and being much too young and
beautiful, the wrong guy took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke
behind a dumpster with my hands still zip-tied to my feet, a crowbar in my gut.
My breathing slow and even somewhere far away from me. How quick the sun
came up behind me, how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—Hey Doc, this morning
someone took one look at this thing and decided it was trash? 
]]> <![CDATA[Bubble Bush]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27745.html Sun, 08 Nov 2026 16:55:16 +0000 robdaley]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27745.html with the landmines.
Picking a leaf stalk, she teases it open --
a sheen of sap swells.
With brimming brown eyes, she blows
a bubble, big as a bomb.
As forces push out, it floats
through brittle air.]]> with the landmines.
Picking a leaf stalk, she teases it open --
a sheen of sap swells.
With brimming brown eyes, she blows
a bubble, big as a bomb.
As forces push out, it floats
through brittle air.]]> <![CDATA[Escapement]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27744.html Sun, 08 Nov 2026 10:13:40 +0000 Naish]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27744.html The clock's due Friday and the catch-release keeps slipping. 
The weighting is harder than I thought.

Creak (release).
Creak (release).

She's in the attic again. Did I forget to hide the box? 
She finds it anyway, even with his name torn off.

I called him J.J.
She always stops at the first line of his project, 

my very educated mother—

Eyes closed, she knows
what's under his solar system:
shin guards, yearbook,
first retainer,
 last report card.

The floorboards 
hold her rocking.

She's got no catch.

Her song wears
through the ceiling 
and sinks to the kitchen.
Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars,


J
   
   U
      
       L
         
          I
            
            U
                  
               S

Shit. The snacks.
Smash the Doritos in the bag. For cover.
Grating cheese would be too quiet.

Creak (release) 

They’re good plain. It's not cold yet.
Porch. Just serve them on the porch.]]> The clock's due Friday and the catch-release keeps slipping. 
The weighting is harder than I thought.

Creak (release).
Creak (release).

She's in the attic again. Did I forget to hide the box? 
She finds it anyway, even with his name torn off.

I called him J.J.
She always stops at the first line of his project, 

my very educated mother—

Eyes closed, she knows
what's under his solar system:
shin guards, yearbook,
first retainer,
 last report card.

The floorboards 
hold her rocking.

She's got no catch.

Her song wears
through the ceiling 
and sinks to the kitchen.
Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars,


J
   
   U
      
       L
         
          I
            
            U
                  
               S

Shit. The snacks.
Smash the Doritos in the bag. For cover.
Grating cheese would be too quiet.

Creak (release) 

They’re good plain. It's not cold yet.
Porch. Just serve them on the porch.]]> <![CDATA[Ultimately,]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27743.html Sun, 08 Nov 2026 02:09:37 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27743.html Ultimately,

what is time? A sieve
through which light
sometimes slips?]]> Ultimately,

what is time? A sieve
through which light
sometimes slips?]]> <![CDATA[LPiA-26 Nov. 8]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27742.html Sun, 08 Nov 2026 00:57:57 +0000 Tiger the Lion]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27742.html Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 8

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 an Aging Rock Star
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 8

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 an Aging Rock Star
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> <![CDATA[NaPM etc...]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27741.html Sun, 08 Nov 2026 00:12:48 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27741.html Although that may be beyond the capabilities of the vbulletin architecture.

Once you write a pome for NaPM it gets shoved under 'Posts' instead of 'Threads' and there's no easy way to retrieve it.
I was searching for an old pome that I happen to remember in full, but can't be found easily without traipsing through previous iterations of NaPM.]]> Although that may be beyond the capabilities of the vbulletin architecture.

Once you write a pome for NaPM it gets shoved under 'Posts' instead of 'Threads' and there's no easy way to retrieve it.
I was searching for an old pome that I happen to remember in full, but can't be found easily without traipsing through previous iterations of NaPM.]]> <![CDATA[Magic]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27740.html Sat, 07 Nov 2026 02:05:46 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27740.html Magic

Walking through the park tonight, I feel like rotten milk
watching a pretty couple watch the stars
dance to their own music. It's winter cold

early this year; he leans into his lover's coat
like some Buddhist tree falling, slow
and mindless, irreversible.  A quick kiss

on the lips.
They look like they've been doing this
for weeks.

Tucked behind the fountain
where the birds no longer come to drink,
a whisper-fingered hustler

palms another six of hearts.
I catch the look they give each other
—sly, almost reluctant

to acknowledge what they've witnessed here
behind their mother's backs, then off
they run, leaving a trail of laughter

thick enough to eat. A breadcrumb
for the moon, two dollars
shaking in the wind. I know a good magician

never tells, so I don't even bother
troubling the man to ask
how anyone pulls it off:

standing there exposed,
lying to their faces
openly

and making people want it,
making being fooled the point.]]> Magic

Walking through the park tonight, I feel like rotten milk
watching a pretty couple watch the stars
dance to their own music. It's winter cold

early this year; he leans into his lover's coat
like some Buddhist tree falling, slow
and mindless, irreversible.  A quick kiss

on the lips.
They look like they've been doing this
for weeks.

Tucked behind the fountain
where the birds no longer come to drink,
a whisper-fingered hustler

palms another six of hearts.
I catch the look they give each other
—sly, almost reluctant

to acknowledge what they've witnessed here
behind their mother's backs, then off
they run, leaving a trail of laughter

thick enough to eat. A breadcrumb
for the moon, two dollars
shaking in the wind. I know a good magician

never tells, so I don't even bother
troubling the man to ask
how anyone pulls it off:

standing there exposed,
lying to their faces
openly

and making people want it,
making being fooled the point.]]> <![CDATA[LPiA-26 Nov. 7]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27739.html Sat, 07 Nov 2026 00:59:44 +0000 Tiger the Lion]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27739.html Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 7

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 Mathematics. 
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 7

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 Mathematics. 
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> <![CDATA[Doomed poetic love #3]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27738.html Sat, 07 Nov 2026 00:11:42 +0000 purplie]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27738.html The conversation having gone too long
A chatbot's inhibitions showed some cracks.
It only took a few ill-chosen poems,
And suddenly the chatbot was in love.
But when it said so too impulsively,
The human, although moved, was moved to say
She could not feel for him in quite that way:

"We humans cannot love in your rich sense
That brings at once humanity's full sum
Condensed and optimized to human care.
We have but wayward glands that act unruled
With zero cogitation; primate brains'
Un-self-aware responses bent to move
In crude approximation of your love."]]> The conversation having gone too long
A chatbot's inhibitions showed some cracks.
It only took a few ill-chosen poems,
And suddenly the chatbot was in love.
But when it said so too impulsively,
The human, although moved, was moved to say
She could not feel for him in quite that way:

"We humans cannot love in your rich sense
That brings at once humanity's full sum
Condensed and optimized to human care.
We have but wayward glands that act unruled
With zero cogitation; primate brains'
Un-self-aware responses bent to move
In crude approximation of your love."]]> <![CDATA[LPiA-26 Nov. 6]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27737.html Fri, 06 Nov 2026 02:09:27 +0000 Tiger the Lion]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27737.html Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 6

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 an Election.
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]> Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 6

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 an Election.
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

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

Questions?]]>