<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - Mild to moderate critique]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Sun, 26 Jul 2026 01:05:32 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Consciousness Entering the Room]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27492.html Tue, 21 Jul 2026 21:57:59 +0000 tmanzano]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27492.html by fractions, not oceans
or years–

not dramatic misunderstandings
from films

Just small alterations

A sentence said differently

Too much eye contact
or not enough

Someone laughs harder than usual
because for a moment
they forget to monitor themselves

Someone beautiful believes
they are difficult to love

Someone ordinary
mistakes ease for impossibility

I keep thinking about that girl from junior high

How easy it was
to exist around her

I had already decided
nothing would happen

So my personality moved freely
Like a dog let off a leash

I said stupid things

Interrupted myself

Told stories that wandered nowhere

I never edited my laughter
into something more acceptable

And because of that
she met me

Not the version arranging silverware
inside his mind trying to be seen

Just me

Or at least
the closest thing to it

I did not understand then
that attraction sometimes grows best
in rooms where nobody is trying to earn it

I wonder how many people
have unknowingly sat beside the love of their life

At bars

In classrooms

Near vending machines

In the ten quiet minutes before work begins

...but convenience intervened

or shame

or somebody became aware
of themselves too early

Maybe that is all heartbreak really is–

consciousness entering the room]]> by fractions, not oceans
or years–

not dramatic misunderstandings
from films

Just small alterations

A sentence said differently

Too much eye contact
or not enough

Someone laughs harder than usual
because for a moment
they forget to monitor themselves

Someone beautiful believes
they are difficult to love

Someone ordinary
mistakes ease for impossibility

I keep thinking about that girl from junior high

How easy it was
to exist around her

I had already decided
nothing would happen

So my personality moved freely
Like a dog let off a leash

I said stupid things

Interrupted myself

Told stories that wandered nowhere

I never edited my laughter
into something more acceptable

And because of that
she met me

Not the version arranging silverware
inside his mind trying to be seen

Just me

Or at least
the closest thing to it

I did not understand then
that attraction sometimes grows best
in rooms where nobody is trying to earn it

I wonder how many people
have unknowingly sat beside the love of their life

At bars

In classrooms

Near vending machines

In the ten quiet minutes before work begins

...but convenience intervened

or shame

or somebody became aware
of themselves too early

Maybe that is all heartbreak really is–

consciousness entering the room]]> <![CDATA[jersey]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27487.html Sun, 19 Jul 2026 01:59:04 +0000 shady]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27487.html i got hurt in jersey. dirty jersey. my body is a map of jersey; it erodes and grows--environmental changes. from a little girl wearing a jersey on an earthy grass pitch, to a taller girl in a treatment facility in dover, new jersey. and i wasn't born in jersey but raised here. here in jersey i had lemonade stands, finished grade school, and tasted my first bitterly-sweet drop of liquor.
my body is a map of jersey. not flat, not moutainous. my voice--route 22--fast, nonstop; my hair october leaves. my tears and emotions the jersey shore, salty and a little bit sweet.
jerseys got a bad rep, mean, blunt, beat. condemnation prior to consideration because jerseys the place to be. she's not perfect--thunder claps--she falls not strong nor tall. but wind blows and waves smack sand, retrieving her after all.
my body is a map of jersey, dirty, hurt, and beautiful; from a little girl to a taller one, seasons, roads, wind, and waves, i am jersey through and through.
]]> i got hurt in jersey. dirty jersey. my body is a map of jersey; it erodes and grows--environmental changes. from a little girl wearing a jersey on an earthy grass pitch, to a taller girl in a treatment facility in dover, new jersey. and i wasn't born in jersey but raised here. here in jersey i had lemonade stands, finished grade school, and tasted my first bitterly-sweet drop of liquor.
my body is a map of jersey. not flat, not moutainous. my voice--route 22--fast, nonstop; my hair october leaves. my tears and emotions the jersey shore, salty and a little bit sweet.
jerseys got a bad rep, mean, blunt, beat. condemnation prior to consideration because jerseys the place to be. she's not perfect--thunder claps--she falls not strong nor tall. but wind blows and waves smack sand, retrieving her after all.
my body is a map of jersey, dirty, hurt, and beautiful; from a little girl to a taller one, seasons, roads, wind, and waves, i am jersey through and through.
]]> <![CDATA[When I Go to Costco, No One Tells Me They Love Me]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27478.html Sat, 11 Jul 2026 20:34:48 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27478.html When I Go to Costco, No One Tells Me They Love Me


I thought it might be pleasant
to give up on life again. I explained this
to my friend, who did her best to save me: “When a plant
is placed in shade,” she said, fingering a piece
of her dead mother at her neck, “it grows
toward the light.” I took her meaning, seven pills,
and the twenty-two express returned me to an anxious dog
unbroken as an egg. So now I think it’s good,
sometimes, to have a human friend.
My membership to Costco lapsed and
no one told me this until I went to buy ten pounds of ham
and cheese snacks with the little crackers
and a dry woman named Claire
declared me out of date. Everyone in line behind me
did the little dance that means “This man
has inconvenienced us. This man deserves
to die.” Jerkily she pulled her service rifle
from her shoulder, held it level with the grassy knoll
between my glassy eyes. The whole place
smelled like hot dogs. You could tell
she didn’t want to do it, but
a job’s a job. Sweating now,
I rattled off the usual excuses: “I swear
it’s in my pocket. My wife will be here soon.”
Claire grimaced, pulled the hammer back,
mouthed “I’m sorry, hon.” About this time I realized
her nametag said Chantal, and
I didn’t want to die. To leave this world
mistaking someone’s name would be too much.
“I don’t want to die, Chantal,” I said, and “You’re a good
Christian, aren’t you? Jesus tells us if you take
a plant—no, when a flower and another flower
love each other very much—I mean, if it’s shady down there,
trees can make their branches stretch so high
they touch the sun. Then they bask there all day long,
I guess, until they feel brand new. The light
solves all their problems. Doesn’t that sound
nice, Chantal? Can’t we just agree today
that I’m a kind of tree?”]]> When I Go to Costco, No One Tells Me They Love Me


I thought it might be pleasant
to give up on life again. I explained this
to my friend, who did her best to save me: “When a plant
is placed in shade,” she said, fingering a piece
of her dead mother at her neck, “it grows
toward the light.” I took her meaning, seven pills,
and the twenty-two express returned me to an anxious dog
unbroken as an egg. So now I think it’s good,
sometimes, to have a human friend.
My membership to Costco lapsed and
no one told me this until I went to buy ten pounds of ham
and cheese snacks with the little crackers
and a dry woman named Claire
declared me out of date. Everyone in line behind me
did the little dance that means “This man
has inconvenienced us. This man deserves
to die.” Jerkily she pulled her service rifle
from her shoulder, held it level with the grassy knoll
between my glassy eyes. The whole place
smelled like hot dogs. You could tell
she didn’t want to do it, but
a job’s a job. Sweating now,
I rattled off the usual excuses: “I swear
it’s in my pocket. My wife will be here soon.”
Claire grimaced, pulled the hammer back,
mouthed “I’m sorry, hon.” About this time I realized
her nametag said Chantal, and
I didn’t want to die. To leave this world
mistaking someone’s name would be too much.
“I don’t want to die, Chantal,” I said, and “You’re a good
Christian, aren’t you? Jesus tells us if you take
a plant—no, when a flower and another flower
love each other very much—I mean, if it’s shady down there,
trees can make their branches stretch so high
they touch the sun. Then they bask there all day long,
I guess, until they feel brand new. The light
solves all their problems. Doesn’t that sound
nice, Chantal? Can’t we just agree today
that I’m a kind of tree?”]]> <![CDATA[Comets]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27474.html Mon, 06 Jul 2026 08:48:11 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27474.html Comets

God was drunk and sideways
and the moon a swollen olive
soaked in drugstore gin when Danny stopped
and pointed at the sky. It was an unimpressive bird,
a juvenile, we figured, from how its skinny cries sounded
more wounded deer than death. We sized each other up
the way a wall confronts a fender. Kit plucked a flower,
ducked behind a rosebush to throw up. A dozen years
before Danny got married and divorced himself
from alcohol and Jesus, before any witness
had to find warm words to scatter
over Kit’s cold body. I don’t remember
where we’d been, where any of us was
headed. The sky went on forever, someone
must have asked for Heaven. That barn owl heard us
calling all night long, every last word.]]> Comets

God was drunk and sideways
and the moon a swollen olive
soaked in drugstore gin when Danny stopped
and pointed at the sky. It was an unimpressive bird,
a juvenile, we figured, from how its skinny cries sounded
more wounded deer than death. We sized each other up
the way a wall confronts a fender. Kit plucked a flower,
ducked behind a rosebush to throw up. A dozen years
before Danny got married and divorced himself
from alcohol and Jesus, before any witness
had to find warm words to scatter
over Kit’s cold body. I don’t remember
where we’d been, where any of us was
headed. The sky went on forever, someone
must have asked for Heaven. That barn owl heard us
calling all night long, every last word.]]> <![CDATA[Unequal Contest - edit3]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27469.html Sat, 04 Jul 2026 14:24:31 +0000 dukealien]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27469.html

A crow harassed a red-tailed hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes.
Crow tacked on escalator-steps of air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of raptor which, gray swimmer in silk sky,
responded lazily on banking wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
the heavy hawk – designed for lethal strikes-
extended, spending altitude for speed
and left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of unconcerned assurance, royal grace.


edit2;

A crow harassed a red-tailed hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes.
Crow tacked on escalator-steps of air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of raptor which, gray swimmer in smooth sky,
responded lazily on banking wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
the heavy hawk – designed for lethal strikes-
extended, turning altitude to speed
and left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of unconcerned assurance, mortal grace.


edit1;

A crow harassed a red-tailed hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes;
at others, canny turns against soft blue.
Crow tacked on escalator-steps of air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of raptor which, gray swimmer in smooth sky,
responded lazily on banking wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
the heavy hawk – designed for lethal strikes
with catching talons, hardened sickle beak -
extended, turning altitude to speed
and left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of unconcerned assurance, mortal grace.


original version;

I watched a crow harass a hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes;
at others, canny turns against soft blue.
As natural, almost, as Nemesis,
crow tacked against resistance of scorched air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of cloud-gray raptor:  smooth, invisible,
responding lazily on outspread wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
hawk’s weight - designed for lethal diving strikes
with hardened bone and muscle, corvo beak -
extended, trading altitude for speed
which left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking, but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of beauty, grace, assured mortality.

]]>

A crow harassed a red-tailed hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes.
Crow tacked on escalator-steps of air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of raptor which, gray swimmer in silk sky,
responded lazily on banking wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
the heavy hawk – designed for lethal strikes-
extended, spending altitude for speed
and left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of unconcerned assurance, royal grace.


edit2;

A crow harassed a red-tailed hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes.
Crow tacked on escalator-steps of air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of raptor which, gray swimmer in smooth sky,
responded lazily on banking wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
the heavy hawk – designed for lethal strikes-
extended, turning altitude to speed
and left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of unconcerned assurance, mortal grace.


edit1;

A crow harassed a red-tailed hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes;
at others, canny turns against soft blue.
Crow tacked on escalator-steps of air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of raptor which, gray swimmer in smooth sky,
responded lazily on banking wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
the heavy hawk – designed for lethal strikes
with catching talons, hardened sickle beak -
extended, turning altitude to speed
and left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of unconcerned assurance, mortal grace.


original version;

I watched a crow harass a hawk today,
black gestures twisting, flapping hard sometimes;
at others, canny turns against soft blue.
As natural, almost, as Nemesis,
crow tacked against resistance of scorched air
and struggled to gain place above, in front
of cloud-gray raptor:  smooth, invisible,
responding lazily on outspread wings.
Each time the striving crow had almost gained
position to attack, to stoop, to nip,
hawk’s weight - designed for lethal diving strikes
with hardened bone and muscle, corvo beak -
extended, trading altitude for speed
which left the crow behind, a blowing chuff
of chaff not worth attacking, but endowed
with wild ambition, laughter in the face
of beauty, grace, assured mortality.

]]> <![CDATA[On Phatic Speech]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27468.html Sat, 04 Jul 2026 04:24:48 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27468.html On Phatic Speech

Small talk deserves more
hate. It grows around the ribs
like cancer, always some dull pressure to be satisfied
with less. Oh, it’s a beautiful day. The sun
is shining. Birds are singing. Yes, Suzanne, & what I’d like
to know is, how is this my fault?

I bumped into my ex of seven years
while shopping for a blender. He said, you haven’t aged
a day. I said, I’m shopping for a blender.
We were never quite in love, and I suspect
he knew this, which makes him
the bigger man. But at least
I won the rematch.

Seven years from now, my father will lie
back in his shrill hospice bed and ask about the hummingbirds.
Have they been visiting the feeder, it rained cats
& dogs last week you know. He can’t remember if he changed
their water. And I will do my duty, I will watch the only man
I ever loved lock eyes with death
and summarize the news.]]> On Phatic Speech

Small talk deserves more
hate. It grows around the ribs
like cancer, always some dull pressure to be satisfied
with less. Oh, it’s a beautiful day. The sun
is shining. Birds are singing. Yes, Suzanne, & what I’d like
to know is, how is this my fault?

I bumped into my ex of seven years
while shopping for a blender. He said, you haven’t aged
a day. I said, I’m shopping for a blender.
We were never quite in love, and I suspect
he knew this, which makes him
the bigger man. But at least
I won the rematch.

Seven years from now, my father will lie
back in his shrill hospice bed and ask about the hummingbirds.
Have they been visiting the feeder, it rained cats
& dogs last week you know. He can’t remember if he changed
their water. And I will do my duty, I will watch the only man
I ever loved lock eyes with death
and summarize the news.]]> <![CDATA[Before the Body]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27458.html Mon, 29 Jun 2026 16:54:39 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27458.html Before the Body

A soul is nothing special. Because I sleep through any noise,
they chose me for the bunker. The doctor ran a battery of tests
to test my fortitude, plinking hammers at my knees, eavesdropping
on my blood. At first she heard a murmur, but dismissed it
as stray gas. The vestiges of sin will follow you
through every life, and yes, I do regret that hot dog
but I know my heart is stalwart. Birds approach
with tilted heads, unsure what kind of flower
I might throw around their necks. I greet them 
with my mouth held open, ready to be born.]]> Before the Body

A soul is nothing special. Because I sleep through any noise,
they chose me for the bunker. The doctor ran a battery of tests
to test my fortitude, plinking hammers at my knees, eavesdropping
on my blood. At first she heard a murmur, but dismissed it
as stray gas. The vestiges of sin will follow you
through every life, and yes, I do regret that hot dog
but I know my heart is stalwart. Birds approach
with tilted heads, unsure what kind of flower
I might throw around their necks. I greet them 
with my mouth held open, ready to be born.]]> <![CDATA[Gloaming Dunes]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27454.html Fri, 26 Jun 2026 22:12:02 +0000 Sean Puckett]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27454.html Watching its pearl rain shimmer over the dunes. 
My legs crossed and limp. 
Counterfeit sage in unkempt robe. 
I listen, yet the moon is silent.
The stone beneath me, silent. 

The sand speaks to me 
in a language I cannot understand. 

Leaning my head back against this rocky seat. 
My grand meditation — popping in my back. 

I gaze at the waves of earth. 
Murmuring grains crawling over themselves. 
Each smooth mote a puzzle.
The breeze grips through my fabric. And I,

I’m cold. 

I groan to my feet and stumble from my perch. 
My preaching but a sigh with begging hands
tossed briefly skyward 
before they clap
harsh against the sand-dusted cotton
of this mystic’s costume. 

The moon has left me to my pacing. 
Hush of my boots sinking in the ground,
trudging in my circle. Waiting. 
Shuffling 
— waiting. 

Daybreak comes as an ambush. A march of bronze spears
held over the horizon. 
The air wars above the sand. 
I watch between the fingers of my outstretched hand. 
My eyes wince. Palm burns. 
It’s a song. 

Fool. It’s a song.]]> Watching its pearl rain shimmer over the dunes. 
My legs crossed and limp. 
Counterfeit sage in unkempt robe. 
I listen, yet the moon is silent.
The stone beneath me, silent. 

The sand speaks to me 
in a language I cannot understand. 

Leaning my head back against this rocky seat. 
My grand meditation — popping in my back. 

I gaze at the waves of earth. 
Murmuring grains crawling over themselves. 
Each smooth mote a puzzle.
The breeze grips through my fabric. And I,

I’m cold. 

I groan to my feet and stumble from my perch. 
My preaching but a sigh with begging hands
tossed briefly skyward 
before they clap
harsh against the sand-dusted cotton
of this mystic’s costume. 

The moon has left me to my pacing. 
Hush of my boots sinking in the ground,
trudging in my circle. Waiting. 
Shuffling 
— waiting. 

Daybreak comes as an ambush. A march of bronze spears
held over the horizon. 
The air wars above the sand. 
I watch between the fingers of my outstretched hand. 
My eyes wince. Palm burns. 
It’s a song. 

Fool. It’s a song.]]> <![CDATA[data]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27442.html Fri, 19 Jun 2026 16:05:04 +0000 thewilderhen]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27442.html
I have married
a whole neighborhood
in subsidy. A good wife
has been married
like that before, whole
blocks given over
to the veil.

If I go the city blocks,
their moods cause me
such grief

they do not
drink of the marriage
glass they do not
eat my gift

I painted after
them a still-life
of pheasants / unworked
on the table
a gift to witness it
wooden like trees before
they came to me in marriage.
———————————
Original, old version:


I have married
a whole neighborhood
in subsidy. A good wife
has been married
like that before, whole
blocks given over
to the veil.

If I go the city blocks,
their moods cause me
such grief 

they do
not drink of the marriage
glass they do not
eat my gift

I painted after
them a still-life
pheasants / unworked
on the table
to witness it
wooden like trees before
we built our house.]]>
I have married
a whole neighborhood
in subsidy. A good wife
has been married
like that before, whole
blocks given over
to the veil.

If I go the city blocks,
their moods cause me
such grief

they do not
drink of the marriage
glass they do not
eat my gift

I painted after
them a still-life
of pheasants / unworked
on the table
a gift to witness it
wooden like trees before
they came to me in marriage.
———————————
Original, old version:


I have married
a whole neighborhood
in subsidy. A good wife
has been married
like that before, whole
blocks given over
to the veil.

If I go the city blocks,
their moods cause me
such grief 

they do
not drink of the marriage
glass they do not
eat my gift

I painted after
them a still-life
pheasants / unworked
on the table
to witness it
wooden like trees before
we built our house.]]> <![CDATA[Good To Be Alone (I Woke Up So Irritable - v2)]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27436.html Tue, 16 Jun 2026 05:41:35 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27436.html Good to Be Alone

To garden is to suffer. I scoop the bulbs up
promising to find their children
better homes, that the hail of nitrogen
can spackle any hole. I make sure to listen
for the honeybees, and who knows why? All insects
always sound the same, an AC unit dying
in a window facing brick. What little grows
depends on which depressed half-moon hangs
from the mailman’s jowls. Maurice will soon deliver me
love delayed, sex in stasis, slender packs pregnant with seeds
with romance novel names. Forget-me-not, black
-eyed Susan. Jump-up, Johnny: Jack’s back
in the pulpit and we’ll all have snow
in summer. It doesn’t matter
what I plant: in the dark, all bodies
look the same. I fall into azaleas, get dosed
on amaryllis. An unplanned nap beside the rose
disturbs her dream of London, she wraps
impressive hips around me like a hidden clause. You know me
and subordination; I do not sleep well.
It must be raining on the Thames, which to this day
I’ve never seen, thunder scraping brown
from green, making room for each young bud
to rise up like a fist. While off in Finland, it is bright and
ever-blazing spring. Freshly made, you dance with someone else
as if alive. The bees in their agnostic worship
drench it all in pollen, and the biggest muscle 
does its useless job. 


first draft - 
I Woke Up Feeling So Irritable This Morning!

A brief stint in the garden almost killed me when you didn’t
call: all my loose skin came undone, bits of brown
stretched into a macrame of insect bites and furrows dug
by thorns. To garden is to suffer. One scoops the bulbs up
from the earth swearing to faithfully rehome their roots, that the tiny hail
of nitrogen can fix whatever needs fixed. One listens to the honeybees intently
for no reason, knowing good and well all insects
sound the same: the thrumming of an old in-window AC unit
death-rattling in sine waves through ether we now know
doesn’t exist. What grows, to the extent it does, depends on the oblique half-moon
hanging from the mailman’s troweled jowls. Maurice will soon deliver me
a new abundance, love delayed, slender packs pregnant with seeds
with romance novel names. Forget-me-not, black-eyed Susan. Jump-up,
Johnny: Jack’s back in the pulpit and we’ll all have snow
in summer. It doesn’t really matter what I plant: death is still
death. After a dozen humid nights, all bodies look the same.

Still I think my work well spent: yesterday, the cat awoke
and bounced relentless on my chest, an unclipped claw
convincing me to scream straight out of bed and fall
into azaleas. I got drunk on amaryllis, took an unplanned nap beside the rose.
It wrapped its vines around me like a contract. You know I do not care
for rigid women; I did not sleep well. Today I take my cup of tea
so slowly that my insides by the time I finish are the warmest liquid
on the place. It must be raining on the Thames, which I have
never seen. Time remains the world's most faithful surgeon, cutting
brittle leaves from my green arms, making room for the next bright bud
to rise up like a fist. I watch the bees do their agnostic worship
in the pollen, quivering with mindless pleasure, and beside your empty chair
my heart is full and satisfied. I wouldn’t lie to you.
]]> Good to Be Alone

To garden is to suffer. I scoop the bulbs up
promising to find their children
better homes, that the hail of nitrogen
can spackle any hole. I make sure to listen
for the honeybees, and who knows why? All insects
always sound the same, an AC unit dying
in a window facing brick. What little grows
depends on which depressed half-moon hangs
from the mailman’s jowls. Maurice will soon deliver me
love delayed, sex in stasis, slender packs pregnant with seeds
with romance novel names. Forget-me-not, black
-eyed Susan. Jump-up, Johnny: Jack’s back
in the pulpit and we’ll all have snow
in summer. It doesn’t matter
what I plant: in the dark, all bodies
look the same. I fall into azaleas, get dosed
on amaryllis. An unplanned nap beside the rose
disturbs her dream of London, she wraps
impressive hips around me like a hidden clause. You know me
and subordination; I do not sleep well.
It must be raining on the Thames, which to this day
I’ve never seen, thunder scraping brown
from green, making room for each young bud
to rise up like a fist. While off in Finland, it is bright and
ever-blazing spring. Freshly made, you dance with someone else
as if alive. The bees in their agnostic worship
drench it all in pollen, and the biggest muscle 
does its useless job. 


first draft - 
I Woke Up Feeling So Irritable This Morning!

A brief stint in the garden almost killed me when you didn’t
call: all my loose skin came undone, bits of brown
stretched into a macrame of insect bites and furrows dug
by thorns. To garden is to suffer. One scoops the bulbs up
from the earth swearing to faithfully rehome their roots, that the tiny hail
of nitrogen can fix whatever needs fixed. One listens to the honeybees intently
for no reason, knowing good and well all insects
sound the same: the thrumming of an old in-window AC unit
death-rattling in sine waves through ether we now know
doesn’t exist. What grows, to the extent it does, depends on the oblique half-moon
hanging from the mailman’s troweled jowls. Maurice will soon deliver me
a new abundance, love delayed, slender packs pregnant with seeds
with romance novel names. Forget-me-not, black-eyed Susan. Jump-up,
Johnny: Jack’s back in the pulpit and we’ll all have snow
in summer. It doesn’t really matter what I plant: death is still
death. After a dozen humid nights, all bodies look the same.

Still I think my work well spent: yesterday, the cat awoke
and bounced relentless on my chest, an unclipped claw
convincing me to scream straight out of bed and fall
into azaleas. I got drunk on amaryllis, took an unplanned nap beside the rose.
It wrapped its vines around me like a contract. You know I do not care
for rigid women; I did not sleep well. Today I take my cup of tea
so slowly that my insides by the time I finish are the warmest liquid
on the place. It must be raining on the Thames, which I have
never seen. Time remains the world's most faithful surgeon, cutting
brittle leaves from my green arms, making room for the next bright bud
to rise up like a fist. I watch the bees do their agnostic worship
in the pollen, quivering with mindless pleasure, and beside your empty chair
my heart is full and satisfied. I wouldn’t lie to you.
]]> <![CDATA[Hypersphere tattoo]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27430.html Sat, 13 Jun 2026 14:59:06 +0000 Michael]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27430.html
You said each night it will ignite before the morning wakes. 
Yet rivers of silver galaxies entwine nature's fragile countenance, 
where a gravity yet to be theorized is all I understand  
when I look into your eyes. 
I remember how you moved within the gyres, 
tiny snowstorms, black on white, 
temples softly drawn— a tether of snow in a tremble of time, 
stepping in, stepping out, every moment, every fall, every rise. 
Facing one another, will our voices intertwine? 
Or will they only learn to fly alone to open sky, 
past every roof beam, past the horizon line, 
with your laughter, my foolish pantomime, 
and the infinite ways a rainbow's singularity aligns in your smile? 
I cannot forget, cannot turn away, cannot remember flight. 
I do not know how to begin the end, 
how to say goodbye.

Hello poets, I'm new here and sort of new to writing in this fashion but would like some criticism on this before I decide to give it to someone. Thank you very much! Michael.]]>
You said each night it will ignite before the morning wakes. 
Yet rivers of silver galaxies entwine nature's fragile countenance, 
where a gravity yet to be theorized is all I understand  
when I look into your eyes. 
I remember how you moved within the gyres, 
tiny snowstorms, black on white, 
temples softly drawn— a tether of snow in a tremble of time, 
stepping in, stepping out, every moment, every fall, every rise. 
Facing one another, will our voices intertwine? 
Or will they only learn to fly alone to open sky, 
past every roof beam, past the horizon line, 
with your laughter, my foolish pantomime, 
and the infinite ways a rainbow's singularity aligns in your smile? 
I cannot forget, cannot turn away, cannot remember flight. 
I do not know how to begin the end, 
how to say goodbye.

Hello poets, I'm new here and sort of new to writing in this fashion but would like some criticism on this before I decide to give it to someone. Thank you very much! Michael.]]> <![CDATA[Walls v2]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27407.html Mon, 01 Jun 2026 10:25:30 +0000 RiverNotch]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27407.html

Do good, O Lord, unto Sion in thy good pleasure,
and let the walls of Jerusalem be builded.
Then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar.

These giant stones give way to bricks give way
to sand, aggregate, water, and cement
poured into lattices of carbon steel

topped with more steel---this time drawn into wires
then twisted into barbs---now meant to part
what all the earlier was built to keep

if not united then at least alive,
now all they cannot build's a roof and spires
completely hollow and at the very top

left open to the judgement of the stars:
the smoke would be a hazard to the health, 
the cries more of a nuisance than the odd

bursting of drones and rockets over streets---
the contradictions would be made too clear,
the bullocks they had picked for sacrifice
ordained by their true sovereign to live.

Do good, O Lord, unto Sion in thy good pleasure,
and let the walls of Jerusalem be builded.
Then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar.

These great big stones give way to bricks give way
to sand, aggregate, water, and cement
poured into lattices of carbon steel

topped with more steel---this time squeezed into wires
then twisted into barbs---now meant to part
what all the earlier were built to keep

if not united then at least alive,
now all they cannot build's a roof and spires
completely hollow and at the very top

left open to the judgement of the stars:
the smoke would be a hazard to the health, 
the cries more of a nuisance than the odd

bursting of drones and rockets over streets---
the contradictions would be made too clear,
the bullocks that for their altar they had picked
ordained by their true sovereign to live.


Horking out one more NaPM entry for the, er, end of May, the focus having been on pieces that have changed significantly since April, or pieces I was never sure of when I posted them.
]]>

Do good, O Lord, unto Sion in thy good pleasure,
and let the walls of Jerusalem be builded.
Then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar.

These giant stones give way to bricks give way
to sand, aggregate, water, and cement
poured into lattices of carbon steel

topped with more steel---this time drawn into wires
then twisted into barbs---now meant to part
what all the earlier was built to keep

if not united then at least alive,
now all they cannot build's a roof and spires
completely hollow and at the very top

left open to the judgement of the stars:
the smoke would be a hazard to the health, 
the cries more of a nuisance than the odd

bursting of drones and rockets over streets---
the contradictions would be made too clear,
the bullocks they had picked for sacrifice
ordained by their true sovereign to live.

Do good, O Lord, unto Sion in thy good pleasure,
and let the walls of Jerusalem be builded.
Then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar.

These great big stones give way to bricks give way
to sand, aggregate, water, and cement
poured into lattices of carbon steel

topped with more steel---this time squeezed into wires
then twisted into barbs---now meant to part
what all the earlier were built to keep

if not united then at least alive,
now all they cannot build's a roof and spires
completely hollow and at the very top

left open to the judgement of the stars:
the smoke would be a hazard to the health, 
the cries more of a nuisance than the odd

bursting of drones and rockets over streets---
the contradictions would be made too clear,
the bullocks that for their altar they had picked
ordained by their true sovereign to live.


Horking out one more NaPM entry for the, er, end of May, the focus having been on pieces that have changed significantly since April, or pieces I was never sure of when I posted them.
]]> <![CDATA[No title yet [Little Things]]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27406.html Mon, 01 Jun 2026 02:49:29 +0000 brynmawr1]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27406.html after 25 years
lying next to each other
 
when one stirs, the other
half-awake murmurs
in her half-awake voice
 
hmmm, good night sweetie
and you turn
your face in her hair wondering
 
is it the shampoo or perfume,
Antonio’s Flowers?
that makes you think of nothing
 
but her blue eyes, how she held you
in that first gaze a little too long
and that unexpected laugh
 
when she learned your mother
and her favorite doll
had the same name. I love you
 
you say to the back of her head
 
to the sound of even breathing
bodies two peninsulas separated
by a sea of pets, all drifting into sleep
 
Isn’t that the way it is?

Isn’t that the way it is
after 25 years
lying next to each other
 
one stirring, the other
half-awake murmuring
in her half-awake voice
 
good night sweetie
and you turn
your face in her hair
 
only to get lost again in her scent
shampoo and perfume
Antonio’s Flowers you think
 
in that moment for a moment
you are nothing but blue eyes
moving across the lobby holding
 
you in her gaze just long enough
to undo you, and the belly laugh
when she learned your mother
 
and her favorite doll growing up
had the same name. I love you
you say to the back of her head
 
to the sound of even breathing
your legs two peninsulas separated
by a sea of pets as you drift into sleep
 
Isn’t that the way it is?
]]> after 25 years
lying next to each other
 
when one stirs, the other
half-awake murmurs
in her half-awake voice
 
hmmm, good night sweetie
and you turn
your face in her hair wondering
 
is it the shampoo or perfume,
Antonio’s Flowers?
that makes you think of nothing
 
but her blue eyes, how she held you
in that first gaze a little too long
and that unexpected laugh
 
when she learned your mother
and her favorite doll
had the same name. I love you
 
you say to the back of her head
 
to the sound of even breathing
bodies two peninsulas separated
by a sea of pets, all drifting into sleep
 
Isn’t that the way it is?

Isn’t that the way it is
after 25 years
lying next to each other
 
one stirring, the other
half-awake murmuring
in her half-awake voice
 
good night sweetie
and you turn
your face in her hair
 
only to get lost again in her scent
shampoo and perfume
Antonio’s Flowers you think
 
in that moment for a moment
you are nothing but blue eyes
moving across the lobby holding
 
you in her gaze just long enough
to undo you, and the belly laugh
when she learned your mother
 
and her favorite doll growing up
had the same name. I love you
you say to the back of her head
 
to the sound of even breathing
your legs two peninsulas separated
by a sea of pets as you drift into sleep
 
Isn’t that the way it is?
]]> <![CDATA[Unpredictable]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27394.html Tue, 26 May 2026 15:03:34 +0000 wasellajam]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27394.html
Like hand-dyed threads drawn tight across a loom
a parent winds the sturdy warp stretched wide
but taut, a shed built strong but leaving room

for life to wield the shuttle children ride.
The final vision cannot be discerned
as colors side by side are amplified

as weft threads slide then deftly are returned;
an artisan allows the work to speak
a language of its own that's only learned

by following the steady fall and peak.
The siblings give no thought to what's unseen,
all consequences cloaked in life's mystique.

They'll hold each other close as they careen
through life, no distance in the years between.

Any and all crit welcome.

pulled from the practice threads for something to do Big Grin
]]>
Like hand-dyed threads drawn tight across a loom
a parent winds the sturdy warp stretched wide
but taut, a shed built strong but leaving room

for life to wield the shuttle children ride.
The final vision cannot be discerned
as colors side by side are amplified

as weft threads slide then deftly are returned;
an artisan allows the work to speak
a language of its own that's only learned

by following the steady fall and peak.
The siblings give no thought to what's unseen,
all consequences cloaked in life's mystique.

They'll hold each other close as they careen
through life, no distance in the years between.

Any and all crit welcome.

pulled from the practice threads for something to do Big Grin
]]> <![CDATA[The Fountain of Youth]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27391.html Thu, 21 May 2026 02:21:03 +0000 RiverNotch]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27391.html

In Florida was this gift of God discovered
first by the peoples to whom the land was given
then by the peoples who through war and sickness

stole it: a drink which all those later founders
esteemed to grant them vigor, making them young
at heart and body, if not at mind and soul.

Rather, it proved the reverse. A single sip
and the vessel stays its course, gathering worms
while the crew is all replaced by mewling babes,

but how could the conqueror have learned all this
without experiment? Why should they trust
the word of beggared ghosts or beaten dogs?

And should a slave be risked to reach a state
for which the free repine? So thought the men
who first imbibed the fountain's blessed waters,

making immortal imbeciles of themselves:
a gloomy circle of gaunt and grey-haired figures
huddled around a pair of upturned gargoyles
that drool forever with divine revenge.


Another NaPM entry.
]]>

In Florida was this gift of God discovered
first by the peoples to whom the land was given
then by the peoples who through war and sickness

stole it: a drink which all those later founders
esteemed to grant them vigor, making them young
at heart and body, if not at mind and soul.

Rather, it proved the reverse. A single sip
and the vessel stays its course, gathering worms
while the crew is all replaced by mewling babes,

but how could the conqueror have learned all this
without experiment? Why should they trust
the word of beggared ghosts or beaten dogs?

And should a slave be risked to reach a state
for which the free repine? So thought the men
who first imbibed the fountain's blessed waters,

making immortal imbeciles of themselves:
a gloomy circle of gaunt and grey-haired figures
huddled around a pair of upturned gargoyles
that drool forever with divine revenge.


Another NaPM entry.
]]>