https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Sat, 06 Jun 2026 20:27:50 +0000 MyBB https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27419.html Sat, 06 Jun 2026 19:04:19 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27419.html --

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar
until sweetness fills each molecule.
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights.
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar,

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird:
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.]]> --

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar
until sweetness fills each molecule.
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights.
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar,

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird:
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27417.html Fri, 05 Jun 2026 21:34:55 +0000 Sean Puckett]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27417.html The nectar is your words. My skull the cup. 
Wild ivy pulses wine through my flesh. 
The blurring sweetness burns my amphora.
Held under bone fingers. 

Smother me in your vines without care. 
As I do not. Nor ever will. 
Have you no pity? Watching this madman cursed with sanity? 
Does my begging please you? Listen to me! 

Drain the fires from my skin as I have drowned in yours.
Don’t leave me. Don’t ban me from your table. 
Let me feast. Choking upon wisdom.
Capillary emerald cracks my shell. 
I know that I do not wish to know anymore. 

Gladly, I will shatter my cup. 
Broken into a mosaic. 
It is better that way. 
I cannot be one when I have so many parts. 

I see. I am to be drunk. 
Crushed. Fermented. 
Drained until bottle falls from my hands. 
Only the lie ceases. I never had any parts. 
Always the wine. 
Always the ivy. 

I kiss myself. Ochre on my lips. 
Deep — painful —
loving.]]> The nectar is your words. My skull the cup. 
Wild ivy pulses wine through my flesh. 
The blurring sweetness burns my amphora.
Held under bone fingers. 

Smother me in your vines without care. 
As I do not. Nor ever will. 
Have you no pity? Watching this madman cursed with sanity? 
Does my begging please you? Listen to me! 

Drain the fires from my skin as I have drowned in yours.
Don’t leave me. Don’t ban me from your table. 
Let me feast. Choking upon wisdom.
Capillary emerald cracks my shell. 
I know that I do not wish to know anymore. 

Gladly, I will shatter my cup. 
Broken into a mosaic. 
It is better that way. 
I cannot be one when I have so many parts. 

I see. I am to be drunk. 
Crushed. Fermented. 
Drained until bottle falls from my hands. 
Only the lie ceases. I never had any parts. 
Always the wine. 
Always the ivy. 

I kiss myself. Ochre on my lips. 
Deep — painful —
loving.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27415.html Fri, 05 Jun 2026 07:01:10 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27415.html Real Hair Don’t Melt


Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls 
around like a roaring lion, looking for someone 
to devour. —1 Peter 5:8


Once again Penelope is eating my tomatoes, the pink 
guffaw of her remorseless gluttony alarms me 
from my bed and into yet another sheet 
of dripping disappointment. It’s raining 
in the backyard, but
not out front, which makes sense 
if you think about it: dipping the oar backward
makes the boat scoot off ahead. A schooner is often 
said to cut through water but it’s more like folding, whistling 
through your gap tooth, or continuously
braiding hair. People don’t see movies for
the kiss, we want Godzilla. Eat your heart out, Humphrey. When I was a little 
girl, I dreamed of having a sweet pig to call 
my own. Griselda would be pot-bellied, with silk lashes 
like custard and she’d have a golden mane which I would pass
the hours when I wasn’t being slowly murdered 
by myself weaving into baguette plaits. To be clear, Penelope 
is nothing like this dream. Her kingdom is all rage 
and jowls, a bowling over you don’t even realize 
has happened, only that the sky is suddenly  
where your shoes used to be. Godly Mrs. Helsaple, 
bird-dogging her apricot 
Brown Betty cooling on the sill is famously still sore 
about her hip, and will be until 
she mercifully dies. She forgets her home address, which pill 
to take this morning, and her seventeen 
grandchildren’s names, and her husband
passed away and it was days before 
she noticed, but a quarter or a grudge that woman 
clings to like a nose ring. I’d love to give 
Penelope a good piece of my brain, an apple ripe 
with maggots. Does my despair mean nothing 
to her, I ask with my hands spread 
like a pussy—alas, my doe-eyed axman has no word
for that which we call sadness, or anything like shame. Some days 
she is fed to bursting, some nights she goes hungry. It always goes
the same: each time I slide the shed door open, she pricks up her ears
as if expecting death and grins. ]]> Real Hair Don’t Melt


Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls 
around like a roaring lion, looking for someone 
to devour. —1 Peter 5:8


Once again Penelope is eating my tomatoes, the pink 
guffaw of her remorseless gluttony alarms me 
from my bed and into yet another sheet 
of dripping disappointment. It’s raining 
in the backyard, but
not out front, which makes sense 
if you think about it: dipping the oar backward
makes the boat scoot off ahead. A schooner is often 
said to cut through water but it’s more like folding, whistling 
through your gap tooth, or continuously
braiding hair. People don’t see movies for
the kiss, we want Godzilla. Eat your heart out, Humphrey. When I was a little 
girl, I dreamed of having a sweet pig to call 
my own. Griselda would be pot-bellied, with silk lashes 
like custard and she’d have a golden mane which I would pass
the hours when I wasn’t being slowly murdered 
by myself weaving into baguette plaits. To be clear, Penelope 
is nothing like this dream. Her kingdom is all rage 
and jowls, a bowling over you don’t even realize 
has happened, only that the sky is suddenly  
where your shoes used to be. Godly Mrs. Helsaple, 
bird-dogging her apricot 
Brown Betty cooling on the sill is famously still sore 
about her hip, and will be until 
she mercifully dies. She forgets her home address, which pill 
to take this morning, and her seventeen 
grandchildren’s names, and her husband
passed away and it was days before 
she noticed, but a quarter or a grudge that woman 
clings to like a nose ring. I’d love to give 
Penelope a good piece of my brain, an apple ripe 
with maggots. Does my despair mean nothing 
to her, I ask with my hands spread 
like a pussy—alas, my doe-eyed axman has no word
for that which we call sadness, or anything like shame. Some days 
she is fed to bursting, some nights she goes hungry. It always goes
the same: each time I slide the shed door open, she pricks up her ears
as if expecting death and grins. ]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27404.html Sun, 31 May 2026 22:46:54 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27404.html Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be
surprised. The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.]]> Phantom Limb

I text your mom more than I should, but
what did you expect? Neither of us believes
in Heaven, second chances, all that taffy people

swallow after grief, chasing mold with sugar.
The word itself is soggy, flaccid—”grief” can’t help
but reek of cheap flowers & drug store gauze. Sorry

for your loss. I lost my hat, I lost my wallet, I lost
my best friend. Language throws its hands up
desperate, begs us not to shoot. We take care

not to look it in the eyes, like putting down a Doberman.
Good girl, it’s not your fault. You were just excited. That
child should learn to keep hands to himself. Your mom is

never anything but wonderful to me. She tells me over and
again how grateful she is I knew you, because your mom
is stupid, because she still can’t let herself admit this

was also my fault. That we are both to blame. Does it hurt,
I wonder, when the question mark spits out the little dot?
Does it take special effort, or can change sometimes just happen

naturally? Maybe questions are like lizards and can let their limbs
fall off at will to get away from hawks. Maybe it’s more like how
a fox, caught between abrupt steel jaws, immediately understands

the only way to live is to chew straight through the bone. Some kind
of survival instinct baked into the genes. We had talked about this
only days before you did it. I said I could never—even in desperation,

who can bring themselves to cut off their own leg? You said I’d be
surprised. The dog lives with your mother now, who never liked
the ocean. She takes her every day. We never use your name.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27401.html Sat, 30 May 2026 17:12:02 +0000 Sean Puckett]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27401.html Aqua breath cradles me. Tides of air soothing on sun washed skin. 
I am eighteen and she is beautiful.
She holds my eyes in a way
that makes my cheeks flush. 

Her rhythmic exhales comforting. 
I have to hug my knees to my pulse. Seated here,
at the edge of her fingers. 
Tapping and crawling until my feet are wet. 

I am eighteen and she is playful. 
Winking light along her surface. 
Coy, patient goddess. She can hear my panting up against my legs.
 I am excited to be afraid. 

To dance in her. Breath catching 
in my throat
when she pulls at my waist. 
Love me. It was not a request. 
Could mortal resist divinity. 

I am eighteen and she is passionate. 
Yanking at my body when she kisses up my throat. 
Our chests heaving together. 
A gasp. Swept underneath. Only to burst,
from her, soaked in her. 
Eyes to the dying sun. 

The horizon is on fire. My lungs draw it in. 
I am eighteen and she embraces me. 
Life has no weight. 
Her world, a languid amber. Time unwound 
and dizzying. 
My axis twisted slowly. 
My world dissolved in her. 

Her soft arms yank at my body. Deeper,
the realization, and I am afraid to be excited. 
Whirling, dance of spheres. Thrashing in terrible beauty. 
My lungs emptying. 
I am eighteen and she is ravenous. 

Do I rise, or, does she push me. I will never know. 
The lesson learned when I crest and wheeze. 
Newborn babe. Taste of salt and needful fire. 
Her world is not my world. I do not control here. 
I can lay back upon her bed. 
Lips drinking in my air. Resting on her palms. 

Wits return with peace. She leads this dance. 
I am eighteen and she is gentle. 
Forgiving of my fumbling, excited movements. 
Respect in rapture. Touching only how she wishes to be touched. 
The rewards. 
My saltwater joins hers on my cheek. 

Her fingers coax me away when she is finished with me. 
When my muscles burn with my skin. 
Returning me to the beach. 
My exhausted body 
laying under the dark sky. 

Hair sticking to my face. 
Palms sinking in the sand. 
Just watching. 
Breathing. 
I am eighteen and she is forever. ]]> Aqua breath cradles me. Tides of air soothing on sun washed skin. 
I am eighteen and she is beautiful.
She holds my eyes in a way
that makes my cheeks flush. 

Her rhythmic exhales comforting. 
I have to hug my knees to my pulse. Seated here,
at the edge of her fingers. 
Tapping and crawling until my feet are wet. 

I am eighteen and she is playful. 
Winking light along her surface. 
Coy, patient goddess. She can hear my panting up against my legs.
 I am excited to be afraid. 

To dance in her. Breath catching 
in my throat
when she pulls at my waist. 
Love me. It was not a request. 
Could mortal resist divinity. 

I am eighteen and she is passionate. 
Yanking at my body when she kisses up my throat. 
Our chests heaving together. 
A gasp. Swept underneath. Only to burst,
from her, soaked in her. 
Eyes to the dying sun. 

The horizon is on fire. My lungs draw it in. 
I am eighteen and she embraces me. 
Life has no weight. 
Her world, a languid amber. Time unwound 
and dizzying. 
My axis twisted slowly. 
My world dissolved in her. 

Her soft arms yank at my body. Deeper,
the realization, and I am afraid to be excited. 
Whirling, dance of spheres. Thrashing in terrible beauty. 
My lungs emptying. 
I am eighteen and she is ravenous. 

Do I rise, or, does she push me. I will never know. 
The lesson learned when I crest and wheeze. 
Newborn babe. Taste of salt and needful fire. 
Her world is not my world. I do not control here. 
I can lay back upon her bed. 
Lips drinking in my air. Resting on her palms. 

Wits return with peace. She leads this dance. 
I am eighteen and she is gentle. 
Forgiving of my fumbling, excited movements. 
Respect in rapture. Touching only how she wishes to be touched. 
The rewards. 
My saltwater joins hers on my cheek. 

Her fingers coax me away when she is finished with me. 
When my muscles burn with my skin. 
Returning me to the beach. 
My exhausted body 
laying under the dark sky. 

Hair sticking to my face. 
Palms sinking in the sand. 
Just watching. 
Breathing. 
I am eighteen and she is forever. ]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27397.html Wed, 27 May 2026 19:02:10 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27397.html Miracle


While driving to El Paso, I started seeing double. Now that there 
were twice as many cars, it was hard to focus, though the purple 
mist hanging on everything deserves some blame. The hills were 

wearing drag again: in San Francisco, even the fog spilling over 
your shoulder is florid, aggressively gay. I could see through them 
like fata morgana. Exhausted, the world had become disembodied, 

and in so doing placed me in terrible danger. Except for a Carl’s 
Jr’s pointed obscenity, there were no visible stars. I was sailing 
deep into the beast’s dark, moonless belly. It was a beautiful night.

It should be less cliche for me to say my skull was full of beauty, or 
that I found another fork of lighting in the road. The slumped rope 
of a dead snake’s body disappeared before my headlights; it had just 

been a branch. The lightning tore that oak in two, I said aloud, though 
it was only me out there. It tried to get a good look at its heart, and 
somehow in the process, poor fella lost a limb. Now you’re being 

dramatic, I said, in a raspy voice I hardly recognized. I think that’s 
really beautiful, a different voice replied. A new pair of black tassel 
loafers smoldered in the trunk. My head felt radio. I kept driving.

Two days before the wedding, I take them out to try them on. We have 
to stop at a cobbler’s to get the insteps widened. There's two parking 
spots and both say HANDICAPPED. He takes one look at my duck 

feet, shakes his head, has a birthmark shaped like Texas, says I’ll give 
you these for fifty. My best man laughs so hard he knocks over a pocket 
square display. The air is briefly full of flowers. It’s you I’m marrying. ]]> Miracle


While driving to El Paso, I started seeing double. Now that there 
were twice as many cars, it was hard to focus, though the purple 
mist hanging on everything deserves some blame. The hills were 

wearing drag again: in San Francisco, even the fog spilling over 
your shoulder is florid, aggressively gay. I could see through them 
like fata morgana. Exhausted, the world had become disembodied, 

and in so doing placed me in terrible danger. Except for a Carl’s 
Jr’s pointed obscenity, there were no visible stars. I was sailing 
deep into the beast’s dark, moonless belly. It was a beautiful night.

It should be less cliche for me to say my skull was full of beauty, or 
that I found another fork of lighting in the road. The slumped rope 
of a dead snake’s body disappeared before my headlights; it had just 

been a branch. The lightning tore that oak in two, I said aloud, though 
it was only me out there. It tried to get a good look at its heart, and 
somehow in the process, poor fella lost a limb. Now you’re being 

dramatic, I said, in a raspy voice I hardly recognized. I think that’s 
really beautiful, a different voice replied. A new pair of black tassel 
loafers smoldered in the trunk. My head felt radio. I kept driving.

Two days before the wedding, I take them out to try them on. We have 
to stop at a cobbler’s to get the insteps widened. There's two parking 
spots and both say HANDICAPPED. He takes one look at my duck 

feet, shakes his head, has a birthmark shaped like Texas, says I’ll give 
you these for fifty. My best man laughs so hard he knocks over a pocket 
square display. The air is briefly full of flowers. It’s you I’m marrying. ]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27392.html Fri, 22 May 2026 17:42:10 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27392.html On Credibility 


Little girls learn rape. They get it 
at school & at home. They learn
to scrape them, so their DNA is 
under your fingernails. They learn
to smile with the eyes & with the 
legs, to run. They learn how to absorb
the juice of strawberries, the naked
yellow seeds that look like raw 
polenta, & the sun that ripens 
them until they fill with sweetness men 
would kill to taste, & have, & the 
lessons of a mother who remembers 
how it feels to be a piece of fruit in 
someone else’s mouth. 

Prepared as such they gaze out 
through the windows at the world 
with big big eyes, confused about its 
status. Everything’s alive, the trees 
cough up a squirrel every thirty seconds, 
& the hose is prostrate on the lawn, 
crying its last regrets into a creeping patch 
of brown. How to feel unsafe in such a 
papier-mâché world? It looks so small
and brittle. One imagines it would break 
into a million shards if touched. ]]> On Credibility 


Little girls learn rape. They get it 
at school & at home. They learn
to scrape them, so their DNA is 
under your fingernails. They learn
to smile with the eyes & with the 
legs, to run. They learn how to absorb
the juice of strawberries, the naked
yellow seeds that look like raw 
polenta, & the sun that ripens 
them until they fill with sweetness men 
would kill to taste, & have, & the 
lessons of a mother who remembers 
how it feels to be a piece of fruit in 
someone else’s mouth. 

Prepared as such they gaze out 
through the windows at the world 
with big big eyes, confused about its 
status. Everything’s alive, the trees 
cough up a squirrel every thirty seconds, 
& the hose is prostrate on the lawn, 
crying its last regrets into a creeping patch 
of brown. How to feel unsafe in such a 
papier-mâché world? It looks so small
and brittle. One imagines it would break 
into a million shards if touched. ]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27357.html Thu, 07 May 2026 19:27:55 +0000 JamesG]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27357.html

Watching cars drive by.



It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

An old car drove by,
as cars are wont to do,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat on a bench between
two malnourished trees,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds,
chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.






Not too sure about the title, but I think this isn't too bad. What do ya think? Cars with those names were very common in the UK in the seventies.



Watching cars drive by.


It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

A car drove by, as cars are wont to do,
an old car, though this century,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat and watched other cars go by,
on a bench between
two unhappy trees
that clung to the
side of the smoky tarmac,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds.
Chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

Chipping, chipping,
till my fingers bled and
I had to pick out the
ancient paint that lodged
there like jewelled insects,
desperate to burrow
into the meat of my fingers.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.]]>

Watching cars drive by.



It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

An old car drove by,
as cars are wont to do,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat on a bench between
two malnourished trees,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds,
chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.






Not too sure about the title, but I think this isn't too bad. What do ya think? Cars with those names were very common in the UK in the seventies.



Watching cars drive by.


It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

A car drove by, as cars are wont to do,
an old car, though this century,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat and watched other cars go by,
on a bench between
two unhappy trees
that clung to the
side of the smoky tarmac,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds.
Chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

Chipping, chipping,
till my fingers bled and
I had to pick out the
ancient paint that lodged
there like jewelled insects,
desperate to burrow
into the meat of my fingers.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27352.html Tue, 05 May 2026 14:36:18 +0000 Bruce V]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27352.html On our farm in Kentucky
I would lay on my back in a field
Of tall, golden broomsedge,
Hidden from all the world
Beneath a yellow sun and azure sky
Surrounded by warm golden light,
With puffs of cloud floating by,
A redtail hawk soaring,
Whistling,
Owning the sky.
It was enough.
It was enough.]]> On our farm in Kentucky
I would lay on my back in a field
Of tall, golden broomsedge,
Hidden from all the world
Beneath a yellow sun and azure sky
Surrounded by warm golden light,
With puffs of cloud floating by,
A redtail hawk soaring,
Whistling,
Owning the sky.
It was enough.
It was enough.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27342.html Sun, 26 Apr 2026 13:17:38 +0000 Stan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27342.html Bodies at Daybreak 

The moon, daylit, 
Drawn down, as dyeing goose down, bleeds, 
Sheet-thin, crumbling, 
Cool flax of light, 
Blotted blue by a deluge through a dawn-flooded artery.
 

My chest, in plum, plumes,  rushed, 
Ruffed as the rock dove's breast, 
       In the wind, 
The odd cuticle of sleet, 
      And unsprung March draughts ruffle, 
The ventricles of my feet. 


The toad, breathless skin, 
Shed, nape-led, heaved, 
     Copper back, 
Coin belly-dwelling,
Voice wrung, 
Nightlong, wheezed.


And, 
The mammal combs, 
Brooding, 
Behind sickle-slitted glaze, 
      Votive bones, 
Through broken roots, 
And dewy marks my ankles make.]]> Bodies at Daybreak 

The moon, daylit, 
Drawn down, as dyeing goose down, bleeds, 
Sheet-thin, crumbling, 
Cool flax of light, 
Blotted blue by a deluge through a dawn-flooded artery.
 

My chest, in plum, plumes,  rushed, 
Ruffed as the rock dove's breast, 
       In the wind, 
The odd cuticle of sleet, 
      And unsprung March draughts ruffle, 
The ventricles of my feet. 


The toad, breathless skin, 
Shed, nape-led, heaved, 
     Copper back, 
Coin belly-dwelling,
Voice wrung, 
Nightlong, wheezed.


And, 
The mammal combs, 
Brooding, 
Behind sickle-slitted glaze, 
      Votive bones, 
Through broken roots, 
And dewy marks my ankles make.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27327.html Wed, 22 Apr 2026 02:15:50 +0000 J.K. Solberg]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27327.html

)pen the shades grey flowers are good by

       .
      : see the now blue unset, red herlips on the hereyes
     i am a mapleseedfalling goodbye
    ; for tofall is tofly is tosayyouaremy
  (
       love
                 ,

---

Questions are welcome! I know this is a very abnormal poem. It's inspired by E.E. Cummings' style. Thanks for reading and/or commenting!]]>

)pen the shades grey flowers are good by

       .
      : see the now blue unset, red herlips on the hereyes
     i am a mapleseedfalling goodbye
    ; for tofall is tofly is tosayyouaremy
  (
       love
                 ,

---

Questions are welcome! I know this is a very abnormal poem. It's inspired by E.E. Cummings' style. Thanks for reading and/or commenting!]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27326.html Wed, 22 Apr 2026 01:52:19 +0000 J.K. Solberg]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27326.html Just today I'll be somebody.
For tomorrow flits her glittered eyelids,
and yesterday her 40 love stories --
but you are a sunny somebody
shyly shining through a simple something.]]> Just today I'll be somebody.
For tomorrow flits her glittered eyelids,
and yesterday her 40 love stories --
but you are a sunny somebody
shyly shining through a simple something.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27322.html Mon, 20 Apr 2026 06:55:02 +0000 Rich Brown]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27322.html Breathless chants.
You cradle your bible like a dying friend.

I find you reading Genesis:
If only I could take you there.
In that garden,
I will feed you every fruit from the tree of life.
We can live forever, laughing and dancing past eternity’s gate.

Reality falls from my palm.
I stoop to pocket the universe,
just to keep one memory of you.]]> Breathless chants.
You cradle your bible like a dying friend.

I find you reading Genesis:
If only I could take you there.
In that garden,
I will feed you every fruit from the tree of life.
We can live forever, laughing and dancing past eternity’s gate.

Reality falls from my palm.
I stoop to pocket the universe,
just to keep one memory of you.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27308.html Thu, 16 Apr 2026 06:35:08 +0000 Michael Anon]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27308.html gurgling for my mother tongue
under skyfather blue
until I found among any-angle tangles of downstreams
a brothertongue that swelled my wordhoard.

After many wave copulations
with an insult of parlances,
and an overwhelm of loquacious coinings
I became a rhythmic river
echoing and rhyming down
till I widened into Lake Lexicon.

There I stilled a while
for the fishing of new phrases in a lingua Franca
where scriptures of river songs
were sung and passed down
to babbling babies
to begin all again.

This done
my current carried barges burdened with
tomes, testaments, letters and et ceteras
in a joyful Babel
till clogged up and bogged down in an estuary of low tidings,
chatbot verbiage, emoticons and whatever
I dragged
all down
to where all was
merged
mingled
and
petered out
into
an English sea.

Then on the incoming tide,
A bottle with a message in it.
One day someone will find it and say:
Look what I found: let me read it to you:
“I welled up babbling from a rainground …..]]> gurgling for my mother tongue
under skyfather blue
until I found among any-angle tangles of downstreams
a brothertongue that swelled my wordhoard.

After many wave copulations
with an insult of parlances,
and an overwhelm of loquacious coinings
I became a rhythmic river
echoing and rhyming down
till I widened into Lake Lexicon.

There I stilled a while
for the fishing of new phrases in a lingua Franca
where scriptures of river songs
were sung and passed down
to babbling babies
to begin all again.

This done
my current carried barges burdened with
tomes, testaments, letters and et ceteras
in a joyful Babel
till clogged up and bogged down in an estuary of low tidings,
chatbot verbiage, emoticons and whatever
I dragged
all down
to where all was
merged
mingled
and
petered out
into
an English sea.

Then on the incoming tide,
A bottle with a message in it.
One day someone will find it and say:
Look what I found: let me read it to you:
“I welled up babbling from a rainground …..]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27294.html Sun, 12 Apr 2026 05:00:02 +0000 Michael Anon]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27294.html with a quilt of everything England
A ginger-bread bed-spread
With every coast and Inland.
 
A patchwork feast of fields and shires
Boundaries and what-not-ments.
Squares of cloth with lots of plots
And patches and small allotments
 
Within it all those Tall Tales
Woven well together:
Green Men and grandes dames
All in an English weather.
 
A hunter and a runaway hare
In brilliant broad embroidery
Stitched and fixed higgledy-piggledy
Needle-neat and orderly.
 
Piping boys and girls and babes
Dressed in the altogether
With John Keats among the pleats
And dancing that goes on forever.
 
Knights on horseback, love in a haystack
All their groaning sewn in,
Grandfather clocks and Goldilocks
In the house she's all alone in.

Tea-cup spills and Welsh Hills
Cat's hairs on the borders
Cotswolds and blanket folds
Disruptions and disorders.
 
Little Jack Horner there in the corner
Rucked in and tucked up
While Little Bo Peep has let her sheep
Get all muddled and mucked up.
 
Tipsy maids in Gypsy Glades with
Garlands on a Mayday
Cats in hats with cricket bats
And crones playing croquet.
 
A Brueghel scene you might have seen
But never on a bed-spread:
The heroes and the heroines
From all the tales that you’ve read.
 
Simple Simon and the Pie Man
The Jack and the Beanstalk peddler
Who'll turn you into Puss in Boots
A prince or Cinderella.
 
There's a stain on the pane where Sir Gawain
Stands outside a dragon's den;
And biscuit crumbs where Humpty comes
With all the king's horses and all the king's men.
 
Cover me over with the quilt
Quieten what I’m discovering:
My adulthood stole my childhood
And I am still recovering.]]> with a quilt of everything England
A ginger-bread bed-spread
With every coast and Inland.
 
A patchwork feast of fields and shires
Boundaries and what-not-ments.
Squares of cloth with lots of plots
And patches and small allotments
 
Within it all those Tall Tales
Woven well together:
Green Men and grandes dames
All in an English weather.
 
A hunter and a runaway hare
In brilliant broad embroidery
Stitched and fixed higgledy-piggledy
Needle-neat and orderly.
 
Piping boys and girls and babes
Dressed in the altogether
With John Keats among the pleats
And dancing that goes on forever.
 
Knights on horseback, love in a haystack
All their groaning sewn in,
Grandfather clocks and Goldilocks
In the house she's all alone in.

Tea-cup spills and Welsh Hills
Cat's hairs on the borders
Cotswolds and blanket folds
Disruptions and disorders.
 
Little Jack Horner there in the corner
Rucked in and tucked up
While Little Bo Peep has let her sheep
Get all muddled and mucked up.
 
Tipsy maids in Gypsy Glades with
Garlands on a Mayday
Cats in hats with cricket bats
And crones playing croquet.
 
A Brueghel scene you might have seen
But never on a bed-spread:
The heroes and the heroines
From all the tales that you’ve read.
 
Simple Simon and the Pie Man
The Jack and the Beanstalk peddler
Who'll turn you into Puss in Boots
A prince or Cinderella.
 
There's a stain on the pane where Sir Gawain
Stands outside a dragon's den;
And biscuit crumbs where Humpty comes
With all the king's horses and all the king's men.
 
Cover me over with the quilt
Quieten what I’m discovering:
My adulthood stole my childhood
And I am still recovering.]]>