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Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
Topic 29: Write a poem inspired by temptation.
Form: any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Questions?
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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A Bucket for Monsieur
Enough is enough, yet one more morsel
surely cannot hurt, and might even satisfy?
(What say you Mr. Creosote? Waffer thin?)
Such is temptation, a full moon's worth
of words, carcass cleaned, so little meat,
but bones may still serve to make a stock.
I could just stop, here, so close
to the (gruelling, I do beg your pardon)
finish, and who would know?
A fool began April and May waits
upon a fool's arrival; to think that
tomorrow one might finally rise to the challenge.
.
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hopeful tides
some seas are called dead
although they don´t know it yet
and still indulge in memories
(or maybe heat-spurred fantasies)
of creeks or even rivers.
what´s there to do but waiting
for mercy from above.
rain, they know (and hope),
dilutes the salt a little while.
like any other sea
the dead ones feel the moon
in all its tempting sway
while arid skies keep drinking
and tides wear out.
...
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Natural Temptation
I promised to hold your hand until the end,
both of us entering a dark forest:
birches aglow with moonlight,
their shine angelic, almost comforting,
then clouds turn pines dark as your saddest dress.
Soon, I'll have to hold you
as we approach the other side,
my steps will count as two, but no one
keeps a ledger for such things;
the same is true for the number of times
I've considered letting go of you.
Time is the best editor.
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In the Moment
I realize that I’m coming
up with excuses to hold you
in my gaze. Ice melts
and I warm to the idea
of you, the present you—the one
who carries no consequences
or complications. I should look away,
but I realize that I’m coming
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
just mercedes
Unregistered
It calls me still,
the place where toi toi grows lush between
clumps of flax in the swampy marsh,
where pohutukawa’s wind-whipped limbs
shelter the morepork owl,
where cold streams race
deep in glades between distant ridges,
where sound, once heard, vanishes
with no more trace than snowflakes
melting on an outstretched hand.
A train whistle fading
through darkness lit only by moon,
and glow worms; the siren call
of the world that lay in wait
and claimed me.
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The easiest temptation, maybe,
is to explain. And hardest
to resist.
Feels so good
at the time, talking biggety
like, I’m more than you.
Then to blush
at having acted foolish
in public, even small-public.
Titling, you know, is
a form of explanation.
(Dang! Did it again.
(Dang!!))
 Non-practicing atheist
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Some days I swear
I'd swap my soul
for a slice of night,
to dream the dream
of easing into bed with you
and snoring before you finish
your prayers,
or to relive
that 9th grade afternoon
playing thumb wars in the lunchroom
till my hands sweat
and I negotiated surrender.
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Front row seats to watch fat people eat
The hippo on a tightrope
balances type two diabetes
with heart disease
slipping on the greasy fingers
of fried chicken wings.
There' s a ballet being performed
in the high street KFC,
an opera on every re-enforced settee.
The poise and balance of chubby hands
wrapped around dwarfed pieces of food,
devoured with an insensate stare,
laboured in breath and motivated to movement.
The villain of the piece is always someone close,
a feeder who offers them an assisted death, a choice yes,
but none the less, inevitable.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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Laylah
time to shut up
now,
time for deafness
and darkness
the only sense for you
is feeling,
your tongue will not move
to speak but to taste
soon enough the stars
will burst,
soon enough this roof
will fall on heads
but not on mine --
i will be far away
perhaps in another country,
eating grapes
waiting to hear your "soon enough"
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