<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - All Forums]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Thu, 11 Jun 2026 02:29:09 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[For the (sex) cops to bar their threatening return (Cop Convention At My Work)]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27422.html Wed, 10 Jun 2026 01:40:26 +0000 thewilderhen]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27422.html But I refuse to anticipate compliance. I will shove
cops out of my way even if it takes several hard
looks and several gray
streaks in my bog-witch
hair, in the hallway I will strengthen
my looks by repeating them I will confer
upon them an irremovability
the equivalent of destiny, assigned
cop at birth, poor deluded mass, I will pour
electrolytes on their heads I will confuse
the cultural biology of
their gender dressed
in suits, ready to mistake
my car as uber, to get in with
the stretch of a commodious
belonging: how dangerous open
bodies can be, on the road.

We watch me walk down the hall. 
The pollworkers cannot cover
their face, he says. No visible
evidence of weapons, meaning guns he
voices the last part
yes, he voices the last part.



————
Stolen words from Hélène Cixous, late to her party as I am.
When I first heard the acronym ACAB I thought it meant “assigned cis at birth” and I was like, mmmm buddy aren’t we all.]]> But I refuse to anticipate compliance. I will shove
cops out of my way even if it takes several hard
looks and several gray
streaks in my bog-witch
hair, in the hallway I will strengthen
my looks by repeating them I will confer
upon them an irremovability
the equivalent of destiny, assigned
cop at birth, poor deluded mass, I will pour
electrolytes on their heads I will confuse
the cultural biology of
their gender dressed
in suits, ready to mistake
my car as uber, to get in with
the stretch of a commodious
belonging: how dangerous open
bodies can be, on the road.

We watch me walk down the hall. 
The pollworkers cannot cover
their face, he says. No visible
evidence of weapons, meaning guns he
voices the last part
yes, he voices the last part.



————
Stolen words from Hélène Cixous, late to her party as I am.
When I first heard the acronym ACAB I thought it meant “assigned cis at birth” and I was like, mmmm buddy aren’t we all.]]> <![CDATA[Kirchoff]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27421.html Tue, 09 Jun 2026 20:41:37 +0000 dukealien]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27421.html
Coming home each downslope must
be bought back and
each hard-earned up-slope spent.

Iambic, yeah, so sue me...  Tongue 
]]>
Coming home each downslope must
be bought back and
each hard-earned up-slope spent.

Iambic, yeah, so sue me...  Tongue 
]]> <![CDATA[Distemper]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27420.html Sun, 07 Jun 2026 19:26:07 +0000 Wjames]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27420.html your paint through a sieve.

Paint the base flamingo:
velvet with potash, speckle blue.

Bathe and dress for brunch in Celestùn:
open toe linens, vertical stripe mimosas,
lavender cream.]]> your paint through a sieve.

Paint the base flamingo:
velvet with potash, speckle blue.

Bathe and dress for brunch in Celestùn:
open toe linens, vertical stripe mimosas,
lavender cream.]]> <![CDATA[Sestina (for My Father, Who Is Still Alive)]]> 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.]]> <![CDATA[The west has too many poets]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27418.html Sat, 06 Jun 2026 08:54:16 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27418.html …
…]]> …
…]]> <![CDATA[Oenophile (Alterations made)]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27417.html Fri, 05 Jun 2026 21:34:55 +0000 Sean Puckett]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27417.html                                              

I am drunk. Want burns my cheek. Still, I thirst. 
The nectar is your words. My skull the cup. 
Wild vines pulse wine through my flesh. 
The blurring sweetness burns my amphora
held under bone fingers. 

Smother me in your leaves. Bind me to your vineyard. 
Have you no pity? Do you even hear. 
As you watch this madman cursed with sanity. 
Does my begging please you? 

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. Please — let me drink. 
Capillary emerald cracks my shell. 
I know, that I do not wish to know, anymore. 

Salt waters hover over the wine. 
So close to rotting the sacred. 
Gladly, I will shatter my cup. 
Broken into a mosaic. 
I cannot be one when I have so many parts. 

I see. 
I am to be drunk. 
Crushed and fermented. 
Drained until bottle falls from my hands. 
Only the lie ceases. I never had any parts. 

I kiss myself. Ochre on my lips. 
Always the wine. 

                                             
(Previous Version)
I am drunk. Want burns my cheeks. Still, I thirst. 
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.]]>                                              

I am drunk. Want burns my cheek. Still, I thirst. 
The nectar is your words. My skull the cup. 
Wild vines pulse wine through my flesh. 
The blurring sweetness burns my amphora
held under bone fingers. 

Smother me in your leaves. Bind me to your vineyard. 
Have you no pity? Do you even hear. 
As you watch this madman cursed with sanity. 
Does my begging please you? 

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. Please — let me drink. 
Capillary emerald cracks my shell. 
I know, that I do not wish to know, anymore. 

Salt waters hover over the wine. 
So close to rotting the sacred. 
Gladly, I will shatter my cup. 
Broken into a mosaic. 
I cannot be one when I have so many parts. 

I see. 
I am to be drunk. 
Crushed and fermented. 
Drained until bottle falls from my hands. 
Only the lie ceases. I never had any parts. 

I kiss myself. Ochre on my lips. 
Always the wine. 

                                             
(Previous Version)
I am drunk. Want burns my cheeks. Still, I thirst. 
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.]]> <![CDATA[Utz]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27416.html Fri, 05 Jun 2026 17:53:04 +0000 rowens]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27416.html
          Only
 Basic    3      Ingredients


Potatoes, Poison (of three or more possibilities), Salt
OK

Things are going wrong;
then AI comes along.
Things are still wrong:
that's okay,
we have AI to blame It on. . . .]]>
          Only
 Basic    3      Ingredients


Potatoes, Poison (of three or more possibilities), Salt
OK

Things are going wrong;
then AI comes along.
Things are still wrong:
that's okay,
we have AI to blame It on. . . .]]> <![CDATA[Real Hair Don't Melt]]> 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. ]]> <![CDATA[Life]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27414.html Wed, 03 Jun 2026 22:06:07 +0000 Bruce V]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27414.html Each moment
Tailor-made
Perfection bound.

Needs must
Debts paid
Doors open
Light enters]]> Each moment
Tailor-made
Perfection bound.

Needs must
Debts paid
Doors open
Light enters]]> <![CDATA[Is abu nuwas still around? what a thread!]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27413.html Wed, 03 Jun 2026 09:56:35 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27413.html https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-12325.html

abu nuwas being right as usual in dismissing that fraud Ezra Pound]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-12325.html

abu nuwas being right as usual in dismissing that fraud Ezra Pound]]> <![CDATA[Don't press send.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27412.html Wed, 03 Jun 2026 08:52:50 +0000 JohnS]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27412.html in their room, computer going,
talking to some AI friend,
taking pictures
and pressing send.


They should be at the swimming hole,
or by the river with a fishing pole.
Hanging out, maybe smoking weed,
playing records
and building dreams.


Hey kids,
that pretty gal on your computer screen,
isn’t what you think she is,
it’s some guy lurking behind the scenes,
don’t send those pictures or your life is his.


Another boy took his life today,
he didn’t have enough cash to pay
to get his pictures back again.


Any critique gratefully received.]]> in their room, computer going,
talking to some AI friend,
taking pictures
and pressing send.


They should be at the swimming hole,
or by the river with a fishing pole.
Hanging out, maybe smoking weed,
playing records
and building dreams.


Hey kids,
that pretty gal on your computer screen,
isn’t what you think she is,
it’s some guy lurking behind the scenes,
don’t send those pictures or your life is his.


Another boy took his life today,
he didn’t have enough cash to pay
to get his pictures back again.


Any critique gratefully received.]]> <![CDATA[Needs Adjustment]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27410.html Tue, 02 Jun 2026 18:53:20 +0000 dukealien]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27410.html

Water rattles in the sink,
ice cubes avalanche in freezer;
wind-whipped branches saw on siding,
rain drum-serenades the roof.
Passing truck-tires lion-bellow,
wet shoes porpoise-squeal on floors;
voices blare from distant tables,
I hear birds no eye can spy
chirping loudly under gables:
hearing aid is set too high.]]>

Water rattles in the sink,
ice cubes avalanche in freezer;
wind-whipped branches saw on siding,
rain drum-serenades the roof.
Passing truck-tires lion-bellow,
wet shoes porpoise-squeal on floors;
voices blare from distant tables,
I hear birds no eye can spy
chirping loudly under gables:
hearing aid is set too high.]]> <![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]]> 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
 
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
 
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[5-31-26]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27405.html Mon, 01 Jun 2026 02:24:37 +0000 Tiger the Lion]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27405.html this night
a darling clementine]]> this night
a darling clementine]]>