I can try...


Flush


I held her hair as she leaned to the bowl
and tossed her guts another time or three.
"But for the grace of God that would be me,"
I thought, and wondered at the whole
unlikely night, the meeting in the bar,
the proffered drink, the glance, the smile, the nod,
"God, but she has the most divine, unreal, voluptuous bod,"
time flew, drinks drained, I led her to my car.

That was, I think, tomorrow seven years.
Now kneeling in a splash of gastric juice,
my arms embracing white, my head bent low,
I feel her hand brush back my flopping fears.
(How could I ever see in arms a noose?)
She hits the flush, I watch the waters flow.

That's a heck of a good poem Dan, a not uncommon scenario but rarely so well treated. It should be posted at Deep End for critique and consideration.

Jim

Sigmoidoscopy

He who having used the outer light,
can return to the inner light,
is thereby preserved from all harm.
Lao Tzu


She said an artist would love this,
the gastroenterologist.
What, the entry or the exit?
This Ansel Adams of the anus,
connoisseur of horizonless pink inscapes,
probes, probes, and probes,
blasting air into the tunnel
to illuminate its turns,
the slick translucencies
that wall the creeping capillaries
straining to be purple on my palette.

"Doctor, are those yellow spots corn?"

"No," she answers, "this looks terrific,
they're just pieces of fecal matter."

Never did I dream that fecal matter
would highlight the only
film in which I've starred:
Olson, in His Own Colon,
for fifteen minutes famous,
but alone, so alone,
on the outside looking in.


Bob

This Ansel Adams of the anus,>>>


I'd call this brilliant, but I'd be too ashamed,
O Shameless One.

still laffing,
wendy

Joe Leaphorn, where are you?

Joe, Joe, what have they done?
Maybe they've been too long in the sun?
Good Lord, you were wearing a suit and a tie!
What do they think, you're an FBI guy?

Joe, Joe , can't believe what I've seen
Jim teaching you? You being green?
Your carryall has become a sedan,
your map disappeared and you don't know your clan.

Joe, Joe, I'm in total despair.
For two months I've waited for this show to air
'cause Hillerman's stories are beyond compare
and page turners. Man, it just isn't fair!

It's not just this "Skinwalkers" gobledygook,
a movie will never come close to the book.

------------------
Sharon P.
http://get-me.to/chinaberries

if clawson can post previously written work, i will follow his example with this poem about tax preparation.

peter d


Villanelle: April 15

Two hundred clients see me every year.
They call or e-mail, and we set a date
as, month by month, the filing deadline nears.

The organized, the ones who face their fears,
the ones due refunds (federal and state) --
I meet those clients early in the year.

Our sessions are relaxed -- my schedule's clear.
They've added their receipts; they're never late.
The calls come faster when the deadline's near.

Slow filers are predictable, though dear:
next time, they vow, they won't procrastinate.
April brings half my clients for the year.

In heart-to-hearts that no one else will hear
I jot down notes, ask questions, calculate,
hand them their tax forms as the deadline nears.

I've come to feel they always will appear --
old, young, singles, couples gay and straight --
That I'll see all two hundred every year.
But decades pass, and sterner deadlines near.


(published in 96 Inc, 1999)

Stumbled across this thing in my writing directory. Seemed to fit in here.


Feces, feces everywhere
Nor anyplace to step,
Odiferous reminders of
The neighbors' darling Shep.



[This message has been edited by Dan Scheltema (edited January 28, 2003).]

I am going to take the challenge in a different direction, not that I am not a fan of scatlogical subjects. (Some of my favorite shit.) It strikes me that the things we, or at any rate I, have the greatest difficulty writing poems about are those most serious events in life about which so much has been written, and so much has become cliche that we have simply, most of the time, to accept triteness, knowing that it's the thought that counts. The worst are the happy occasions, for there is no convenient profundity in them, though there is plenty available in unhappy ones, often enough. So we write about death with relish, for example. (Quite a pickle I've put myself in.) One such subject is the serious contemplation of marriage. I can only offer a little epigrammatic advice that sums a tortuous life's wisdom, if it can be called that. I do at least believe what I am saying in this poem. That would be the challenge: write a poem about marriage in which one expresses what one finally, truly thinks about some aspect of it--not some transient feeling about it, but lasting sentiments, borne of trial and error after error after error, and a good deal of observation of the miseries of others. Call me a sexist if you must, but I further dare anyone to write a poem expressing the exact opposite sentiments.


A Warning to Bachelors

The old maids care the most about the wedding.
Wise women care the most about the bedding.
The maiden cares the most--Ah! Can you guess?
Too true: she cares the most about the dress.

Because I cannot meet the challenge…

A Warning to Bachelorettes

The old farts care the most about the inning.
While swordsmen care the most about the winning.
The stallion cares the most about-- you guessed it!
So sad: he cares the most about the grit.

But you are a great source of inspiration!


A Warning to Husbands

The old wives’ tales are nearly always true:
That honey’s sweetest that is licked by you.
Your lily’s gelded. You must beard your pride
And be domesticated, kneel, and ride!


A Warning to Wives

Admit you are dissatisfied to linger
With no more company than ring and finger.
Do not expect to fix a fixer upper.
It’s better to eat crow than a cold supper.


A Short Warning to Boyfriends

Relax. That noise you hear is just the spring
That snaps the mouse’s neck, poor little thing.


A Short Warning to Girlfriends

Go lead to water first your happy horse
Then let it run to death. Forget divorce.


A General Admonition

There is a universal suction
About all things in reproduction.


And Don’t Forget

The fun’s
Soon done.