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Southern Belle - 2I want to sing you songs on the low notes
for hours.  Comb your hair behind your ear,
gentle and lingering.  Slip into your eyes-
anything.   You are

a ripple spreading across me.  You are refracted light;
slickness of an abalone's back. The soft pearl.
Idle thought of my afternoon- always, always

I imagine.  And Bourbon's not so far:
nineteen hours through a day,
then I could see you. Will we ripen
on touch?
systemhe said that one day I,
who have grown accustomed
to accumulating moons,
drawn like moths
to my Venus-brightness,
would meet my match.

he told me I would be
captured by the brilliance
of a star,
a Betelgeuse, a behemoth:
supergiant turned supernova turned
supermassive black hole.

he informed me, peeking out
from under my gravity,
his erratic elliptical orbit,
that one day I would be
swallowed up

and that it would be poetic justice.
Bitlet 09 - PoliticsWhen I speak of Carolina, cicadas sing in my memory
and I want to shout so you, little sister, might understand
the way a creature smaller than my hand can stand
with its brethren and shake my arrogance, how each
of their voices alone are just the sliver of a whisper -
but singing together they become thunder.
Jenner - 35This will be the Christmas I remember
stringing popcorn and cranberries for hours
to wrap around the tree

the lightly buttered popcorn, all we could find
musking fresh pine- and a smidge of blood,
won over by the needle. The year of a

mostly empty apartment: the plain
white walls and black metal chair
we use as a TV stand.  Telling ourselves

we're not broke; we choose to live like this:
nomads with little to grab
when we get out and go

and one buttered Christmas tree
adorned with blue lights
and beer corks.
Lies I Tell Us After Hours #1I can't live without you
is a lie.  I can.  You will

die and leave me
here, persisting

all truth of the sentence.
Bleachingi.
So far beyond black
there has been a whiting

Ten arrows shot
and the moon blew out

Took my color as I
took her heart

ii.
Do not be surprised
when night follows

Puts his shadow at your back
and tugs at your ankles

I will be at your neck
a finger trailing

iii.
The moon
I rarely give thought

Her pale too stark
for my black

Her pale now paled
to yours

iv.
Did I love her?
No one holds an orbit

No one; she told me
black was much the same

      well-
I'm willing to wager my pale
if you'll wager in kind
Ryan's PoemHow many times did you save me
from myself?

The quiver girl,
strung tight and shaking,

self-nursed at the end
of a whiskey bottle;

your ever-night,
shuddering off to sleep

a sick bat wrapped up
beneath your bed,
half rabid;

half intelligible-
if you were lucky.

Good nights I curled up
against your broad shoulders,
smiling
as you palmed a bowl,

taking in air
to request records
and savory things
to eat - and then,

I nested on top of your pillow
as much
as any girlfriend

yet never quite
a lover.

I was hard on the heart, Darling, wasn't I?

Never yours
and now

we never speak.
AcquittalWon't you leave me?  I will love you
more than if you stay, transfixed

to the point of reference, our bodies
melding a sad, soft sublime, the back

spine of a little universe blown out
like a crafter's hot glass, the growing

moment, the wonder, the expansion
before a chill.  
You Need A New MusePoets, if your muse smells like eggnog, boiled eggs, fresh eggs,
or any sort of egg at all: get a new muse. If your muse makes sounds-
chomping or mewing, smacking, or worse, slurping - when she eats
animal crackers: you need a new muse. If she’s that sloppy gal that
downs a pint and hollers, “Freebird” at the bar, you know where I’m going with this:
you need a new muse. And trust me, pudding, when your muse misquotes
Bill Cosby while eating jello, you're going to wish you had gotten yourself
that new muse.
If she begins to insist on beginning debates with “irregardless,”
you won't need a dictionary to tell that you need a new muse. Even brings
to question your rhyme scheme or does not know how to tell you
she set the table in iambic pentameter, seriously, you need
a new muse. If you can’t get her to write you letters, but can’t break her
from sending four-page texts, then it’s time to call in a new muse. If she doesn’t know
t
Browse More Like This

More from `vespera

Amy's Baking Company: Not Endorsed by SantaOn Saturday, I decided to sate my curiosity,
drive the half hour over to Scottsdale to gawk:
Amy's Baking Company, closed
after their distasteful run-in with Ramsey.

I was alternating between giggles and voyeuristic glee
at the closed sign hanging smugly in the window,
when up pulled a late model family van,
off-white and inconspicuous.

The driver's eyes twinkled, his cheeks were rosy,
as he leaned towards the passenger side and said:
"They deserved everything they get, and I'm Santa,"
he chuckled, "well, at Christmastime."
CastingWhat was once just a hill
North of Flagstaff-
Charred log bones
break through the snow
On the Typewriter, the Morning After

Featured in Groups

:iconself-publishing: :iconglory-be-project:
×

Holiday Tweet

:iconvespera:

Baked two spiced pumpkin pies,
barely stretching the crusts over
each dish & everyone will know
that I am a poet, not a baker.

Wrote no poems.

200

14 31 5
:iconvespera:

Holiday Tweetby `vespera

DescriptionDetailsShare
Download HTML download, 262 bytes
This poem was published over at YourDailyPoem dot com over the holidays -> [link] :)

This was a little "short" poem I wrote as an exercise which started with me writing a "twitter" poem for every day of the week during Thanksgiving. This was by far the best.

:iconglory-be-project: Tomorrow we start!!!! Perhaps you will feel inspired to write a (hung-over?) twitter poem for your entry. Or a haiku. Or whatever. But let's start the new year off with a bang! :)
©2012-2013 `vespera
Category: Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

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December 31, 2012
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:iconbeyondjen:
*BeyondJen Jan 2, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I dig it. Love how you ended it. (:
Reply
:iconvespera:
`vespera Jan 3, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:love:
Reply
:icontonepainter:
=tonepainter Jan 1, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
"...I am a poet, not a baker."

(Such a wise choice. Bakers can't be choosers.)

I love this; great ending. :D:D:D
Reply
:iconvespera:
`vespera Jan 3, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
(hehehe, I suppose not!) :heart:
Reply
:iconriparii:
*riparii Dec 31, 2012
Toot sweet. This is a little slice of heaven.
Reply
:iconvespera:
`vespera Jan 3, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
<3 you are toot sweet
Reply
:iconfuzzyhoser:
`FuzzyHoser Dec 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Heeeeeeey, I remember this. ;P
I love it when I like something and then it goes BOOM in a big, fluffy way. Hahaha :heart:
Reply
:iconvespera:
`vespera Dec 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I know. The little poem that almost never was. HA HA. I'm glad I scrapped the rest - it ended up much stronger alone.
Reply
:iconfuzzyhoser:
`FuzzyHoser Dec 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Good thing the rest of the week was uninspiring, eh? LOL
Reply
:iconvespera:
`vespera Dec 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
:lmao: an upside to writer's block and crazy holidays ;)
Reply
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