Yuppies

The young urban woman longs.
She doesn’t know for whom yet.

The young urban woman has friends.
They tell each other which dresses not to buy.

The young urban woman has money.
This helps her buy dresses she doesn’t wear.

The young urban woman has a walk-in closet.
This is where she puts the dresses she doesn’t wear.

The young urban woman looks out the window.
She rented the apartment for the view of the city.

The young urban woman feels empty.
Because she has so much already, this confuses her.

The young urban woman calls her friends.
They advise her to find a young urban man.

The young urban woman feels inadequate.
In spite of her cornucopia of dresses, she has nothing to wear.

The young urban woman meets a young urban man.
He doesn’t know what kind of shoes she’s wearing.

The young urban woman takes the young urban man to a bar.
There are neon lights, expensive cocktails; the music is popular.

The young urban man buys the young urban woman a drink.
It’s fruity and goes down easily, so he buys her another.

The young urban man read Sartre in college.
If he hadn’t written a paper on the bastard, he would have forgotten him.

The young urban woman also read Sartre in college.
She needs reminding about the points he made.

The young urban man explains Sartre to the young urban woman.
She can see a prideful glint behind his designer glasses.

The young urban woman thinks she likes the young urban man.
Could this be the whom of the question?

The young urban man suggests they get out of this place.
The young urban woman is curious as to this development.

The young urban woman takes him up the elevator to his apartment.
They giggle, adolescent again, anticipating a thrill.

The young urban woman fucks the young urban man.
The young urban woman thinks she has found the answer.

The young urban man wakes up before the young urban woman.
He leaves a note on the breakfast table with his number.

The young urban woman wakes up, makes coffee, finds the note.
Something clicks, and something else falls out of place.

#4 Good Morning

“Good Morning” I Chirp
As I walk into work
“Is it?” you ask

To be honest
The answer is “No”
I would rather be on my Treasure Island
Where soft moonlight falls on me
After hours of toiling at your sweatshop

No Newbs Please, We’re SF

You can’t say sci-fi
If you want us to take you
Seriously

Don’t use time travel
Post-modern SF holds it
Unrealistic

Any fool can write,
But science fiction is a
Highly refined art


Prompt: Genre poetry
Form: Linked haikus

 

 

#4 – The secret in your bag

Creature_20140610121148You got the secret in your bag

Your bag is in the middle of the road

Exactly in the middle of the crossroad

There is no cat in your bag

But nobody knows it

Nobody knows

The secret is in your bag

 

The secret of the cell division

Happening just there

In your bag of cells

The secret is in your bag

Don’t forget it too long

Just there on the crossroad

It will be crashed down

 

You don’t want to lose

The secret in your bag

The secret is nothing

But nobody knows

But you

That the secret that is nothing

Is in your bag in danger

 

Come on take it with you now

The secret in your bag

Will soon change your life

For the baggy secret

That you reward yourself with

Will be soon the best of your life

Listen to me Son don’t be fool

 

Your bag is in the middle of the road

Exactly in the middle of the crossroad

There is no cat in your bag

But nobody knows it

Nobody knows

The secret is in your bag

Scar (4)

While the bees buzzed and the trees sighed,
I was not yet created.
You were only ten
Moving in unknown terrain
Seeking their attention
Desperate to belong.

I was poised at the end of the tree thorn
Waiting to bestow upon your brow
The kiss of pain and blood
That will mark you for the rest of your life
Reminding you that you do
Not need their acceptance.

I, birthed by flesh torn without feeling or sound.
When you emerged from the forest with your prize
Crimson rivers along your nose
Comrades running to your aid, to
Repair the tear rent in the
Tapestry of your face.

I am still here, pale and shiny with age
A reminder of a time
When you sought approval from those
Unworthy of your presence.
I am here reminding you to
Approve of yourself.

#4

This is not a love poem to a person.
I have left many of them behind, and
none of them have chosen to stowaway
in my heart or mind or otherwise to be remembered.

This is not a love poem to the home
I left behind, with its noise of televisions
and radios and all that constant…
This is not a rant.

This isn’t even a letter, for it is not
meant to be sent, or read,
as the recipient would have no eyes.

This is a monologue of a
loner who is not lonely, but perhaps…
nostalgic, of the colours
left behind, in the third planet,
as we belong now to the red.

Inspired by the writing prompt, written having Mars One project in mind.

Rachel

She had eyes the colour of the Islay Sea.
Her hair silk and russet. Against the paleness of
her marked skin.There was strength
in her that burned…. a quasar. When she spoke
you listened. As if someone had whispered
into your soul. With that it grasped your heart
filling it with awe. A catalyst engulfing you
with desire to do a little more.Create
something beautiful. A woman who’s inner
light is Sirius. And unlike any other.
She is Osmium. Tá sí an bhean Is breá liom.

#4 – Bella

pink nose, black lips
sweet ball of fur
stripes & solids, bright green eyes
contented little purr

by my side through thick & thin
almost eleven years
since six weeks old, you have been here
through the laughter & the tears

i can tell you anything
secrets you hold tight
whispered softly in your ear
on many a lonely night

snuggles & cuddles, licks & bites
often at the exact same time
whether you’re snoring or meowing loud
i’m so grateful to call you mine

you love me like no other has
though sometimes you can be a brat
i don’t care, i love you still
you’ll always be my favorite cat

Typhoon

I still recall how loud the wind

blew as it slew the wire

screens around the terrace,

how everything screamed

and howled into my eyes wide

open, unafraid

 

while they told me that the

banging of the door, the same sound

when the old ones were raving,

was the dark bad man from behind

the sacred tree, angry at our

non-belief, our loud music,

 

our short skirts, our lack of fear.

It was easy to wonder why, even then,

the words carried on the wind,

which only I could hear, spoke in

a language warmer than fire,

heavier than eyes full of sleep.

 

(c) Ella Wagemakers, 18.18 Dutch time (= 12.20 EST in the US)