We’re in the home stretch of National Poetry Month. You’re almost there, kids. And since you’re already struggling, let’s do a poem that’s sure to make you really uncomfortable.

I admit it. I like to watch you squirm.

***

Hips

There’s something about her hips.
The way they’re spread wide
and far, like the rumor of
good things to come.
The way the curve of them
begs for hands to grip
just at the top, squeeze,
hold on for the ride of your
Life.

We’re half-way through National Poetry Month. Are you feeling the burn? Don’t worry. You’re doing great. And this poem is a fun one. It answers a question writers get all the time.

I don’t think you’ll like my answer, though.

***

Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?

I want to say my mind is a prism,
that it fractures the light of reality
into a rainbow, creates a palette
I paint with to please the masses.

In actuality, my mind is a kitchen sink drain
that I clean out now and then
and save the best bits of gunk
to make a meal no one eats.

National Poetry Month continues, and so does the onslaught of my bad poetry. Let’s have some fun with a poem that would have folks loudly declaring that the shoe doesn’t fit if they read it.

Good thing nobody’s read it.

***

Let’s Eat

Men are vegetarian dogs.
They like to chew on skinny things-
matchsticks, toothpicks,
meatless bones
picked clean by high standards.
A man is finicky about his meal.

Women, though, women like to dine,
feast, indulge in the banquet
laid before them, the tastes,
the textures, the variety, the flavors
washing over their tongues, savoring.
A woman is not a picky eater.

It’s National Poetry Month, my yearly excuse to inflict my terrible poetry on your delicate sensibilities, a weekly barrage of cringe-worthy attempts at art.

I hope you like abuse.

***

This Is a Bad Poem

This is a bad poem.
First and foremost it doesn’t rhyme,
except by accident one time.
Secondly, it doesn’t use enough devices.
It lacks metaphors like a drought lacks rain.
It has all the symbolism of an anvil
dropped from a great height
onto a cartoon character
who never saw it coming
despite the music.
Lastly, it took me only ten minutes to write it
and five minutes to edit it.
Fifteen minutes too many because
this is a bad poem.

It’s the last week of National Poetry Month. You did it! You made it! The last terrible poem you have to read!

Until next year.

Get Ready With Me

She lets her coffee cool as
she puts together her face
puts together her day
puts together her life
one coat of mascara at a time

Hang in there. National Poetry Month and the terrible poetry is almost over. Just one more week after this.

My Soul’s Meat Vehicle

Sometimes I think I’m just stardust
With delusions of grandeur
Living a whole life
That I made no plan for

That I’m nothing more than mediocre
A dull, used old soul
Inhabiting a blob of skin
That does little to keep out the cold

Most times, though, I feel rather bold
And insist on my space
My spirit roars into the room
Scattering folks with haste

It’s true, I am not to everyone’s taste
The gallons I get to the mile
How I customized my ride
They can’t dig my outward style

Just like them, I here for a while
Stardust looking for a miracle
Cruising along with the top down
In my soul’s meat vehicle

National Poetry Month continues and so does the terrible poetry.

John’s Last Phone Booth

I’d like to get lost
for a little while
look for the last
phone booth

put in some change
dial a number
and talk to no one
in particular

I’d like to get lost
for a little while
walk cracked roads
to nowhere

see no faces
that I know
or no faces
at all

I’d like to get lost
for a little while
lose myself once
or twice

find my way
back again
the same but
someone else

April is National Poetry Month and in honor of that, instead of a weekly blog post, you’ll be subjected to a weekly poem. Will they be good? No. Like my tiny terribly art, I do this for my own enjoyment. Being good has nothing to do with it.

Even if I did win second place in a state poetry contest my sophomore year of high school.

But I digress.

Gird your loins.

Art

Colorful and dark
I’ll bring the blues
and greens and pinks
and whites
I’ll always bring the white
the too bright washout
fade
the Browns and the Blacks
and the Yellows and the Reds
I’ll bring the beige
The purples we talk about
and the greys we don’t
The oranges we swallow
and the truths we won’t
I’ll bring the indigo, the violet
the night
the rainbow
I’ll bring the colors
smeared on the dark
A painting
A still life
unframed