Write Us A Poem

Litkicks Poetry
Because it's the first day of November, because it's the first day of a new LitKicks format, because big things are at stake, because the Red Sox won the World Series ...

These are just a few reasons why we hope you will write us a poem about what you are doing or thinking about today.
44 Responses to "Write Us A Poem"

by Rog on

Ozymandias AwaitsOzymandias, once high and mightylurks in purgatorywatches Fox Newsdreams about the book dealcontemplates starting a bloga weary world wakes up and goes to workin the desert expanse, jet planes rocketsomething is not rightand Ozymandias can't even get a call-inon the Howard Stern show anymorefire the gunstaxi to the runwayroll out the red carpetsomebody is important todaybut Ozymandias needs a new agent

by singlemalt on

Trick or TreatTrick or treatWhat did you get for Halloween?I got a trickMy father told me he has inoperable pancreatic cancer.He has six months to live.My father's father didn't live to the age of sixty.My father won't live to the age of seventy.So is half of my life over?How do I tell my three year-old?Shouldn't a child have a grandfather?I'm too young to plan a funeral.My father is too young to die.Trick or treat.What did you get for Halloween?

by Billectric on

Cool. This got me on a tangent of looking up Ozymandias on the internet and I found all kinds of interesting things. I like the way you juxtapose the modern & the ancient in this poem.

by brooklyn on

Dave -- sorry to hear your news. I hope writing helps you get through it. Whatever helps ...-- Levi

by ARAHH on

Exhaustion SpanMy day is all so silent, heavy lead --no touch or humor though with colors brightof leaves from which our summer's hope has fledand promise that escaped the trance of night.These tired eyes and memory they turnand try to spell the language that they toresince once so eager we were here to learnwith open minds and senses yearning fortheir righteous food and song. Now stillis what I long for and in dazzled danceI follow, drift to work and on, to power's willso far from care and tender air, romance:It's on such days of gray I think that freedom hidden can't either lie in elections or they'd be forbidden.

by Billectric on

Not that this helps, but I can relate to your situation. I'm so sorry to hear the news.

by ARAHH on

Not that this might help: but i got distracted from answering by a phone call from my daughter's girlfriend (11) who just learned about her father having cancer.It's a mad world - and we all should turn to each other in such tunnels. Try to hold yourself from drowning: look, but drink and eat.Time will help.

by Arcadia on

Mondayofficial days(they say dead ones and saints are around)jazmins in the living roommemory tricks,how long an experience is?

by Arcadia on


by Sylph on

LotusI close my eyesinhaleand watch each petal unfoldSlowlyI exhaleI am lotus

by Billectric on

Walter, that's a righteous poem, man! I especially like the lines"try to spell the language that they toresince once so eager we were here to learnwith open minds and senses yearning for"and, at the risk of trivializing the poem, I'll say this: It's like a mixture of Robert Frost and Edgar Allan Poe. But it's really much more than that as well.

by kkizer on

Nothing NewWhat's to say today?Wet leafy membrane day of the weekA day away from who knows whatWhat's to say today?That Fernando Valenzuela hasn't saidA million times before?What's to say today?Two streaks ended in BostonThe Sox Win! The Pats Lose!What's to say today?A red car drives slowly down the hillTrailing exhaust smoke in the dewy airWhat's to say today?I care little about death and even less about lifeThey're different sides of the same coinWhat's to say today?From around the globe our brothers and sisters dieAnd I'm not talking about AmericansWhat's to say today?A good friend of mine signed a giant contract with the VikingsThen blew his knee out the next weekWhat's to say today?Everyone's lip-synching through lifeSome are just better than othersWhat's to say today?It's been raining all dayAnd there seems to be no end in sightWhat's to say today?Bomb the grassy patches of land!Burn the lovely puffy clouds!Break the serene lake!What's to say today?The same thing as every other dayVast kalpas and timeless eternityWhat's to say today?That hasn't been said another wayAnd much better by someone other than me?

by brooklyn on

Nice poem, but exactly what did Fernando Valenzuela say? That reference went over my head, got the rest ...

by joshuagriffin on

sameysame on this rainy daydizzy drops flip-flop, fallingfrom an overcast shadow:a man, soaked &annoyed,walks aloneclipclapwet soles pound the pavment,sameysame on this rainy daythe scene is mundane, GoodYears slash in the streeta roaring stampede rustling byeAway they sail, over the hilly horizon to points hecannot see. Blackbird's cawcaws aredrowned by CryingWind as his sobs carry brisk chills downthe man's back, pimpling his flesh.

by jim vinny on

The Inadequacy of LanguageTo say the world is dying slowIs understatement, speed of thoughtAssures us that the things we knowAnd the loves we care to growWill one day all still come to noughtBut caution to the winds we throwJust stand there and accept your lotAnd regard the steady river flowAnd note the darkness of the crowBecause, my friend, it's all we've got

by jim vinny on

my brother - i'm very sorry to hear this. i went through something similiar a little while back, so i have a good idea what it's like. cold comfort, i know, but you know i'm here if you want to talk.stay strong,damian

by fabled construct on

The smearing of newsprint as you eatA serious man had become tired,his eye lashes feathered beneath himas the sun rose and harshened his face.There are holes in his clothesthat came to him as friends, and he's convinced himselfthat bee wings smell of whiskey,while the cracked slime on the window sillfertilised the eggplant.Sunlight in his face,reminder of when he killed himself as a girl in the quarry;he left the house for the paper,muttered the word of God,buttered toast, contemplated cable television...The ink of the newspaperdepress his finger prints,it's like a science of 'Couch',or watching vinyl sink and cough.And he had the idea of workbefore they evicted him, "the corridors of London lightly rape the country",he'd said under quasi-religious tone,and that was the time he was arrested.

by kkizer on

it didn't really mean anything except for today's his birthday. you would have KNOWN that if you have visited lit-fuse this morning!-Kevin

by bohonato on

Je Deteste Le Monde Aujourd'huiI RAGE!Forgot my key,Broke into my own home,Burn the past away.I HATE!So tired, For want of sleep.Tomorrow is Election Day.

by mnaz on

Rattlesnake PorchAcross this broken porch,in simple mind-altering midday heat,I watch reality and imaginationpass thru the same front door;come in out of the sun for awhile.The desert never noticed,never could tell the two apart;shape shifting vehicles in the flow,out across cracked hot earth planes,boiling reflection, motion.Seen from a rattlesnake porch,they're equal parts motion and myth,those spaces, filmy horizons; fluid abstractions, all of them,if they could only be penetrated,reality held at arm's length.Later I'll claim a piece of it,drink six shots of whiskey, scribble thoughts about a woman,to be thrown away at the next motel.I'll wander into a parched gale,note its incongruent warm welcome,generate erratic orbits,recite an entire Sergio Leone flick,until the orbits converge towardanother shot of enlightenment.Scene over

by beatvibe on

smithI am anvilawaiting hammersteel forgedon my backiron rodsbecome swordsboys become men

by Billectric on

Average Duro-SwitchDayEnd of a long dayI learn try, try Bench poured low, Absorbed as she called out. Stimulate the hours,Heard on first year so far,The voice sounded hellishFor so many distances I slowly lifted my films.New away tunnel, she saw new Written things -- habits, letters, teachers It out-named the Horror Picture Show,Perception made an appearance.Live WhiteHouse feed, during seek help,Into reality by the rocky meditationsRemained what heard I would not differA million days following, and soon.The inaugurations who renew full Holds upon life, rumbling sound of performers,Which time casts, sounding the finest thing,Almost footsteps approaching elapsed 24 hours.

by slog on

murderPart of being hardcore is not to fear death. After having a gun pointed at your head you almost feel blessed. So don't be so surprised in I stand in front of you while I undress.I'm not that shy to not let myself confess.Like I told you I don't fear death.If you haven't figured it out I don't want to be caressed.Come or go point a gun to my head.This morning my neighbor who teaches at the college I go to;was murdered dead. Poor Morgan, one of the nicest guys I've ever met.Professor of foreign languages at this tiny South Dakota school, the month of November has always been cruel.Part of being hardcore is not to fear death. What can you say after you have a gun pointed to your head?Rainy November 1, this is the second dead one I've met in the town of South Dakota where the winter begins.Lived downstairs, drove a late model Alfa Romeo. Nice Guy, Lakota blood. Campus police tell us "Walk in pairs" I'm not scared of death. I'm scared of the dreams to come.

by singlemalt on

Thanks all.A pretty crappy time. But I've got a strong family and friends. Death is a part of life. But that doesn't make it any easier. Thanks again.

by slog on

Well Vinny i was thinking this would have been about derrida or husserl or something like that...a bit of an understatement and i'm not sure if it is understated or not...the dreams we playyou stare lightly at me from the other side of the roomyou seem pretty sweetbut aren't you that whore that started around town at age 14?now trying saying that to someone

by in_earth on

HalloweenDarkness deals the deathblow to lightand the flame begins to dwindle,heralding the approach of the winter solstice.Soon the snows will comeand all of these autumnal colourswill leave but the skeletal tips of icy trees.Yes, this is the season for wisdom --where what we have sown is harvestedwhere we digest the things we have learned.Such wisdom is born out of the fruits of labour.The moon is bright tonight and beamsout across the city's astral plane -A silence, a stillness, an emptinesspromises to consume past pleasures and pains.

by sasha on

-[braedon]-I stood on cracking streets,palms slick and waiting for your hand;you, child, who I'd met oncewith hushed lips and shy eyes.Wearing tinted sunglassesyour eyes never leave mine, giddy smiles, four drinks in to the evening,checkered hat hanging low on your forehead.We skip introductions, stand a bit too close,kick our feet up at broken lamps,watch city lights explode.Stumbling haplessly into dark alleys,lost somewhere in the womb of the cityI make light, impose myself into your spaceask you to dance.Six am, car resting in that tired parking garageof your fiftydollaranight hotel roomI turned a goodbye hug into a waltz.

by emostat on

Euler's WaveWe can surf e to the iPiAnd add 1To get 0So e to the iPiEquals -1Where e is the natural logMaybe an OakAnd i is a figment of the ImaginationThat is the square root of -1And Pi is pie in the skySo it works, beautiful as a blue tubeAnd we live in the infinite realm of allCalculated possibles, while pollsters pollAnd the undecided squirm in their sleepLike spineless jelly on the beachWaiting for the next wave on which to float.

by dv8 on

nothing extraordinaryhow waking up to the rain and cold made my ankle hurt where it was once cracked. but still, my ass got out of bed to listen to lectures about post world war II. then to let the day randomize itself with meetings of people i don't really consider my friends. except the one person who wasn't in class. he's sick, like diarrhea and vomit sick. walking alone in between the trees of the campus and the heavy rain drops that mimic my attitude.only to come home to the emptiness of waiting, while the answering machine plays the same old messages....please pick up... i love you... maybe we can do something this weekend... coffee...a movie... please.. call me... let me know...then i think about the past, faces that murmur in the rain and smear their likeness onto the window, staring.mom said it isn't nice to stare.i think school is becoming too much, that i need more time to think about my own problems. not get caught in barbie's playhouse while everyone around me pretends to be grown up.and then the door opens, and he's home, and i am not stuck in the claustrophobia of a day, waiting...

by Beth Vieira on

Orange Always RhymesStep barefoot into reality.Dig your toes into the wet cementof a foam smoothed shore.Try to leave permanent marks.Carve your name into a cloud.Draw pictures with the star clusters.Color outside the linesof the ancient Zodiac.Invent new constellationswith names like Spider WebAnd Pinwheel and Prance.Lick the wind as it passes by.Touch the tree tops from afaras they drop their skins,scales of a roaring dragon.Sing about Little Jackie Paperat the top of your lungs.Smell the new pumpkins in the brusselsprout fields.Imagine the texture of fallwhen orange always rhymes.

by beat_fan on

Cold RainMy face is dripping as I runFrom the television glow-The day is ending, tomorrow as Well, and I am living beyond The locked in lies of Them:I will let the bitter breezes ofNovember consume my emptySpirit.

by beat_fan on

Definitely styled like William Carlos, although th subject matter brings about sentiments much more archaic than his work.I like concise things like that.

by ARAHH on

I like this piece very much !: it's one rumbling "rocky meditation", a swirl of (Joycean, he ..) associations which copy differently in different readers' brains (and states) - and which still present a blend of a personal message.

by Exis_Beat on

Balletcrouching on a rainy wire fence, barbs betweent he toesrain coming down, drops of flaking ash smouldering and hissing in the daylightnothing keeps it together and both sides are inevitable doors into the same old nightmareagainso familiar now that the armour begins to creaknumbness is reality ... I order another beerthe street comes in through the door and nose to nose with the television flickering above the barStromin' Mormon picking his nose in his suit and tiewipes it on his trousers outside the news-camera's gazesmell of wet cement, vomit and burnt plastic holds me to the wireI've drawn another blank.

by a majority of one on

Sleep well, Mr. PresidentI wonder if the new presidentwill let me keep my books andmy thoughts. Do you think hemight attempt to tamper with myrampant irresponsibility? I hope sosometimes, and sometimes I hope not.I sometimes wish I were President.I think I could rile up a crowd, and stand firmwhen necessary, but I imagine I would have no time for poetry, and what is life without a little poetry. If you were President, could you look me in the eyeand tell me you tried your best to be fair?Think about it for a second, because I'll believe youif you let me. Can't you see thatI want to believe?I don't sleep well, Mr. President, I never have.It's not your fault, I'm not blaming you.I just thought you might like to know.I'll be staying up nights, watching you sir.Good luck Mr. President. Sleep well.

by Billectric on

Good sense of mood, feeling, texture of the mind or something; elusive and present at the same time? Hard for me to put into words - I could read this more than once, that's for sure.

by judih. on

balderdash and blasphemynot enough infamy these exploded semi-revolutionsnot enough gutsfat lips with minds crucialtoo much hope, wish and balderdashtoo much blasphemy and abusetoo much service paid to blah blahwhile hearts seep through the streetscarousels spin off their axestoo much greasetoo much spit and wild fire while truth lies


cause there's too muchsqueaky wheel....pushin'too hard on me...too harddon't ya know it's all a crazy scene.....soundin'feelin's too tight...pushin'.....pushin' too hard on me...too hard!!!!!!.........

by twotymer97 on

MonotonyIs our standard of livingXerox copies of yesterdayCut and pastedInto todayCreating our repetitive future

by markk on

rogue moonlighti dream of the rogue moonlightcreeping upon the final riddleof our lost drama, as white asa virgin thigh, drunk on theliquor of betrayed sky, in this,a rare vesuvius moment, wherecameo appearences drift softlythrough the resonance of ourlost & wandering luck, oh, oneday i will deny you the truth ofour vetting, bring to to the brinkof disaster, call to you acrossthe fading of each brittle morning

by markk on

my judih fix, verbal needles stabbed into ripe veins, they say when the lastvein goes, it's like drowning in warm water, the way my shirt fell into thewillamette river, the way george bush steals the souls of inner city kids, butno time for pessimism now, the sunhas a sweet perfume, & judih paintsit on the skin of someone's back& nighttime is always too shortpeacemarkk

by elvin on

bullfighterwhen i weep i weep blood,i wipe it with a handkerchief,the handkerchief turns redand attracts charging bullsthat's how i became a bullfighter.

by achillesgrief on

Cities at NightCities, they come alive at night. The stench of decay is driven away Replaced by the fruitful fumes of the gayCurtailing the Sun's natural light, neon flames set it alight Cities, they come alive at night The dreaded order of employment's conformity Is shunned by our flirtatious yelps of gleeSuch boisterous motion, bustling and flexed makes me want to grope and biteCities, they come alive at night Anything is possible now, anything you wish Oh how I'd love it to stay, darkened, like this Canals of synthetic luminosity make morsels of our misery and plight Cities, they come alive at night Bars and pubs wrestle in drunken flux A sensual Beastress fondles and sucks No one is lonely now and nothing is holy to our sightCities, they come alive at nightAhh, but as the joyous nocturne ends slowly,We sing together, aloud in unison-poetry:"WE WANT NOT THE DAWN!WE WANT NOT THE BRIGHT! WE ARE NO LONGER FORLORN!WE HATE THE WISDOM OF THE LIGHT!"

by achillesgrief on

Loneliness is too kind and succinctLoneliness is too kind and succinct a word To convey a feeling so randomly absurdTo portray thoughts vindictive, virulent and cruel That makes me feel like the gasping offspring of a drunken foolAn impenetrable murk does clog my mind Mocking and deriding in cold, cerebral bindBut what of me? Yes, I am the jokeOf the merry, laughing, mirthful folk If these words have a purpose at least. It is to portray my thicknessWhich I enthusiastically mistook for...richnessThe meter here is infantile, disorganised and heavyBut then, such bitterness can never be steadyAm I ignorant to dwell so deep in misery?It only seems 'what could be, won't be!'Ach, but this mood is a vigorous foeIt screams, bites and kicks in tumults of woe Yesterday, happiness seemed attainable, within my graspNow it seems so distant and far, it makes me gasp'To be a great poet, you must speak of experiences'I only mutter, morbid mumblings drenched in drearinessAm I ugly? Well perhaps at bestBut this dread mind, tears me from the rest Oh, that women, well she came and pastOur love was never quite mutual-it didn't lastSo then, I remain alone, ruminating over the joyful ghosts of oldMy life-force drains, such world-weariness and depression turn my flesh cold