I didn’t realize this, but April is National Poetry Month.
Poetry: the topic is not so much as important, as the freedom to bend and shape it.
For me, writing poetry is an outlet. I go there when I cannot sleep, when my soul is restless and weary, reverent and grateful, or simply inspired to say something that refuses to reveal itself within conventional understanding.
Unlike writing commercial fiction, poetry affords liberties and gratuitous indulgences, allowing the writer to spread those wings hidden beneath the plumage of her everyday attire. The restrictions and confinements are only those the author arbitrates. And in my poetry — whether I be reading or writing it — there no restrictions. All is fair, just so long as what is written is done so with integrity and behooves the reader/writer, alike.
With that said, and lest I shock a few of you, I should tell you that the writing you’ll find below isn’t the norm; though I am the woman who sing praises to the One who loves me Divinely, equally, I am the woman who writes of the one she calls husband. Passion takes many forms; it is impartial, favoring neither the provocateur, nor the christian. I believe there is a misconception that passion cannot share a bed with morality. It can, and I do. There is lust and there is love, and passion fuels them both. I, however, choose to funnel mine through love.
This poem was written for a contest judged by the Poet Laureate himself, Billy Collins. The only precept was that it must start with the sentence “I want to play in a band.”
It received the honor of third place, and I am very proud to share it with you.
Have a wonderful day, everyone.
I want to play in a band
with a crazy name, using my Hips Like Magnets,
and making music that sticks
like a sultry whisper caught in a spider’s web.
Cloaked in a heady aroma, burning
hot capable booze and false promises, I stalk the wall;
watching you, watch me, watch you.
I came here for the music;
to bathe in the buoyant lyrics, and leave
my brined silhouette stained on the dance floor.
I came here to nip the cherry from the stem,
flicking and folding, until I have a fine piece of artwork.
I came here for this and that and such and such,
but when I tuck the curl you love most behind my ear, I remember
I came here for you.
Held in musician’s embrace, you cradle something inconsequential.
An electric guitar, perhaps.
I close my eyes and it’s gone, replaced
with my body, willing and able.
Smirking into my stomach, you make me shudder,
stroking my emblazoned chords — making me sing for you.
I do, and the song is ours, just like our his-and-hers towels.
A drunken stranger in a loosened lavender tie
stumbles into me, virtuously claiming his
innocence, and roaming apologetic hands and slurry sentences
punctuated with stale discontent from last night’s one night stand.
His CEO fingers are nothing like yours
that clench when you see him, lifting the leather strap over your head.
But I catch you just in time, holding your stare until you’ve reversed.
Be calm, my love.
The distance between us, once toothsome and tolerated,
has grown heavy and impatient, threatened by the amorphous fray.
Close and closer, I move; slaloming,
swaying, sashaying, and syncopating.
Beneath you, the rosy red haze envelops
your skin, until you melt right off the stage and into my magnet hips.