I have 2 that I am quietly pleased with. The first is by way of an homage to the dress I wore at the F2F Prom (you may have seen this acrostic; I can't remember):
Cherry Girl
Cock the hip and toss the
Hair as I stride across the room;
Evoking retro, fever, bad girl.
Rarely does this me get
Revealed; when she does, you say oh
Yes.
Steph, that's enchanting!
The other one I rather like is...well, I'm just going to post it without explanation. And I don't mean to be coy, but it has to stand as is, w/o author info.
Coda
Beyond the words, past the syllables' edges (listen; this
Is for you, you said), murmurs blossom deep inside. Lighting
This fire, warming this ice-white flesh, making it
Tingle as it slowly comes to life: whispers, urgent and low,
Evoke pianissimo, largo, allegro, forte!
Rest.
Since these are memories (ghosts) of something
Which never happened, there is no
Explanation for notes still hanging in the air. No
Excuse makes sense of the repeated sharp
Twinge: phantom limb pain that lingers.
Damn. I think you just broke me.
It broke me, too. But it says everything I wanted to say, and I'm not sure any other piece of writing I've done has actually been able to do that.
And thank you! That's high praise.
I posted the last piece of poetry I wrote (October 1994) in my livejournal a few weeks back. It took this long before I could deal with the death it deals with.
Oh, Steph, I do like that poem. That's just lovely.
Thank you! I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say it's my best piece of writing, but it's my favorite.
I'm a poetry philistine. I love some of it. I wish I could write it. (I'm like that, "I don't know art, but I know what I like" guy) But a lot of it that other, better authors and/or critics love, I don't get. This makes me feel stupid. For a poem to move me it has to move me (huh, not sure I like the way I phrased that but, carrying on) usually with a story of some sort. That one moved me.
t now rifling through my (meagre) pile of poetry...
This one amuses me. I wrote it last Fall (obviously), when I was playing with structure:
Daylight Savings Time
I shake my tiny fist ineffectually
at the 5:00 darkness.
An hour stolen with the
turn of a dial.
Shadows creep into corners
that only a week ago
held puddles of sunshine.
Gloom is the backdrop
as day is kidnapped by night.
The days grow shorter.