For those of you following my alphabet poems adventure, I’m on the letter M. In this post I’d like to share my F and H poems. I promised some I like and some that suck. The first poem is about unrequited love, and I like it for the lines about night flowers. The second poem has a moment or two but it’s mostly corny to me. It’s not my worse one, though, because corny at least has its own charm. Next time, I’ll post my worst alphabet poem.
Death is a Feather
By Emile DeWeaver
Feathers and white winter bits caught in invisible drains,
faking graceful spirals from windy lips, my same tropes
flying. Next time use my own wings. Or does her
father stand at the window hearing our laughter
flow through labyrinthine gardens where night
flowers open petals to the soft light of
fools’ love. Would that we were more like Nocturne’s
flowers, but nightmares keep our petals
folded. Still, eyes speak to the Alaskan sunsets that
flavor your breath and plant thoughts of tongues
filling mouths, fingers
finding indecent spaces to unfold —
flowers behold the blind song of
fog-covered bodies rocking in the pale light.
If You’re Going to Hell in a Handbasket, You’re Probably in Aspin.
By Emile DeWeaver
Hell has no fury like three furies in a
hail storm. Once you go black,
hurry to the doctor because that’s frostbite.
Home is where the
heartbeat fears banks — they can’t all be winners, folks. If you
have nothing nice to say,
Hallmark’s a billion dollar corporation. Don’t kiss a gift
horse in the mouth — it’s presumptuous. A bird in the
hand eventually shits. Can’t
help, now, but think of bushes as
handy banks for my bluebirds. You must’ve fallen from
heaven because your face looks like you fell on it from a great
If either poem looks like fun, consider writing one and entering my contest (see Poetry Contest post ).