Helga

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Dirty-blonde plaited hair.
in a soft brown,
cashmere sweater,
and let’s be honest,
a satiny camisole
to ward off
irritation.

Nudity is the
great equalizer
of people, but
she is wearing
a turtleneck,
peacefully
around her throat.

Her soft curves,
highlighted by
beams of sun,
prisms through
dirty windows,
covered
like the precious
pearls of great
price.

The  artist sees
the soul and merges
with his subject,
sketch, then brush,
stroke by stroke.

The Wisdom of Elders

Sunlight advances like
 dust on a sunbeam,
 linear and purposeful.

 Nature is only
 an approximation.

 How often does one
 apply meaning to the
 clichéd  chrysalis
 bursting forth new life
after a brutal winter?

 Solomon does not
 corner the market on
 ennui.

 What is new under the sun
she says is, in fact,
multitudinous and magnificent.

 Passivity is a cloud
 rendering passion
 quadraplegic.

So she tells the story,
tracing the map with her
gnarled fingers,

Leading us to a place, where
even De Leon could find
his fountain in the desert.

Derivative of Dull

by Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

It came up for air,
golden and white,
mottled, from underneath
a lily pad,
in that lush green
garden, where tree huggers
om in the lotus
position.

It came up for air,
its large mouth agape,
like those one observes
from a distance. The ones
whose impatient mouths
articulate from tiny brains.

Für mein Sherrie, mein Dora

************************************************************
I could not have written this Surrealistic poem to anyone but you, but you still may not like it much. Dora Maar may not have wanted to have her portrait done as a Cubist, Guernica-infused Weeping Woman, but she loved the guy, you know?

yB

************************************************************
There is a chocolate fondue fountain into
which lovers could dip marshmallows, black-
berries, or lovers, understanding that
love, perfect undipped love
can be metaphysical, should be;
I will have it surreal, and love you
as I am now, as I wish to perceive you,
mindful, body-full, and full.
It’s potent and paradoxical, like
dreams of wizards or flying fish or
looking at a sunrise in our windshield and not
talking about fire.
Only with you can I see these things
with such clarity that they blind us
and fill us with understanding.

I will blaze unchocolated through your world, through
you into mine and together,
remembering a time unreal and true,
long ago and never, when
we would see fish in the clouds,
I would become your wizard forever
and we’d walk past the unvisited section
of the ancient bookstore, past
an unopened copy of
Liebe ist ein Hund von der Hölle
and remark with pure pleasure
that had he lived, Freud
could have read Bukowski.

By Ben Cassel
************************************************************
Every year for our anniversary, Valentine's Day, birthday, etc., my husband and I write poems for each other. This one was written in 2011, and since it's the 8th anniversary of our first date, and he's right smack dab in the middle of performance night of his high school play, I wanted to share this poem that, to me, said, "I know you."

Welcome to Ode to Internet Troll Week

2829 Hits on our Blog!! Good job, Poets!

Macbeth

In memory of Herbert Nehrlich, the Master of Rhyme. I am not  a huge fan of rhyme, but I do think it's a good practice for purposes of rhythm and for play. I know Herbert would be thrilled that I keep attempting it.

He is such a fun diversion
raging in his mad perversion,
as  she slices with her rapier
his dimwit.

He rubs elbows with his brothers,
while he loathes a certain other, as
she laughs while not giving, well,
a shit.

He is in pursuit, yes, daily,
as she dances oh so gaily,
twirling pretty as he writhes,
as if snakebit.

She sharpens her long talons,
while he drinks, yes, in the gallons,
lying grotesquely face down
in his vomit.

It’s a never ending story,
that he hopes an ending
gory, and she giggles, yes,
of course, enjoying it.

She is quite the little master,
choreographing  his disaster,
as boys behave most badly
when they’re *smit.

Running sadly in one place,
with a grimace on his face,
the audience applauds quite
loudly at this skit.

It is not to end so soon,
the resurgence of this boon,
when Act I has only begun
being writ.


* Archaic word for another archaic word, smote (past tense of smite), also to smear....

~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~