A kissed randomness

This is another poem born of a structured randomness. The words were mostly provided by the Twitter Magnets Web application, but I embellished, smoothed and stretched them out. I think of it as a variation on the idea of "found poetry." Here's the final result:

Wholesome clouded kiss
By Francis Scudellari

In a wholesome clouded kiss,
her puffed pink lips lock
to the hardened lines
of this wandering,
thunder-headed stranger

The heavy blanketing peace
of her color-blinded sadness
woolly pulls apart
to here's frayed-edges,
their bitter-quilted coupling

Pale moon's crescent glance

Pale moon's crescent glance
side-long, unfocused, pushes
my heart to the shore

Prompted: Coiled Rope

Coiled rope
By Francis Scudellari

With a swollen tongue,
years saturated in bile,
he rolls and flings frothy tales
tinged rancid yellow,
coating his tight lip's corners
already primed spittle white;

These sing-song rants he chants
in a cursing elocution
over salacious beats
that ride the tangled ribbons
of his long-ago committed
8-track mind, slow unreeling...

gifts to a sore gullet
caked-up with coagulate
black grease, moldy dust;
The spoon-fed, eager gulps
of plastic pablum soothing
tumbled down disturbances—

deep-belly laughs captured
in photographs he clips sun-bleached
to mouthy, drooped lines
stringing together a coarse film
painted electric by diodes
snapped off fragile circuits. Bored,

his motor idles outside
belching exhausted breezes
that strum stained curtains
in a melodic bustle
to hustle clutter on a hitch
and pull the coiled rope, homeward

This poem is written in response to the Read Write Poem Prompt #88, which suggested 14 words to build a verse around. It was a difficult challenge met. If you haven't yet checked out Read Write Poem, it's well worth a look:

Cream colored canvas

Cream colored canvas
black dots not painted, crawling
beetle invasion

This abetting night

This abetting night
spills out, an indigo stain
my sins smudged inky

Lunar moth

A rather simple depiction of a lunar moth inspired by my poem Elixir.

Tweetku, Twaiku, Tweeku... how about Tweetanka?

The Twitterverse hasn't yet settled on a name for Tweeted Haiku, but that won't stop me from posting the 17 syllable mini-poems. Nor will it keep me from tooting my own horn about a most surprising development. Check out my "ranking" in this article at Chicago Now's Breaking Tweets Chicago: Top Haiku Twitter accounts in Chicago. Many thanks to Craig Kanalley for the honor.

It inspired the following haiku:

Slow-creeping, pink blush
false humility's dyed mask
smiles, overwhelming

Meanwhile, here's my attempt at the 5-7-5-7-7 structure of a tanka, which I tweeted yesterday in response to the word prompt "weary":

Mid-summer sunlight's
wavy, white radiation
fans glass-print petals
pushes shut moon-weary lids
burns a crimson path inward

Tweetku: The calendar turns...

The calendar turns
its astral spoked wheel blurring
seasonal palette

Learning from Randomness

This is another poetic exercise born of my Twittering. Through a fellow poet's tweeted stream, I discovered a Web app called Twitter Magnets. It's the Internet's version of the poetry game that used refrigerator magnets to build poems from a random selection of words.

I tried to use as many of the words and punctuation offered as I could without going over the 120-character limit. This is what I came up with:

soft yesterday of reproach, always present
picks cold heart
i growl glass,
two-fist embrace it.
flick needle?

I really liked some of the unusual word combinations it forced me to use. I liked them so much, in fact, I decided to build on the skeleton of that magnet exercise to create the following slightly longer poem.

Needle
By Francis Scudellari

A soft yesterday's sharp reproach,
always present,
pricks my calloused heart

I growl out glass
caught between gritted teeth
and two-fisted embrace it

Pulling the knot tight,
I flick this needle's glint
a spiked drop, acceptance

Tweetku?

Because Twitter imposes a 140 character limit, there are a lot of tweet-poets reviving the Japanese poetry forms of haiku, tanka and senryū. To see some good examples, just search on those tags at Twitter.

This new-fangled adaptation will probably rankle the literary purists, but they're the sort to always get rankled about something. I've tried my hand at writing a few of what I'll call tweetku — since I'm sure they don't rise to the level of haiku. They're a nice diversion. Back to longer form poetry soon.

Soft-breeze dawn voices
ripple curtains glowing rose
hint at worlds beyond

This ripe, round moment
dangles tantalizing, close
then shrivels, too soon

Ripe plum once bitten
sits wound-up on back-stairs rail
offering to birds?

Cajoling bird songs
backed by dissonant chorus
five fan blades abuzz

Both Sapped and Nourished

There's a prickly feeling tucked deep inside this verse, but I've camouflaged it well enough to confuse its prey.

Nectars
By Francis Scudellari

Sprinkled in her snowy cup
there's a powder-sweet wish
for this passing shade
who with shifting stripes, dappled shell,
and feather-creased skin
fractures the dawn
in a soft-buzzed calling
to sip at nectars
tendered, nestled deep
in conic blossoms...

Will he suckle to nourish,
and tasting such sweet water
abide the day?

Then with whimsied leaving
his barbed tail twitches and jumps
as he dashes away
in careless seeking
distant other's untapped blooms
and these supple leaves
once so pertly pricked,
grown thick in wing-beat light,
droop and trail
after the lilting dusk...

Till a stemming sap
recalls her blush
to the morning he visits again.

Two Souls, Hunched Up

This is part eight of my mythic poem-cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives. You can check out the other seven parts by clicking here (note that they're listed in reverse order, most recent first).

VIII. Hunched
By Francis Scudellari

Willful drawn, down to clay
ruts choked with grass,
edged by berried brambles
whose thorny twists
bend to a lowering sky
as its grumble
stabs open wounds, gushing
muddy instants
to puddle, pool, swell, swallow
the black-humped plains,
and force he-she up, hunched
to scour trappings
of craggy, gouged rock skins

Magic potions

This poem is about tranformation, or the desire for it. It's a bit magical in tone, as it's informed by the Alchemist's concept of the Elixir of Life (with special thanks to fellow poet Jemfyr for the inspiration).

Elixir
By Francis Scudellari

This Elixir of light,
distilled from lime-green tears
of lunar moth
moved by the monthly turning
of his mistress'
full and silvery back,

drops dripped from ducts
to vial, to tongue
and is sealed with pursed lips
that push back the fluorescent
waves washing down
to stir a still larval heart...

stretching, yawning, a flame.
Dancing particles
of iridescent powder
carried on one thousand tiny wings
twirl back through my mouth
to enliven a sleep-thicketed forest

with the fluttered speaking
of her name

Feeding, frenzied

Don't ask me about meaning. There is no meaning. There are only the words...

Faithful Feeders
By Francis Scudellari

It's not the sweetness
coursing crimson inside
that these faithful feeders seek
drawn darkly
by the midnight blue
currents we wade across

Nor is it the pink flesh
of tensed muscles
closely cupped to catch
a filtered fire
slow-dripped till clear
through the morning's lucent mist

No, they feast instead
at noon's shallow edges
with greased hands that tear spines
from fathomless tomes
of hobbled scriptures
to suck the pasty marrow

Head like a turnip

Here is a drawing I did to illustrate my poem Rutabaga.

Two Souls, Hollowed out

Here's the seventh part of my poem cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives (the previous six can all be found on my eponymous Website).

VII. Hollow
By Francis Scudellari

Fed by over-ripe knowing
the cloying tastes
of acid hued morsels
shrivel and blanch
squeezed by hasty, restless
new appetites
and she-he's clasping hands
let seconds slip
tumbling to hollow thump
moss covered mounds
whose stretched backs pull the nose
with aromas
of more savory blood

An untimely Tinkering

Another poem that takes its inspiration from an off-hand tweet, which was a failed attempt at observational humor.

Tinkering
By Francis Scudellari

Finger tips splattered and smudged
by a black oozing
from this vain
pursuit that litters
his workshop:
white, crimped-edge faces
torn and strewn...
bent, clutched hands
hacked and slid...
rusted spring innards
uncoiled and rolled...
among the chipped teeth
snapped off old gears
that he's stripped smooth
grunting untimely breaths
as he takes apart
countless clocks
tinkering with mechanisms
to invent a knob
to dial it all back
the swing, sway and grind
that spins his life forward
in an ever gathering
haste

To the bots, with love

This is a bit of silliness I wrote to honor the "spam bots" who at times seem more interested in reading my poetry than a human audience. As it's meant to be a twisted sort of love poem, the title is a play on the word aubade.

Au bots
By Francis Scudellari

I tender confessions
of the not so, secret
infatuations:
these bots, those little bits
of code much maligned
who so tartly
tease us in human veneers
falsely lashed
to digital spines
they drag and drop
as they bump along
tangling the silken strands
of a Web that snatches
our writhing lives and loves
while weaving its own

They're always found out
these bots, those bits
so poorly exposed
by the hairy Nets and white gloves
that wipe things clean
till new ones emerge
in viral vestments
and insinuate themselves
into irreverent streams
leaving: us to pray
(their infection becomes cure);
me to opine
(their next dawning lack);
as I open up my veins
and draw them back in

A Starlit Poem

Trying to keep up the frantic poetic pace... this piece began its life as an odd bit of observation embeded in one of my Twitter posts. Sometimes an interesting phrase will burrow its way into my mind and compel me to expand upon the theme.

Mothering Starlight
By Francis Scudellari

The endless starlight streams
down from ever's sprawling heaven
unseen

but feeling our atoms
flutter, a son's fond eagerness
recharged

bouncing, stretching, burning
to touch mothering particles
fallen

connections to distance,
memories of our own birthing
untimed

Rutabaga, a sweet-bitter end

This is the conclusion of my poem Rutabaga (here are Part I and Part II). I'll post the full version, perhaps slightly amended, to my Website soon.

Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari

III.

And run up against blunted tip
of his hooked nose cast aslant,
drooping down over broken-lines
of brown, wormy lips with edges
that snag on tilted-maggot teeth
and gobble up the urge to smile
he keeps sealed in the cramped cloister
of black-white habits, his nun's heart

Where he now pulls stiff-backed photos
just stolen from a local shop,
lifting to tattered light reveal
the blue noted compositions
that sing of men so neatly garbed
in fair-taut skin and glad-rag years --
the polished, scripted texts he studies
to re-limn life in pleasing shapes