-
Yearend Challenge
Today I challenge myself to write 100 poems by midnight 1 Jan 2024. During this challenge, I will forego alcoholic beverages and drink ginger-lemon tea instead. All poems will be blogged and sequentially numbered. Daily poems are expected; numbers deprioritized throughout the week must be made up on weekends. Minigoals: 12/4 20; 12/11 40total; 12/18 60t; 12/25 80t; 1/1/24 100t.
Most poems are expected to be quatorzains, though not required (it merely follows the evidence as my forte).Poem 1
Happiness is such a huge idea,
But what is it, specifically? Is it
An emotion? A mindset? A heart tuned
To the favor of fortune, God, nature,
Or specific higher powers unnamed?
Is it pleasure prolonged? Joy unbridled?
Perhaps merely security ensured?
Such a broad range and deep is happiness.
Joy is much simpler, I think. And as such
More readily attained. What each is worth
Certainly must remain a subjective
Case. How attainable each certainly
Must depend on mindset, for even those
Sorely traumatized have sought and found both.Poem 2
Despair is the dragon. Has it always
Been? In childhood, dragons seemed plentiful
As wasps and spiders – all the scary things
That sting and burn and bite. Now adulthood
Spills in on tides of years and washes clean
The earth of most such fears. But despair, dark
And cunning serpent that it is, curls up
Within the deep shadows of unconscious
Mind, the turbid depths of the heart, and lurks
Await . . . death visits to rob us of dear
Ones, and the beast arises to devour
First our pretty red hearts, then our grieving
Minds, takes hostage confidence and poisons
All . . . how can we slay this dragon within?
-
Picking Back Up…
From my apparently unrecoverable blog bitterhermit.wordpress.com
The 1000 poem project was completed some time in 2013. Time to start another challenge. Perhaps a bit less ambitious? My day-job pays the bills, but sucks the soul out of me; I write in fits and starts these days. We’ll start with a hundred-poem challenge and see how that goes.
Top of the Hour
blurry eyed too close to waking
allergy season – not a favorite time of year
coffee calls, and I waft in on its aroma
content in the kitchen to wake slowly
14Sep2023
-
Toybox
My mind is a wrecked toy
I don’t know where to go with that
Trembling hands cupped around it
We rock forth and back
Singing and sighing
Wordless admonitions
Begging reparations
From parents absent as the gods
davidmpitchford 12/16/2025
-
Song for Her Majesty the Ex
We were legendary, dear, doubt it never
King and queen of fourteen-liners and verse
Time moves on, yet in the reflection of that moment
Printed in books with our names . . . we were great
How was it we lost admiration for each other?
Competition? No. Complication. Life
Got in our way of living. I would love to say
There was no fault . . . but my guilt stains like blood
And you let me crucify myself
On that piteous altar of self-loathing
Without reaching out – and for good reason:
Because he who before was your Romeo
Became Narcissus with a gun in his mouth
And blew away any chance of healthy ending.
Dmpitchford 111825
addiction, ai art, alcoholic, alcoholism, apocalypse, Armageddon, Christmas Poem, death poetry, dysfunctional, dysfunctional family, existential, for arts sake, imposter, imposter syndrome, jazz poem, muse, naturalist christianity, poem, poet, quatorzain, saxophone, sonnet, spirituality, trauma, Uncategorized, yearend poetry challenge, zen, zen inspired -
Reading Joy
How sad it is that half a century I have walked
briskly with impatience past my own story. . .
Where I have no loathing for it, I find mostly
passive contempt. Failure. Loveless hubris
overriding whatever achievement felt
too little to mark, insubstantial like my self
as during each beating my mother and step
father condemned me . . . worthless, feckless,
lazy, stupid, and blind to righteousness . . .
I knew it was lies. Since age four I knew.
But I never knew how to protect myself
from their false truths, nor how to foster
my own truths within the soul they assured me
was filthy and wicked and evil beyond any
Redemption but that of Almighty Jesus. . .
They taught me to be a warrior, Joy,
but only against myself and faith and love
sans allies, for none could be trusted. None.
No one. Not a soul. Not a body. Not an angel.
No god or higher being could extract us from hell
save Jesus and Jesus alone. Our Jesus
of the flatbread. Our Jesus of the not-wine.
Our Jesus of the cowpeas and the sulfur springs
our Jesus of the bullies and the State of bullies
our Jesus of the screaming ass-beaters
our Jesus of the VBS bus and songs
of humility which lyrics we learned by osmosis
our Jesus of the white charity meant
never for those in need, oh Jesus of bootstraps
O Jesus of never swearing, O Jesus of never
speaking our truth lest the overseers beat
us with straps, strops, boards, or willow switches…
God made the apples free to fall from the trees
but not for you, not for me, not for free . . .
Joy, can you sing me hope in the world’s ending?
Can you show me the silver lining in the cloud
whence Zeus cast his killing spear of lightning?
Can you tell me the story of the earth
holding me to its bosom and rocking me
ever to any gentle night of sleep unencumbered
by dreams of blood and violence and fire?
Flowers and fruit rot. Rainbows flee. Love dies
ten million deaths within the eyes of everyone
and hope is a slippery slope on the banks
of that fabled river where the aggrieved
shall gather to see their hated enemies
relegated to the flames of the hell they
populate, propagate, and perpetuate.
How can you buoy us, Joy?
What magic is in your words so mighty
that you quench those flames and set our tables
with loaves and fish and honeyed hopes our hearts
take as nontoxic truth? I thank you for you
for your courage to share and speak and love
beyond the scope of skin, neither forgetting
nor forgiving, but understanding that
we are in a chapter separate from those
whose narratives were violence and blood
and now we are the narrators, and we write
our story of love overcoming greed . . .
Greed that has eaten the world we knew
Diminishing it and us
To this waste of dust
DMPitchford 112925
-
But is it a Poem?
Do they call it a poem? It’s a poem.
Does it look like a poem? It’s a poem.
Read it. Relish it. Savor it in your mouth
Savor it in your ear and in your heart.
Does it feel like something real? More than
Real? Does it drug you with its puissance?
If you cried or laughed from beauty it is a poem
If you moaned or spat at its truth it is a poem
If you felt nothing, it is merely scrap to you
Though do not conclude that it is not a poem
Others may laugh or cry or think or die
Over a verse you choked on – insipid
Though it may be, the verse of your contempt
May hold holy revelation to others.
David M Pitchford 11/29/25
-
Imposter Syndrome
Send me flowers of reciprocity
But gentle make them as a vernal breeze
It is not for lack of will but skill
That I return not your letters, dear friend
I lament my own paucity herein
But believe me please, when I decree
How highly I value your amity, friendship
And wonder always, how you hold me so
dm pitchford 11/23/25
-
Flying into Things
started the morning in a dream of bliss, flying
with the freedom of a juvenile redtail
cutting through the air so smoothly kites envied me
and the jays taught their fledglings to mimic every
move as I danced through four dimensions despite these
weird societal chains that tether mediocrity
and the million lies that swarm me like flies seeking
deficant diets. But then my dreams turned horrid
as I recalled the death yesterday of the blandest
hero history ever devised. A saint. President decades
past and nearly forgotten not due to his works,
but because his only vice was a troubled brother.
The sun rose late this morning. Ever since,
I’ve been in flight. Predatory. Flying into things.
David M Pitchford. 12/30/2024
-
She Lately Left (Femme Fatale)
I never loved you, she said, never loved
anyone; I’m rotten, baby, rotten
to the core. it was all a sham, a graft,
and you’re the sap. it was all about
the money, the security, the house,
the picket fence, and the two-point-three cars
in the driveway. you speak to me of love—what did you ever do for it? to earn
love? to deserve love? what did you ever
suffer in the name of romance? tell me:
what sacrifice make? nothing, jack. you’re as
rotten as I am, only you’re foolin
yourself: you wanted to possess me, and
like in all things, possessor became possessed.Later…
returning to the matter of possessiveness
versus love, she said, one particular vice
betrays those who seek possession over
those whose love is genuine. those who
covet are quick to jealous rage, because
one can be dispossessed of anything owned,
and the more precious the object, the more
covetous its owner, the greater the fear;but one who loves deeply and well holds love
in an open hand, ruling through freedom.
control is a fantasy of ownership
whereas love is the willingness to lose
not merely the beloved, but the self—
irony being, the self cannot be diminished. -
For Those Who Stand Strong!
THE SOBER OLD DRUNK
whiskey was his drug of choice. he hardly
ever deviated; only when money
got too awful tight and he had to settle
for cheap vodka with red labels by the half
gallon (a liter point seven five, he would
be quick to tell you). scotch, of course was his
favorite, occasionally irish whiskey
and twice a year cognac was his special
reward. but then his body started to shut
down and he started to attend meetings.that first step was easy, but he kept trip-
ping on the second—higher power, my ass,
he was wont to say—then his heart . . . and now
he sponsors with twenty years sobriety. -
Hope, homo, and Cynicism
there was a time before tears—but really,
was there a time before tears? some time in
evolution between the monkey and me?
did Cro-Magnon cry; when/if they did,
did their burly friends call them sissy-boy?
and the Neanderthal folks, did they cry?
so maybe it really is a Homo thing
to do beginning with antecessor
and continuing up to our contemp-
orary sapiens sapiens (one tier
up from Homo sapiens idaltu)—
how is it we learned to think our way past
tears, emotions, reactions, and on to
solutions as in the time before tears.DM Pitchford 4/24
-
Spring Apotheosis
another morning you awaken from dreams
and drop into the flow of life’s sluggish
river (trapped on a sandbar of late) and
some wonder about the white waters’ rush,
hoping you’ve not seen the last of this in
our present life; Some want to run again
before the race is over, want to hunt
again the big game and find love before
the trumpets sound those clarion calls, queue
heaven to roll aside proverbial
and bring ruin to the only world we
have ever known, before faith brings hellfire
and the blood of saints manifests God’s wrath—
one more year, all want to awake to Grace.dmpitchford 33124
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Fringemonkey Scribbles 