hercautionarytales

Poetry Tag Statistics March 2014

I have already posted my weekly sonnet, so I’ll use my Monday-evening-post to finally get the poetry tag stats for March done.

My weekly poem, which is totally meta and cool and also describes the process how I write sonnets, can and should be read here:

How To Sonnet (A Sonnet)

Seriously, check it out!

Also, if you enjoy my poetry or hell, even if you only come here to see the stats list, please follow me on Twitter and like me on Facebook:

https://twitter.com/AllanEGory

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Allan-E-Gory/127616320778452

And now let me present you March stats. A comparably slow month, judging from the total number of featured posts. Maybe I wasn’t the only one taking a vacation.

Total number of featured posts: 1028

  • The top 10 contributed 12.5% of all posts.
  • The top 25 contributed 23.6% of all posts.
  • The top 50 contributed 37.4% of all posts.
  • 437 different contributors were featured.
  • Each contributor was featured 2.35 times on average.
  • 201 contributors have been featured multiple times, 236 only once.
  1. renebofene, 19
  2. uutpoetry, 16
  3. r-ybanez, 14
  4. lulu-llama, 13
  5. labelledamesansdice, 13
  6. wordrummager, 13
  7. mickeymichal, 12
  8. viperslang, 11
  9. victim-of-convenience, 9
  10. chucklingpecan, 9

Keep reading

my garden lover <3

you make up my entire garden,
from the soil to the roots of the 
peonies, roses, and lavender, 
up to their stalks and over their
blooms. 
you are the water that keeps
my garden fresh, you are the
sunshine feeding the bounty.
you are my entire garden,
every inch worm and honey
bee, making their stay in the
greens of leaves or soaking
up the nectar of each flower.
you are the most beautiful array
of petals,
so delicate and soft,
you are each small thorn even
when they prick my skin.
you are my entire garden,
one that i will tend to daily, 
because keeping you alive and
bright is the first and only 
happiness that i need each day.

Alexandra; how your name turns my tongue into a ravenous 
chamber, aching its door out of hinges. Just that– the tap of your name–
is a knock to all I once knew as void. Fire; how hunger writhes 
within me, both scorching me inside and setting ablaze all strands
of hope. I wait for you with the urgency of desire– and yet, if you were
to take an eternity to reach me, I would still be here, my hands 
before me, holding just ribbon. And when, if, you were to leave again,
I would tie that ribbon around a handful of moments and wrap your
fingers around the bouquet. I would wilt before I got to write our
last aubade. Alexandra; I am not afraid of being forgotten, but I
cannot bear the thought of losing memory of your neck, your waist.

Alexandra; take this poem as the smoke signal of my mouth. 
I long for your touch; pine for it in ways that only the barren womb of
a desert has known, when the last mirage, too, turned to dust. 
Come to me before I turn to rubble from my own lust; come to me,
I am waiting for you. Alexandra; how your name is the only one
who can quench this thirst. Oh, tell me, now, will you come? 

I'm too old to be wearing skinny jeans but I'll be damned if my ass didn't look so good in them

awaken the sleeper
his snoring is going to
reveal the location
of the rebel base

your love is a death star
what does it matter who shot first
when we both end up
missing the last train
by twenty two seconds

you just read a whole
bunch of nonsense
this post was all about
the title

I am having
a good butt day

britches

white shorts

I am dreaming.

No, we are not having sex.

I am eighteen years young. We are at a picnic. You are standing at a distance — distance that cannot be traversed with desire alone. I am staring at your legs. I look away when you notice. You smell weakness and approach. I feign courage and look you in the eyes. My molecules begin to stir but as you grow closer — my density decreases. You walk into me, sharing the same space, but I am already air.

I look down to see what I have become. A pair of white shorts hugs me tightly. An orange tank top barely covers what is left. I am contemplating on whether or not I made the right decision. I feel eyes on me. I look up and see a boy; guilt in his demeanor. He will not come to me. I know this. They never do. He is wearing a black t-shirt, NIN emblazoned on his chest. It is one size too big. Unknown forces compel my legs to walk in his direction. Our eyes meet but as I get closer, his being fades. I walk into him, sharing the same space, but he is already air.

I look down to see where I am standing — grass. At my feet is a flower; dark pink; almost red; a peony. I bend down to pick it up but as my hand falls, so does the flower’s color — fading into white. Its shape morphing as I pull it away from the earth. It is a gardenia. I bring it up to my nose and I take a breath. I smell sweat and beer. My ears are ringing. Trent Reznor screams: “Pop that fucking balloon!” It is not part of the lyrics. I am in the mosh pit. I am wearing a black t-shirt. It is one size too big. I feel eyes on the back of my head. I turn around. It is an elbow.

I wake up.