The Poetry Marathon

“Everything starts somewhere…”
Though knowing where depends
On what you mean by “start”
Or “everything”.

Something starts everywhere,
The chain of consequence
Cannot be predicted
Precisely.

Freedom to make a choice
Freedom to take the chance
Is meaningless without
Consequence.

Forge your link in the chain,
Own neither more nor less
Than your contribution
To history.

Terry Pratchett, Hogfather
(opening line)

Strike a waltz, hear the three shades of loss:
Didn’t train, reached too far, fell asleep.
Though I rise and go on, I can’t win,
Per the rules, I missed that when I snoozed.

Triple-time, triple beat, triple-fail:
Now the best I can do is support
Those who didn’t fall down, who held on.
Look beyond wounded personal pride.

Cheer the winners who write to the end!
Raise a smile with a comment and ‘like’
And my personal goal was achieved:
To rekindle my passion to write!

I lie here, watching seconds slide away,
With pre-dawn colours lighting up the sky,
And wish I could command sleep: “go” or “stay”
And know that it would mock me if I try.
Great roaring yawns rip through me with each breath
Demanding I drop everything and snooze.
As soon as I begin to droop, excess
Of undreamt dreams assault my senses, too!

Perhaps the half would have been wise at first,
I didn’t think that I would have to train!
Kicked off with such an energetic burst,
Then fizzled after midnight, the acclaim
No longer strong enough to dull the thirst
For R.E.M. sleep, or a working brain.

Form: Sonnet.

I started this in hour fifteen, and fell asleep at the computer. Here it is then, the hurdle that felled me. Catching up would be easy enough, but not in line with the rules. One poem an hour… and I slept for two-and-a-half hours straight. I dream pretty vividly, but not in verse. 

Heat-haze thunderstorms
Afternoons asleep in shade
Bird calls fill the air.

WYSIWYG: it goes beyond
Discussion of computer fonts,
And colour-palette editing:
There’s WYSIWYG in many things.

That boy that passed you in the street;
A charmer, nicest guy you’ll meet,
Or else a thug of darkest kind,
Based on what you expect to find.

The lady sitting in the park:
Mad biddy, or a right good laugh?
The children laughing as they play,
Hooligans, or just OK?

For What You See Is What You Get,
Depending on what you expect.

Thoughtless health, casual happiness:
Fade to black, aching emptiness:
Bleak despair, lonely hopelessness:
Moving on.

Finding hope, future brightening
Treatment plans, self-enlightening,
Falling back, darkness tightening:
Moving on.

Pitch and yaw, hope to bleak despair
Back and forth, experts everywhere
Callous disregard, no-one seems to care:
Moving on.

Seeking balance, self-reliance
Over-reaching in defiance
Self-defeating non-compliance:
Moving on.

Making progress, staying ready,
Little set-backs, just an eddy,
In the river, flowing steady:
Moving on.

Prompt: Moving
Form: 8/8/8/4, aaaR.

Faithful companion, loyal friend,
Warm weight at the foot of the bed.
Clattering claws across the floor,
Rushing to greeting at the door.

Eager for daily exercise,
Snatching the ball out of the sky
Bounding full-tilt across the park,
Playing outside ’til after dark.

Proud to show-off each new-learned trick,
Picking up new ones, smart and quick,
Sitting so quiet, well-behaved,
Off-the-leash romp is fun and games.

Friend of my youth, and well-loved still,
Lives in my heart, and always will.

Prompt: Dogs
Form: English sonnet

Look to the lines
Not just the brow:
Around the nose
Beside the mouth
Beneath the eyes
Even the chin

Observe the chin
Weak or strong lines?
And keep your eyes
On the eyebrow
The second mouth
Speaks what it knows

Ignore the nose
For shape, the chin
Betrays the mouth
With habit-lines
A furrowed brow
Stays in the eyes

To the right eyes
Or a keen nose
Loquacious brow
Will soon pitch in
Those tell-tale lines
Though closed the mouth

And by that mouth
Behind the eyes
Are written lines
That life well knows
Proud, forward chin
Hides anxious brow

Oh, traitor brow!
Though pinched the mouth
And bold the chin
The brow holds “ayes”
Where tongue claims “noes”
In practiced lines

Writ on the brow, clear to my eyes
An open mouth above the nose
Take on the chin: truth in those lines

Prompt: Anatomy of a Face
Form: Sestina

This was fun. Sestinas can be cumbersome, but by keeping the lines short, I managed to get through it in the time. 

Sleep is elusive, and will probably
strike when least expected – or welcome.
It’s past ten o’clock at night, and only civil twilight.
The red tint still touches the sky.

Speakers buzz, unused. Turn them off.
Sore arms already, how will I keep this up?
Drinking water by the litre, still dry and queazy.
Bodily needs clamour; an aesthete I am not.

There should have been a fête today,
but no-one came, rain prevented play.

The timer ticks at double speed,
multiplying the seconds.
So much poetry has me
Thinking in rhythm.

Hope this is coming out OK,
I’m not looking at the screen.

Touch tells me when fingers are correctly positioned.
Index fingers swirl in little circles, seeking confirmation,
assurance that my words will be readable.

Typos slink in, like neighbours’ cats,
making themselves at home,
scratching at my spelling,
shedding on my prosody.

Eyes averted, typing blind.
Engrossed in the view from my window.
Night sky so clear, curtains must be
open, and the lights low.

Prompt: Free-write
Form: Free-form

The edit consisted mostly of deleting excess words, trimming phrases and placing the line-breaks. An interesting exercise, and an indication of how nine hours of poetry has affected my thinking.

“We need to talk.”
A phrase to chill the warmest blood.
“We need to talk.”
The peril of the neighbourhood
To make male faces pale as chalk,
Suburban couples shorthand code
For “Mister, you done messed up good!”
“We need to talk.”

Prompt: Use “we need” as a refrain.
Form: Rondelet