The Poetry Marathon

Angst

What do you want to do?

“I dunno.”

Are you hungry?

“Sigh…I guess.”

You guess? Yes or no?

“Whatever.”

Well…I’m going to cook.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Sigh…Teenagers.

Heaven’s Gate

These things sometimes happen. The words were cold, impersonal.  Intended to be comfort? Condolence? It didn’t matter. The sound was little more than the haunting incantation of a grim reaper draped in a white lab coat, Death with a professional bedside manner.  The teenaged girl was beside her, reaching for the woman’s arm even before she began to fall, a role reversal of the scene they’d undoubtedly played out countless times throughout her young lifetime. The woman wailed into the younger’s arm, clutching her as though she too might slide into Death’s pockets, a bonus soul to add to his bounties tonight. The young woman–presumably the daughter–was stone, her face to her arms, the rock that her mother needed. I looked away, guilty because I couldn’t grieve with them.

Angels, observers

Ghosts float in and out of rooms

Lost souls or envoys

No Notification Message

They wouldn’t notice

if the stars changed positions.

Constellations could shift,

Orion could go missing,

the Dippers could tip

and spill their contents

where Aquarius’s jug used to be.

Pisces could be devoured

by the Scorpio,

while the centaur fled,

and they still wouldn’t notice

until someone posted it.

10+10-8

The conversation was going great.

They agreed on some things,

but would heatedly debate

the occasions on which

+ they’d find opinions they couldn’t relate.

But, he loved her passion,

she loved his knack for facts.

+ Opposites attract

+ so well, in fact

that they were quite certain

they were soul mates.

She was very punctual,

He was rarely on time,

+ he was frequently late,

+ and while it annoyed her

+ when she had to wait,

+ he’d greet her with a rose.

+ She was poised, and spoke in prose

+ He spoke with rhythm and rhyme.

+ He’d make her quite happy, if given the time.

Before Darkness

I don’t remember bottles, or rattles.

I remember crying,

the only words screaming.

Then suddenly it stops.

Warmth. Comfort. It’ll be alright.

I remember fireworks,

“Mama, look at the pretty lights!”

Scared of the thunder.

Hold me tighter,

closer to your heart.

Skinned elbows

and bruised knees,

but I don’t remember

how the ground felt.

Pick me up.

Hold me tighter,

closer to your heart.

My heart,

torn and mended

in a cycle that seemed endless,

until you.

Hold me tighter,

closer to your heart.

I don’t remember bottles.

I don’t remember rattles.

I remember thunder and fire works,

comfort miles away,

skinned knuckles and battles…

falling.

I don’t remember how the ground felt.

Pick me up.

Hold me tighter,

closer to your heart.

Winter Again

Summer passed in

pieces of sepia-toned

pictures.

Her face shined

with gold stolen

from the sun.

I suppose

it was ironic

that I was never in

any of the photos.

I was winter again.

Period

Sleep is a comma

between dreams,

at most, a semicolon;

this life is an epic

run-on sentence,

one thought

to the next,

barely pausing

for breath,

anxiously,

hopefully,

climbing

breath’s ladder

ahead of flame,

praying not

to reach the top.

Before a marathon,

I like to stretch…

Out on the couch,

and nap.

While I should prep

and fetch water,

and tape my mental teets

so they don’t chafe,

I dream about it.

Deep breath…

Big yawn…

Waiting for the starting gun.

— Hi all, first time participant here. Excited to be in this energy!