The Poetry Marathon

If I were to draw you a line in the sand

where would the stakes lie and where would you stand?

Would you walk with your people in the light of the sun

or hide until nightfall, take cover, and run?

Would you blanch at the sight of the blood on your hand

if you were forced to face the things you have done?

Did you think your selfish pleasures would harm none

while you soiled the water and poisoned the land?

Did you not flinch when they gave you their brand?

Is this truly the life you had planned?

Do you think the lives lost are fair price for your fun?

Would it be different if it were your mother, your sister, your son?

The time has come when we must make our stand

We are many ones but of many you are only one

Burn the banner of the tyrannical few, their slogan shun

Walk tall, walk proud, across the line in the sand

Echo forth, the staccato notes of

Xylophone strikes in frantic

Time, pinging off the

Eardrum’s taut skin and

Merging with the pounding of the

Pulse that beats somehow

Off-tempo with the

Rumba rhythm of the

Aortic bagpipes, that

Never-ceasing song of

Ever-decreasing length, with

Osseous rattling like castanets

Under the frantic xylophone strikes

Staccato notes which echo forth

The gun is loaded

The muzzle is raised

I have no recourse

I must make the grab

The hunter cometh

I feel his footsteps

His bow he raises

I must escape, but where?

Might a beast not have its beauty?

The phantom his diva?

Nor the hunchback his gypsy?

Might a thorn not have its rose?

Ongoing still, the oration of an ancient story

Aging ever faster, ever growing gaunt and hoary

A tale so old and often told

Of gold for blood and blood for gold

Recited countless times before the jury

How warm the blood, the gold how cold

Ever echoing from glen to wold

This immortal, devouring story

Rose-tinted tales of valour and glory

The truth behind more dark and gory

Fear and loathing for the old

Death and murder for the bold

And yet a useful allegory

For those earnest and intrepid-souled

Those seeking to reform the mould

And ink another, kinder story

If you were to stumble,

Brother, I would steady you

If you were to tire,

Brother, I would carry you

Brother, if you need me,

then you have me

Brother, if you miss me,

then you’ll find me

If you were to suffer,

Brother, I would ease you

If you were to promise,

Brother, I’d believe you

Brother, if you ask me,

you will hear me

Brother, if you call me,

you will see me

Brother, if you were to perish,

Brother, I would join you.

Wind up my key and watch me dance

in torpid trance

in manacle

mechanical

Pull on my strings and make me leap

in waking sleep

in bondage held

by hand propelled

I pray Drosselmeyer’s pity

painted pretty

naught but a doll

plaything to all

The piper stood upon the hill

and gave the pipes a blow,

while I was sat upon my knees

and played the pipe below.

Pouring out the wine

She does not speak, she’s silent

She does not love him

He thinks of her so fondly

Yet he will not marry her