The Poetry Marathon

While the bees buzzed and the trees sighed,
I was not yet created.
You were only ten
Moving in unknown terrain
Seeking their attention
Desperate to belong.

I was poised at the end of the tree thorn
Waiting to bestow upon your brow
The kiss of pain and blood
That will mark you for the rest of your life
Reminding you that you do
Not need their acceptance.

I, birthed by flesh torn without feeling or sound.
When you emerged from the forest with your prize
Crimson rivers along your nose
Comrades running to your aid, to
Repair the tear rent in the
Tapestry of your face.

I am still here, pale and shiny with age
A reminder of a time
When you sought approval from those
Unworthy of your presence.
I am here reminding you to
Approve of yourself.

Always, when I am driving
through the territories
when dusk descends
I see them.

Void of artificial lights
bold flashes of white figures
in the ancient darkness
sentry the highway.

Communication of souls
direction and guidance
the movement on my periphery
tells me I am not alone.

Things were going just fine

cordial, cold, robotic, no acrimony

When I broke the calm

by asking the entirely wrong question.

Fighting renewed, airplanes overhead

Daily barrage of AK47 rapid fire

in the electronic street of emails

Your aggressive Stalin to my calmer Churchill.

Collateral damage is inevitable;

children crying with limbs blown off

mentally and emotionally wounded psyches

triggering PTSD tears.

I renewed the truce

withdrew my request

ended the battle

fearful the damage is irreparable.

—————————-

(I took a graduate poetry writing class at Morehead State University. The professor would assign simple prompts which we would develop into 20 apertures. This poem was inspired by the prompt “I hope …” which was my apertures “I hope that people who hate me now will moderate to apathy soon enough”.

Your alarm goes off

too early.

One last cuddle followed by

brushing, dressing,

bed heaving as you lace your boots.

My alarm goes off

too early.

No work today so what the hell …

return late night texts, check emails

light dimming as I fall back asleep

Thunderclaps peeling

just right.

Hazily muse if I should rouse

storms passing, sleep being caught up

Stretching as I stand for another day.

24 in 24

I sit here on a gray day listening to

the rain drip from the eaves onto the lid of the rubbish bin.

More than a plop and less than a click

overlaid with the distant train whistle screaming its crossing.

Yes, you have my attention.

No, I will not cross your path because

I want to live another day

to write another poem and drink another cuppa.

I crack the spine of a new moleskine

jotting impressions, sounds, smells,

prompts as I pray for cohesion

when the day is done.