The Poetry Marathon

Homeward

Rain splattered window
Heading home after work
I rest, letting the bus carry away my worries
Letting someone else steer for awhile

In a TARDIS

If I could but in a TARDIS go
Across all time and space
I’d not regret the friends I’d leave
Or the loss of any place

What wonders I could witness then!
What sights I could then see!
Planets and moons and galaxies
And folks from history

What battles I would have to fight?
And meet which alien race?
If I could but in a TARDIS go
Across all time and space

Four Horsemen

Four horsemen from below did ride
On steeds as thin as smoke
Four horsemen seated side by side
And braggingly they spoke:

“I am Pestilence,” said the first,
“I kill with racking pain.
My sores and fevers are the worst
No one can match my fame”

“My name is War,” the second cried,
“I do not kill at all.
I teach mortals the sting of pride
Then watch the legions fall.”

“I am Famine,” proclaimed the third,
“Starvation is my tool.
Greed and hording are my watchwords,
For humankind is cruel.”

“I am Death,” the last one spoke
“No one escapes my blade.
The old, the young, the rich, the broke,
To me the price is paid.”

Four horsemen from below did ride
The Last Days drawing nigh
Four horsemen seated side by side
To watch the humans die.

Homeless

Adrift, I wandered seas of grass, across the
uninhabited places, a desolate and forlorn land.
Where I was destined, bound for, no one knows,
compelled only to rid myself of thoughts of you,
a task at which I persistently failed. Even
now, years later, when hope has fled, when
your face recedes slowly from my memory, you
linger in the corners of my heart. There you are,
in your own cozy home, and I? I remain lost.

This is a Golden Shovel, a poetic form I learned during the 2017 Poetry Marathon and still use often. The text from the prompt is used as the last words in each line.

interstitial

we found ourselves
keeping to the small
the minute gaps
spaces between the walls
silences between the words
air between breaths
there
my brother and I waited
for the danger to pass

Nonsense

The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter,
and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, “For the
Duchess. An invitation from the Queen to play croquet.” The
Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, “From the Queen. An
invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.” Then they both bowed low
and their curls got entangled together.

When Alice next peeped out, the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was
sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky.
Alice went timidly up to the door and knocked.

“There’s no sort of use in knocking,” said the Footman, “and that for
two reasons. First, because I’m on the same side of the door as you are;
secondly, because they’re making such a noise inside, no one could
possibly hear you.” And certainly there _was_ a most extraordinary noise
going on within–a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then
a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces.

“How am I to get in?” asked Alice.

“_Are_ you to get in at all?” said the Footman. “That’s the first
question, you know.”

Alice opened the door and went in. The door led right into a large
kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other; the Duchess
was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the
cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large caldron which seemed to
be full of soup.

Doctor Who 

When The Doctor encounters something

he has never experienced before,

his face lights up with delight

and with wonder he exclaims, “That’s new!”

What has The Doctor learned

in his centuries-long life

that allows him to greet new threats

with the same joy as new treats?

“Life goes on” – I think that is one

and “Nothing bad ever lasts” another.

But even death is a new experience

for one who has lived a dozen lifetimes.

Give me the power and the pluck,

I petition the ample Universe,

to greet my torments and tiny trials

with exultation like that.

Waiting 

Sitting on the dock,
like a shelf over the night-stilled lake,
sipping my canteen of coffee
I wait 

Waiting for the frogs to sing again
Waiting for the damn fog to lift
Waiting for the moonbeams to return
Waiting, but for what? 

In the hush of the wind through the fir trees I hear it:
Your time will come -
Be at peace

The Broken Lands

They brought in big earth movers
And dug a scar in the rich brown earth
Where once had stood a bright red barn,
A pasture for cows, and before that
A virgin forest where deer and bear roamed
Now
Upturned land
Rows and rows of metal pipe
Were nested in the trench
Covered over
And left
Soon natural gas will flow underground
A poison in a pipe, hopefully to stay
Contained in its vessel
But the land itself will never be the same.

it is a pulse of light

a twinkle in the night

a fairy spark full of magic

it is a creepy-crawly

a six-legged beastie

a bug

it is a firefly