The Poetry Marathon

closet haibun

I didn’t grow up on Privet Drive, in fact I didn’t get to visit that house until much later in life – however I did have a closet of my own. It wasn’t under the stairs, however, it was hidden in so many more practical ways. A space I could go, but also could easily be found if needs arose, but when I entered my closet and closed the door – I could be a thousand miles away in an instant.

My closet was stocked with paper and pencils and notebooks – all the things a budding writer needs. I fancied myself the creator of fantastical worlds, from inside that closet. A writers’ comfortable nest of possibility – it was the bottom of the laundry shoot, after all.

As I grew, the closet changed along with me, but eventually – it stopped changing fast enough for me. I moved on. But the closet still held those words and worlds – I wonder who ever found those notebooks.

narnia or hobbiton or maybe just through the veil –
travel is a given,
from any space you call your own

—

This year was a challenge, I was helping family deal with some heavy work throughout the day – thank you all for your support and patience <3

dark and inviting, mysteries await the brave

—

is this another monoku, maybe a monostitch? it’s poetry anyway! I wrote this using the image prompt for hour 11.

a greek tragedy

begin your poem with a metaphor that drips
like honey from the comb –
sweet words make for saucy whispers,
in the darkest folds of night – especially
when they come from something sharp

i taste the colors of the sky at day
break, hearing you read your poems aloud
you are aphrodite and adonis, come
together under the myrrh tree
in full bloom

but, their love soured quickly enough, so
be careful with all that wordplay,
it gets sticky just as fast

now i sit to the side of this tragedy,
a modern argus –
my many eyes seeing nothing
that is true, so don’t trust
a thing i’ve said…

my verses will be soon forgotten,
my prophecy reduced
to morpheus’ fodder
for tomorrow’s sweetest nightmares

ο χρόνος είναι ο σοφότερος σύμβουλος όλων
(time is the wisest counselor of all)
and yet, the children who sit at a teachers’ knee
learn nothing at all
of love

—

I am not sure I did it quite *right* but this is my first stab at the prompt from hour three. I claim to have used the following ‘projects’ in this piece:
1, 2, 4, 6, 14, 7, 15, 16, 18 and 20 – though I do make a bit of a statement with my ending I suppose.

(a nonsense poem)

carry lightbulbs like ideas
in your jacket pockets,
spill your cinnamon-colored tremors
over your elbow, and down through history –
harvest beets that stain your fingers red,
and make music in the carport
that the elk will echo for all eternity…
a bayou bucket, your only instrument

—

I’m not exactly sure what a bayou bucket is, but I heard it can carry a tune! 😉

blue note
-books full of
blue hours and
memories that bleed

sound like a calming breath,
on a winter’s day, my

life leaves fleeting impressions
in the air

—

I wrote this while listening to the instrumental music prompt. I noticed that the song was from an album called ‘The Blue Notebooks,’ which provided the jumping-off point for this poem.

in a mirrored room
(after Metallica’s Room of Mirrors)

in a mirrored room
all my faults laid bare
i see the way you see me,
all the things that need repair

i cannot hide from my self
in a mirrored room
all my edges shown in sharp relief
you cut off my costume, way too soon

but this room has value, yet –
for you are here with me
in this mirrored room,
your truths are also free

the space between us, clearly defined –
and now i can turn away
leaving you here alone
in this mirrored room

you’ll stay

—

Okay, so I bent the rules a little – but rules are meant to be broken! I pulled my title and repeating line from Metallica’s song “Room of Mirrors” because I’m super envious of all the folks at the show here in Phoenix this weekend! <3

the photog’s view

through a view-finder
the whole world is reduced
to apertures and f-stops

yet contains multitudes

she sees with an artist’s eye
guides us to what is really important

—

I used the image prompt, but wanted to add one that more closely follows the story of this poem

the ghost lights

near the coast, where the rhythm of life is dictated by the ebb and flow of the sea.
a lighthouse stands sentinel, it’s periodic light guiding adventurers home

the village whispers, the light
keeper is gone – 
but the light remains

years have flown, faster than a seabird’s wings could follow – since the keeper was last seen, but
every ship still finds safe harbor – the ghost lights pulse with the waves.

etherial glow cutting through
the night ships pass
safe in the fog

so who tends the fires that still burn? villagers, timorous, do not venture near
but, as long as the it’s a benevolent spirit – who are we to complain?

ah, but one day
the tides may turn –
keep the spirits close
or we may forsake the coast!

—

I was attempting to follow a bit of a haibun-like form here, as I thought the “conversation” between the ghosts and the villagers or narrator may work well in that form. Obviously, I wasn’t very strict with it, though.

(a monostitch written in response to the Marriage prompt. image created with canva)

minutiae of the everyday – a life worth living

hour 3 –

tomorrow, the world will make sense / a day’s distance puts everything in focus

today, heaven’s fields are fresh and inviting / welcoming home another tired wanderer

the tears of the newly-alone wash / clean the path to eternity