The Poetry Marathon

She had bonsai eyes

And cherry cheeks

And hair of strawberry fields

He had cinnamon eyes

And scarlet lips

And hair of wheat ears

I loved them both

Shantyman: As I looked to the grey-speckled sky

Shantyman: Fluttrin above there was a magpie

Shantyman: And into the wind a song it did cry:

All: Don’t bear me down O’ Lore Lay

Shantyman: “Close ahead a maiden resides”

Shantyman: “To live, thou must shelter thine ears and thine eyes”

Shantyman: “For if you do not, by her spell shall you die!”

All: Don’t bear me down O’ Lore Lay

I once knew a man named Buck

Who one evening was down on his luck

He was kicked out his house

By his psychotic spouse

Who clearly did not give a fuck

Yeah his lady had drunk too much wine

She called him an ass and a swine

When she did not cease

Buck called the police

So she choked him to death with some twine

Warm, clouded windows

On wooden shacks

Arranged like a misassembled puzzle

Beckon me inside.

I must cross the lake between us,

One stroke at a time.

Each stroke tears like a whiplash into my frosted skin

But suffering alone is not an option

When it can be shared over cups of sake

Distressed Sky

Laughs itself to tears

Swallowing the dry

And drowning out my fears

Trampled leaves and trampled flowers

Lie behind the asphalt towers

Struggling with industrial powers

Will they be forsaken?

Maybe they will cut their chains,

Free themselves from growing pains,

Wait and suffer till it rains

Or will they learn to fly?

I am a torn canvas,
A drunk, throwing up on the steps of the Capitol Building
I am the masses,
Yawning at pleading politicians
I am the rule to the exception
Marking my ballot while my unborn children hold me at gunpoint
I am the one on the candidates’ right shoulder
Injecting needle after needle till the stench of hubris clothes them
I am proud to suffer and to triumph
To kill and to be killed
I am Germania and Uncle Sam
Enemy and Friend
Running into the unknown

certain endings

beginnings

steadfast continuation

on

till the final breath

intermediate slumber

and then forwards

new horizons await

to and thro
to and thro
like the beating wings of a
morning flight

to and thro without end.

grey
monotone static of thought
one policy
one opinion
diversity lies
beyond this
never-ending feed
of force fed
sludge
red
like the wine
that trickles from
the lips
like blood
spurred by intellectual poison
white
cleansing the
dirty hands of
masses away
wiping minds
of pain
of contempt