Drink, Drank, Drunk (14th hour 2020)

Our cups runneth over with wine, vodka, and mead

We ingest as much as the rest as confessions begin to breed.

Emptying our chalice will tend to fill our greed.

The drinks have filled us with regret and befuddled pleads

for someone to hold her hair as she heaves.

El Grito de Lares (11th hour) -poetry prompt

Land of star shaped green trees that speak of atrocities

Mountain Terrains carved with sacred secret spots of our pain

Forever hidden from our oppressors

who murdered

us for capital gain

Tiny frogs

sing songs

of celestial nights

While we gathered ourselves for a fitting fight

September, we remember,

surrounded by our own elements of Earth, Wind, and Fire

As we designed a rebellion

to swiftly gain justice,

a dream we deservedly desire

Forbidden (10th hour) prompt

He reached to touch her existence but could not further his cause.

She was far beyond his reach in a place that was forbidden,

in the stars that was never written.

Across the sun and upon the moon

Her shadow will forever be in tuned,

with a fate of a love that would be forever doomed.

No open skies

No songs of romanticism

He cannot be held accountable for trying to reach her prism

A rainbow of colors to hold his desires prison.


Crab Feast (8th Hour 2020)-acrostic poem

Maritime crustaceans making their way to our stomachs

As we crack a few shells and throw the filth in a bucket.

Ready and available, we summon the spices

You know, the butter, the old bay and any other that entices.

Lo and behold, do not forget about the citrus beer

A surmountable amount is always revered.

Never too much to pile on the broken legs

Demolishing those last is the only way.

My Ideal day w my 19th Century Crush (6th hr 2020)

The flames from the fireplace ferociously heat my backside,

As I keep my sights upon the desolate wintry fright.

Frigid and wisped, the wind blows the panes.

While my fingers trace a few letters on the bitter frosty bays.

A glacial heat vibrates through me rolling electricity through my spine

as a crack from the logs sound out from behind

But I stay staring at the bleak December we waited for.

The one that you have spoken with such fervor before.

The one with a few horrid ghost tales of talking black birds that you so abhor.

Leaving me to crave and rave for a haunting much like yours,


I wrote upon the wintry glass, nevermore.