The Poetry Marathon

Hour Eight

The devil nestles underneath
car door handles
flooding lungs
and invading the bloodstream of society.
The drivers fein placation
with promises of Pleasure Island.
Nostrils extend
in deeply croaking breaths
heavy-handed and grappling
protests are caught in the throat
as a scurry of cement voices
rumble threats of thunder.
Pounding fists,
a gravel in the auction block.
The drivers offer no extended warranty
on each life absconded
a commodity of wonton lust
and exacerbated agony.
Lightning erupts in heads
with yet another fell swoop
bound by blackmail-
life, a refrain in melody
now a scourge of screams
ripping the insides of lungs out.
Poison fills the gaps
eroding self-worth
as another penny made
is yet another body that drops.
Veins a caustic bed of
venom worms squirming up forearms-
a belt to stave off flow
and retaliation in it’s conditioning.
They’re juxtaposed against an array of forms
classes and creeds stacked up on beds
pressing and expressing
the life from the fruit
of the victims.
Haunted eyes house crippling spirits
broken by the thrusts
of doggerel drivers-
pulling themselves forward.
Riches gather in the dragon’s lair
as it is chased into yet
another compound
with no means to identify
the treasure in each soul-
life, a fraction of what it used to be.
Dreams a congealed slur of
voices warning
coagulating through arteries
to stave the flow of life and emotion-
flogged for the biteback.
Innocence, a calamity
with silent prayers echoing
down hallways
manifesting rescue.
The drivers lick the
money from their fingers
like pork grease
and stalk about…
…watching…
…always watching
ever present,
until the siren’s call
beaconing justice
and honest resolve.
The drivers blanch
at the Sound of Freedom,
and hide behind their screens
praying their own prayers
that anonymity will save them.

Hour Seven

Tethered to breath
a rise and fall
of chest-
a lift of torso
and a spirit,
or what is left.
Triggering the vagus
a nerve once shaking
as it’s coiled
in suspended animation
until the breath’s release,
and to which pulse
can now find peace.

Hour Six

A fish out of water
scooped out of the expanse
with a net of lies
and plunged within
a crystalline bowl.
Flitting to the surface
wherein lies the tease
of sustenance and breath
held in stagnancy.
Feeble attempts to avoid
the anglerfish
and it’s temptation-
a false hope of ultraviolet
lure to wrangle in the catch.
Hiding within a castle
surrounded by the anemones
with tendrils of flesh
waving like a banner of surrender,
while avoiding curious eyes
and sidelong glances.
A hook and another line
descend to the gravel bottom-
the lure, a promise of relief
from the constraints of
a limited existence.
A living decoration
swimming through the days
trapped within a lonely puddle
while dreaming of the ocean
depicted in the backdrop.

Hour Five

Memories tucked into
my breast pocket
left and close to my heart.
They flutter like eyelids
just waking from slumber-
fractured images
play upon the screen of thought
a tribute to remembrance
to lives previously lived
during my years on the back roads.
The gravel of experience
kicking up rocks
and dusty clouds as I move forward.
The ancestors of self
passed away by the alchemical chemicals
of compounded experience
of former versions in former chapters.
I reach out and touch a few
running my fingers across their edges
flipping through the pages of life
like ribbons
while others catch up on the hem of
emotions and slice into my skin;
the salt of tears an anesthesia
to the wistful recollections of
the hourglass
whose sand had run it’s last cascade.
Some are moonlit passages
bathed in shadows and blurred vision
that had circumvented the stony path.
I lift the camera lens of my eyes
and snap another memory
like fingers-a metronome of observation
in my rhythm of living.
I tuck it in with the rest
sealing and threading the edges in,
minding where I had come from
and just how far I’ve gone-
just another moment of self captured
and folded into the realms of memory.

Hour Four

Outlining plans
with graphite tracing
the intent-
gradients of charcoal
delineate from our
preconceived form
an insult to our potential.
Our attempts to take over
and mold over
the wire mesh construction-
half-hearted clay structure
unassuming
to the crack from the
heat of the kiln.
We observe the slanted strokes
of ink to pen
in abstract thought
and underlying meaning.
Oil streaks as the canvas weeps
fields of color upon it’s blank slate
a newborn creation yearning
to stretch it’s legs
and run like water
changing colors-
chameleon ideations
Making our reality
instead of our minds.
Terra verde and Payne’s grey lament-
coalescing hues
of personality, a prism
of sun-stricken fractals
whose reflection is diffused
upon the walls of self-
a color scheme of multi-chromatic
emotions undulating
with no adverse effect
to the masterpiece mirrored
in our choice of being-
to know without seeing…
Blindfolded painters are we
bequeathing the authority of art
to the greatest creator-
our free-will desire for control
of our imaginings,
a paltry scribble compared
to the artistic hands who has
a grander idea in mind
of our future-
a magnum opus that is life.
With authoritative strokes,
He fashions us instruction –
dual creators working in tandem
with destiny.
Our destination, a wisp of brush
a flick of pencil,
the stroke of pastel faith-
the writ of our stories
as we are the ink
With His hand on the pen.

Hour Three 1:23

Layers droop precariously
from form
like draperies obscuring
the world
from the frame I had held
like photograph-
with peeling laminate
ironed over
like wax paper leaves
and never comes back.
The covers fall
from mattresses
skirting the hardwood floors
methylene chloride truth
an offense to the ego.
The blind eyes from which
we saw
as more layers are stripped
bare-boned-
each self overlaid and smothered
with thick blankets of paint
from what we believed would
compliment our wardrobe of existence-
our history of self-
a living work conserved with coverings
ornamented with dust like a sequined gown
ladden by years of dust.
Authenticity-a sloughing of water rings
as we find the glass half-full
to what was once half-empty.
Saw dust particles of the past
reveal the now beneath –
the soft swollen skin
of new growth
paled by sandpaper insights and wisdom.
A polishing of soul
with word and feathered wood
embossed and carved
constructed with experienced hands.
Oil-ladden brushes stain the heartwood
a translucent cherry red-
the brush strokes caressing each corner
in a lustrous gleam of
what once was overlooked,
covered, and smothered by dust devils
and set back into a corner of thought.
The tapestry falls
in a pile at my feet
as microfiber cloths had wiped
the ocean from my cheeks-
stripped from what I once was
into who I became.

Hour Two

Rays of sunshine
pierce through the
fabric of hope
like hot daggers
searing
cauterizing
the wounds of
winter’s blush
melting the ventricles
of a heart’s cold season
when the chamber doors
had closed
like an iron fist.
A heart that beats
with filagree
laced by fingers
that cradle it softly
heated by touch
and breath;
a fog of heat
in the early morning
hovering over
the hard ground
as it is loosed
from months of slumber.
Watered by the spring-
a fountain of youthful
optimism
for the promise
of life
in this new season.

Hour One

Boxed in on all sides
wrapped in rush
like present,
waiting…always waiting…
to be opened
to move forward.
Inching my way
with the masses at my back
other fellow travelers
on this expanse of gravel
and boiling pavement.
Like worms
burrowing through soil,
I compost the the fumes
of deragatory words
and shaking fists-
the blare of horns
a curse upon my ears-
my heart.
Life in a box
booming with music
from an open window
carrying a tune,
a rhythm in tow.
Others, white knuckles
on wheels
some brass with eyes
watching, assaulting the dash.
The necks elastic
as all must take their turn
to observe-to witness.
For some, a prayer
for yet another driver
peeled from the stony pavement
and wheeled off.
A moment of curiosity-
a breath of relief
that it isn’t one of us.
Forgetting the scene
moments after the pass
or the image lingers
like an unwanted passenger-
a hitchhiking reminder
as we drive our way forward
to our intended destination
grateful that we’re
given the grace to arrive.

Some things are best seen
Through the eyes
Of someone who
Has been there.

It is only through the eyes
and experience of others
we learn.

“Show mercy.” He commands.
“Show compassion.”
And although many would lash out
Stomp their feet
Sling mud and lies
And get angry over the injustice…
And things far worse than you realize
Even things I’m yet unaware of
He knows.
He saw everything.
He heard the whispers
Behind licked doors.
He is everywhere observing
And He came to my rescue
When I was at my weakest point.
“Jesus!” I cried.
“Take the wheel because I can’t do this on my own.”
So He did and I trusted and had faith
That He would deliver me.
I begged Him for my purpose
Unfulfilled by a breached soul contract
But He witnessed me put in the work.
He saw me try.
He watched as I stumbled
And when I fell flat in my face
Endured The Dark Night Of The Soul
I barely survived,
I awoke.
And He answered my prayers
Shielded me.
Protected me.
The angels,they surrounded me.
My ancestors waged war on my behalf
As I continued working on myself
And prepare to walk into my propose
The reason I’m here.
By His grace, I was saved.
By His love, I am delivered.
By His mercy, I found peace.
And as His daughter, I wanted to make Him proud-
I wanted my ancestors,
The only family I have that truly values me
Rally the troops and sent for reinforcements
By waking up the ancients.
From Celts, Vikings, and Barbarians
I am descended.
A family of warriors
Whose blood courses through my veins.
Through Him I was healed.
When I was weak, He was my strength
And without Him, I’d be nothing.
With Him, I can do anything.
I am valued and I’m loved
Unconditionally.
Forgiven
Unconditionally.
Embraced and held within His arms
Indefinitely.
I owe my existence to God
Who constructed me into the womb
Of the person who gave me life.
But I was never her child,
I am and always shall be
His.

I love all who persecuted me.
I forgive you all with sincerity
From the endless depths of my being.
What you did to me
Is inexcusable
Heinous
Devilry
No words in the thesaurus can describe
The evil
And within my life I never dreamed
I’d live to witness the raw reality
Of all the Seven Deadly Sins.
I can see much
Feel the energy pull
But am not God this much remained hidden.
And all I requested was an apology
To listen and learn
Gain perspective and comfort them
For the weight of the burden of it.
No matter how badly someone hurts me,
The last thing I want to see is someone I know
Face justice, judgment, and karma.
Thrice I asked.
Only one considered
But backed down
Out of countless people.
They accepted blood money
From inheritance stolen
Expectations of life insurance
And the idea of selling my organs
To cover the gas money.
Now conspiring to have me arrested or sued
Under false pretenses
The local law paid off
The justice system in the county
Though I have an inner knowing there are some
Who wouldn’t compromise their integrity,
Of that I know
But not their names.
So much money spent
Seeking my death
When that money could have gone to better use
By helping those in need,
Those who struggle
Those impoverished
Those in far worse positions than I,
And I assure you, there are.
Each person has a story to tell
This is but a fraction of mine
And what I desire
Us yours
Whoever you may be reading these words.
I don’t ask for your secrets
Those are yours to keep
But I promise, I’m a safe place
That will help you shoulder the burden of them
If at all you need to
And you have nowhere to turn.

It’s amazing how open my eyes are to
The reality of who is true and who is false
When it comes down to it.
Who stood by my side without fail?
God.
Who had my back when death was thrown
Hastily my way?
God.
Who shouldered my burdens, as there were many?
God.
Who drew me from the destructive flames
And helped me become the flame that illuminates?
God.
Who helped me heal?
God.
Who did I turn through countless betrayals?
God.
Who sheltered me and protected me from the storms?
God.
Who showed me mercy when I did wrong?
God.
Who pointed out where I needed to be checked?
God.
Who showed me the wonders of miracles?
God.

Remembering in my youth the phrase,
“What Would Jesus Do?”
I find a whole new miracle in that
And that is the way in which we should walk.
Crush the heads of serpents and scorpions
And live by compassion and unfailing love.
And through all this, I love more fiercely
Than ever before
As in the Bible we are all supposed to
Walk in line with the teachings of Jesus Christ
And tis is how I choose to live
And move forward.
Jesus showed more compassion than anger
Which is why I can still forgive
But I cannot forget.
I have cast aside and done away with
Everything and everyone who no longer serves.
I choose to say without hesitation…
“I still love you” and mean it
But from now on from a distance.
I pray you show compassion and love for others
In your future.
I pray that you walk in line with your purpose.
I pray you seek Him
And find His grace.
By the blood of Jesus
I pray for you.
And I forgive you.
You all can do better than what you have
And I mean that in the light.
Come back to it. It’s where you’re supposed to be.
Don’t turn away
Run toward.
And feel His compassion
And show the same to others in the future.
Amen.