The Poetry Marathon

I double my exposure

Keeping words tucked

Inside

With an Aperture open wide

For you have a high ISO

And with a Focal speed

Growing ever nearer

That is you can’t take words back

Even they fall out of your mouth

Overexposed pictures

Show us nothing

Last night I

Dreamt

A dream that I cannot

Live

Awake

My days are the

Same

And I await

Change

There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things,

he couldn’t  help to smile

• a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence in which he had made a friend of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since they last met he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass before that cheerful smile would be seen again orb, due south, would just peep above the sky- line and dip immediately from view what was left a glass and few laughs 

The smile

That hurts your stomach

When you feel joy or

Find something funny

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart–one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a stupid action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow.

1. Take a deep breath

2. Think about something else

3. Watch/read something

4. Smile

1 cup Smiles

1 oz Vibes

2 cups Heart

3 cups Positivity

3 cups Love

He saw the alarm clock over there, ticking on the chest of drawers. “Good God!” he thought. It was half past six, and the hands were going quietly on. It was past the half hour, almost quarter to seven. Shouldn’t the alarm have sounded? One could see from the bed that it had been properly set for four o’clock. Certainly it had rung. And was it even possible for one to sleep quietly through the noise that made even the furniture shake? Now, he certainly hadn’t had a peaceful sleep, but apparently it was deep nonetheless. But what should he do now? The next train left at seven o’clock. To catch that one, he would have to make a mad dash; his assortment of wares wasn’t packed up yet, and he really didn’t feel particularly fresh and active. And even if he caught the train, there was no way to avoid those storm clouds brewing over the boss’ head, because the firm’s errand boy would’ve waited for the five o’clock train and reported the news of his absence long ago. 

The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?,” there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The best days

Involve a good hardback

A nice breeze

A satchel with cheddar cheese

Space to sit on pavement