The Poetry Marathon

Green on grey outside,

a world of cement and tin,

a kaleidoscope.

Paper boys and girls,

playing underneath the green,

above them, grey skies.

Metal cars whirring,

as paper men go to work,

waving the green ‘bye.

I exist only when eyes are closed,

Sleepness nights you spend daily,

you hunger for equality amidst,

the tortures and pains of this world.

Within your reach, your comfort lives,

but you are too scared to reach around me,

and yet too proud to turn your back,

either you are stupid or incredibly brave.

What, they ask, are your daemons?

What are you scared of in the dark?

What is the monster under your bed?

What makes you leave the lights on?

And as you close your eyes, you see me,

and you know, I am your daemon.

Eight minutes left now,

for our planet’s end,

global climate change,

was easy to mend.

But the Sun’s collapse,

will leave us deranged,

if not dead for good,

our people estranged.

Three minutes over,

living in falsehood,

waiting on la fin,

childhood, now sainthood.

Three minutes are left,

hello, friend of mine,

my death’s not far now,

drink some beer and wine.

Death’s an inch nearer,

should have kept my vows,

I should not have lied,

should have kept my house.

Should have said goodbye,

thirty seconds left,

panic in my heart,

first and last goodbye.

I am without a home,

no place to call my own,

no house made of no limestone,

no house in no street in Bayonne.

But I live like this to say,

that man needs no home on a good day,

that there is another way,

that does not include a house with a pathway.

I travel the world,

my footsteps trace all but the underworld,

have traveled on boats with sails unfurled,

and ropes on decks in circles, all curled.

And when I was born, a month too early,

my parents, their vision blurry,

when asked what they would name me, prematurely,

“Windell, for he is desperate to travel the world.”

Snow is a wonderful thing,

it makes the little children sing,

and falls from the heavens, like a gift from above,

snow can never be an imperfect love.

They say there can never be two alike,

as streaks of light mercilessly strike,

barren earth, under white duvets,

peeking from holes in wool pockets.

Snow, hail and sleet,

two unwanted but in packaged deceit,

and each year, a renewed debut,

and far beyond a mixed adieu.

And if I were the last to feel Frost’s graze,

and live in the heart of Old Man Winter’s maze,

I would spend the days of last,

praying for a snow’s weather forecast.

Most don’t know,

I walk on an asphalt road,

but I’d like to belong in a sunflower meadow.

My asphalt road is paved for me,

my cold, cold asphalt road,

and numbs my toes to my feet.

Most don’t know,

this asphalt road is out of place,

I’d like a path with a view and a window.

My asphalt road is paved for me,

and stretches over the earth’s curve,

as far as my eyes can see.

This asphalt road,

is not wanted by me,

but it will be known as-

my asphalt road;

for eternity.

Sixteen words ago,

skies were blue,

not anymore, no,

skies are no more,

we are left.

I, doubting daughter,

doubt my sister and brother,

for their love in me.

What if my laptop were personified?

I ask myself on a sunny day.

It would have fainted at the slightest of turbulent weather.

And it would probably have inhuman DNA.

Won’t connect to the wifi,

battery would die in less than two hours,

I said beginning to tick of items on a long list of things

wrong with my laptop and maybe yours.

It would be like an irritating best friend,

always there and always unreliable,

always decieving and always pranking,

but my love for it is unclassifiable.

And I would pamper it with gifts,

and expensive software upgrades,

Avast Premium doubling as life insurance,

as my laptop punches in the decades.

Charlie cries,

at the end of the day,

Charlie lies,

at the start of the day.

But I am Charlie’s only friend,

at the end of the day,

I’m the only one who wants to contend,

at the start of the day.

Charlie does not know this,

at the end of the day,

for I keep it from him,

at the start of the day.

Does this mean I lie too,

at the end of the day?

Does this mean I cry too,

at the start of the day?

But it doesn’t matter,

at the end of the day,

for Charlie is my brother,

at the start of the day.

And throughout.