The Poetry Marathon

Cabals of photographers use cheese to make children smile.

How they find it’s the only word that makes them show cameras their teeth, I don’t know.

Efforts I make to fall in love with cheese tend to race away behind me.

Each time I try, Mama’a cuisine beckons and Papa’s spices assault my nostrils.

So I am going to give this cheese to the photographer, not the chef;

each of us ebbing time away on the platter of customs.

Written as an acrostic poem from the text prompt of Hour 23.

Featured image source: Freepik

I left my body,

running along the race lane.

Now time to return.

Written from Hour 22 text prompt.

Owls hoot on huge trees

along unlit paths of unpopulated roads.

They send chills down the spine

of the inexperienced night walker.

Their frontal eyes mean and cold,

they are supposed to be evil terrorising humans;

tales handed down from generation to generation,

tales my pen is unwilling to scrutinise.

Yet, they are creatures too, like the rest,

perching on the wings of survival.

Neither their adventures nor their fate

will stop my poetry ink from flowing,

these night owls and night walkers!

Written from the text prompt of Hour 20.

“I am begging,

Let me be lonely

but not invisible.”

– Natalie Diaz

That heart is homegrown now.

Those guiltless drives

and gentle concerns are much stronger now.

Only now, it has grown the tools to sieve you out,

since you failed to extinguish it.

That head is ever more wiser now.

Those selfless sacrifices and

tireless work behind the scenes.

It can sift the chaff better now,

since you failed to shut it down.

Those hands aren’t as swift as they used to be.

Much brawn and fuel drawn from them

in that fruitless misapplication of your multitasking concepts.

Now though, they can hinge well on reborn pivots

since you failed to render them numb.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 17.

Con people often wrap truth in packs,

deceiving the eyes that sights it,

or in sacks that makes it stink.

They often foul up the truth,

injecting pungent impurities

to make it smell bad.

They contort the narratives,

passing false testimonies from mouth to mouth,

so truth can remain buried from generation to generation.

They lace truth up with bitter pills,

so those with the guts

cannot force it down their throats.

What they seldom do is to change the feel of truth,

to skew instincts, emotions, and cues away;

for truth can be felt from across horizons and within close range.

Truth thieves are meant to face the law,

to be barred from societies where they do not belong;

certainly cowards have a space in that boat.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 16.

In a bowl of Nos,

One Yes could have been drowned.

That is not a contest for the wrestling ground.

This moment has created a world of its own,

distant from the gray past

that can no longer embrace colours.

Eyes are truly ahead of me.

Ears picking whispers from the past and present.

Head no longer of a victim of dithering.

In that one deep bowl of Nos,

my one Yes could have stood out,

loud, bright, truly differentiated.

So I have watched that one Yes drown,

to adorn the belly of the sea.

So I will say Yes again,

like the endless waves of the sea.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 15.

Pleasant babbles float around;

cries of demand, not those of despair.

Toddling steps on soft mats;

those curious fingers, querying every item in sight.

Lovely eyes, seeking connections;

the pretty ears that hear more than we know.

Colourful display of apparels;

that bonding smell of babyness

All of you little angels I can see.

All your tiny sounds I can hear.

But I need you to go to the houses of my friends,

where they have none.

Go fill their calm.

Go create sweet disruptions in their homes.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 14.

In moments.

Transient or stretched lives.

Solicited or unsolicited drives.

Flashes from the deep.

Sparks from the shallow.

Into varied spaces.

Recorded by mortals.

Through spirited transformations.

Into forms.

Into worlds.

All parties step on it.

Light.

And.

Heavy.

They ascend.

Death prowls still.

Bemoaned or celebrated.

Yet, living with us.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 13.

Like the nine letters of this title,

lots in life are not prepared for.

No matter how hard one tries,

certain things come preset.

Like the breath of air,

not extempore,

life moves on,

preset.

Live.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 12, as a nonet.

The ground floor of the skyscraper is

thrown into confusion as

a cloud of cacophony descends on

a gathering cloud of men in

sleek suit and silk tie, all

spread around in different directions,

piercing the serenity of the corporate street.

They needle their way to a spot where

an older woman and a younger woman sit,

dishing stuff into the waiting hands of

these men that beat themselves to get their share.

The fuming CEO of the skyscraper, perplexed

by the noise, comes down,

bent on clearing the human mess, and

then he too falls into the trap of the mad crowd.

They all have to scramble for

the periwinkle soup from

the makeshift storefront.

Written from the text prompt of Hour 11.