The Poetry Marathon

There must be something
in the books,
he wrote.
In his books,
there was hope.
Optimism planted
in a dystopia
that grew in a reader’s heart
and showed
how it is really darkest
before dawn.
The world was bankrupted
of ten million fine sentences
the night Ray Bradbury passed on.

Following the poetry prompt,
dedicated to Ray Bradbury.
Two quotes from Fahrenheit 451 used
composing this poem.

The sky illuminated.
You, waking.
Blue eyes among the strands
of your long hair,
on the pillow.
You smile.
Almost slow motion.
Like in the movies.
Could it be?

I have some wishes I would like you to grant me:

Not an eternal life,
but a long and not too burdened one.
Full of learning and experience.

Not eternal youth
or beauty, but health and strength
to achieve my goals.

More time.
Just time. To live, to learn.
Grant me time.
The rest is up to me.

Following the Poetry Prompt,
first line is taken from
the last sentence in
Singularity Sky
by Charles Stross

There is no place like home.
There is no place I call home.
There are places I come from,
there are places I’ve been to,
there are places I’m going.
There is a space I’m using,
a place that’s mine for occupancy,
but is it home?
I no longer belong where I came from,
(I think I never did)
I am not yet where am I going,
and I am only temporarily passing
through the space that I’m using.
There might be a place
that is like home, but how
would I know, if I don’t
have a home to compare it to?

My precious.
Though I have many
(and I love them all)
in different places
I call home.

My precious
is mostly black,
with red insides,
and its curves fit
my hand perfectly.

My precious
is with me every morning,
bringing a dose
of my addiction.

My precious,
mostly black,
with red letters
on a side

that spell “coffee”,
and a red spoon.
My precious
coffee cup.

I hope to create in this life more than a noise
and to leave behind, as I go, more than an echo.
It might seem like vanity, but truly
it’s an ambition. For my dreams are surreal
and my soul is electric
and I hope my words are not forgotten.

Ideas lose value, if they are forgotten,
And everything becomes just background noise
from the chatter to static electric,
useless gossip surrounding you like an echo
of the world so surreal,
that it’s no longer perceivable truly.

As for myself, yours truly,
I am not yet forgotten,
but saying “remembered” would be a bit too surreal.
As I try to tune out all the noise,
to avoid turning my writing into an echo,
my mind tunes into the steady buzzing electric.

Let’s keep our lives in a state of electric,
plugged into devices, as if we are truly
nothing but an echo
of our human nature, long forgotten.
Our ancestors would find the city noise
confusing and our lifestyle surreal.

We made our art surreal
as if life is not moving, not electric
enough on its own, as if we need the noise,
the disturbance, the distortion to truly
see what would otherwise be forgotten
like a fading echo.

Let your own words become an echo,
so they reach farther, even if they sound surreal.
Better that, than be entirely forgotten
in this age of electric
communications. Say what you mean truly,
and don’t become part of the noise.

We live in the age of echo, surrounded by the electric
and the surreal. I’ll make my words truly
my own, in hopes of not being forgotten or dismissed as noise.

Please, mind the gap
between the train and the platform.
We wouldn’t want
any accidents to happen today.

Mind the gap
as you type. Punctuation
is not to be dismissed.
Mind the gap after commas,
fullstops and other marks.

Mind the gap
between yourself and
the other person.

But most importantly,
(at least they said it is),
mind the gap
year that you’re taking.

It doesn’t look nice
on your CV,
the employer will ask,
if they will choose to speak
to you at all.

Inspired by London Underground,
and the employability module
in my study programme.

Chocolate is not
a universal gift
or acceptable to all
as comfort food.

The looks I get
when I refuse chocolate
being offered to me
are those of surprise
and sheer disbelief.

I wish my weird allergies
to celery and chocolate
were as well known
as those of peanuts
or gluten.

Three years ago I was lost.
I was on a path that
had betrayed me.
The star I followed
grew dimmer in my eyes.

Three years ago I stood
on a road, facing two
paths ahead of me.
And while many would
see them as leading
to the same direction,
I knew the difference
all too well.

Three years ago I
made a choice.
One road was too familiar,
the easy one to take.
The other – new, unmapped.
A challenge. And I took it.

I travel it
not looking back.
It brought me here.
Still walking.

Whether you have
too little or too much
stuff depends on
the amount of boxes
packed and the time
spent packing, sometimes even
on the time you have to pack.

Theory of relativity
is rarely as obvious
as when you need to move
your possessions from one
location to another.

When almost nothing
is more than you can
fit, or carry, or relocate.