The Poetry Marathon

Most of my day
is spent on couches
and beds
under blankets,
or on cushions,
asleep,
as I am a senior
aged thirteen.

I love to play
and run around
but I get tired
twice as quickly
though I still run
fairly fast.

Sometimes I hurt,
and fail to jump,
they pick me up
and hug me tight.
I wag my tail,
it’s good to know
they love me still,
for years to come.

Anatomy is
a peculiar thing.
We don’t get
to choose it
and yet end up
being judged for it.

Too short, too tall,
too asymmetrical, too disproportional,
too feminine, too masculine.
Too human?

I was born not-too-tall,
with little feet and tiny toes,
but not-too-short fingers.
Blue eyes (from my mother),
that I wished were
my father’s green instead.

I am all natural, organic,
indeed, as far as
intervention goes.
Without extensions, optical
or technical
or acrylic.

Except my hair’s
infernal colour
applied externally
once a month.

We walk a line.
Sometimes it feels like a straight line.
Sometimes it feels like we’re walking in circles.
Retracing steps, going backwards,
searching for the right signs,
we walk a line.

We take it slow, we try to run,
but there is no jumping forward,
no skipping steps,
thought we might sleep through a few,
if we’re not ready.

There is a clear beginning
and a clear end.
First – not by choice,
second – unavoidable either way.

But what if, the line we walk
is really a circle,
and death is not the end,
but a new beginning?

They say we need to
see each other
for this to be real.
I say we need
to feel each other,
and that’s not always physical.

They say we need to
speak the same language,
and we don’t.
I say we speak many,
and it makes us
richer.

They say we need to
make it official,
and build our world together
onwards, once we have.
I say we need to build it,
for ourselves, but not for them,
and on our terms.

They say and we need to
stop listening.
But hey, we never did.
We listened to each other.
We need to show them
how it’s really done.

rain drops
falling onto the glass
sliding downards
slowly
and fast
catching up with the others
forming patterns
and lines
a race to reach
the bottom of
the window
and still you say
there is nothing
to watch

Step out of the shadows.
They’re not the night
that hides you,
and they’re not the light,
that makes you shine.

In the shadows you are
not a rebel and
not unseen, but
perhaps unnoticed.

Step through the gates,
I know they appear narrow
and it may seem they will
close on you or collapse,
that just by looking at them
you are holding them together
but as soon as you take that
step they will fall apart.

All it takes is just one
first step to go into the
light that will illuminate
what you have to share
with the world.

Writing prompt photo used as inspiration:

I wake up and go to check up
on the older female, as I know
all too well when she has to be
up and walking towards the
kitchen, then I can eat.

It’s a thing, I don’t eat alone,
even when the bowl is full,
I need the company of a
human.

Most days are pretty much
the same, they get up, they
leave and they come back,
usually at the same time,
and as the other four-legged one
is old, she is no longer the
messenger of the keys dangling
outside the door, my hearing
is much better as I am
still young.

And yet today, they have taken
them out again, the soft boxes
the ones that are not always
open and often just
too large for me.

They are moving objects
that take up space in
the soft box, and I hurry
to climb in, to take up
my space, that should
rightfully belong to me.

They think that I don’t know,
but I see they are leaving.
I know they will be back, but
I just really want to
go with them.

This is not a love poem to a person.
I have left many of them behind, and
none of them have chosen to stowaway
in my heart or mind or otherwise to be remembered.

This is not a love poem to the home
I left behind, with its noise of televisions
and radios and all that constant…
This is not a rant.

This isn’t even a letter, for it is not
meant to be sent, or read,
as the recipient would have no eyes.

This is a monologue of a
loner who is not lonely, but perhaps…
nostalgic, of the colours
left behind, in the third planet,
as we belong now to the red.

Inspired by the writing prompt, written having Mars One project in mind.

Red, vibrant
In the beginning there was energy.
Or so the scientists would have us think.
It’s still around, in everything,
moving back and forth, up and down,
in circles and patterns.
Vibrating eternal life.
Flowing through you,
as the colour of your blood
matches that of my lips.

Orange, creativity
In the beginning there was creation.
Whether by external force,
or by itself –
that may be debatable.
Recreating nature’s beauty,
now that’s a challenge for life.

Yellow, wisdom
Wise men and women
are often portrayed
with grey hair.
And yet, wisdom is not
necessarily related to
age, hair or teeth.

Green, nature
Green is the colour
of all things good
and safe
and friendly.
And yet you will
throw out your cheese
when it turns green,
no matter how
natural that is.

Blue, divinity
If blue means divinity,
would feeling blue
make someone divine?
Perhaps the most
controversial colour,
with so many different meanings
in other languages and cultures.

Indigo, infinity
May we all be reborn,
as indigo children,
continuing the infinite circle
of life. Coming back.

Violet, spirituality
I believe in a spiritual
connection between all
living beings and nature,
whether we need divinity
to define it, or not, we are
all one.

Inspired by:

A thought. A memory.
A good morning, as if there was
such a thing.

A cup of coffee. A necessity.
Be honest, darling, we
are addicts.

Increasing speed
of life,
and time, it has a mind
of its own.

It stands so still in daylight,
and so do we,
just to become again
the time travellers
of after hours.