The Poetry Marathon

Poem Dujour

Humor

Rhythm

Rhyme

Pun

Punchline

Using a generous helping of your first ingredient,

stir, stir, stir.

A simple syrup of silliness,

into life’s blender and whir.

Pulse is a plus, each line, phrase, and ditty.

Rhyme if you must—just keep it witty.

Pour into stanzas; it should still be gritty…

Then top it all off, like icing to savor,

With a lingering laugh, to remember the flavor.

Sej 2020

She prays.

She opens her Bible and finds strength in the page.

And talks face to face with the Maker of Days.

When you have the King’s ear, what can you not change?

She’s kind.

Never blurts what she thinks. Takes no bother to whine.

She is humble and gentle. Not idle. Not bleak.

Strength in her quiet; don’t mistake it for weak.

With the King’s Words to back you, what would you seek?

And the power she wields, though not weapon or spoke,

Quietly, patiently prays for the folk,

Who smirk and giggle and think God is a joke,

But one day will wake up—and then they’ll be woke!

Sej 2020

Hello New and those who aren’t…

This is like my fourth or fifth thon. (I’m a writer, not a mathematician.)

I garden at Garden Cumberland on FB.

I write at Se Johnson, Author on FB

I shoot stuff (with my camera) at Just Sarah, also on FB

I survived last year’s thon–barely–because of all the support from everyone. I was mid-chemo and exhausted. But, I wanted a catharsis, and Thon was it! Each event, I’ve made new friends. Tracy, Annie, Laurie, Mark, Joyce, Vincent…and so many more. As FB friends, some like my hobbies, my politics, my fight to find normal again. Some don’t.

But we all love our words.   Love our words.   Love words.   Love.

Be well. Write well. Love well.

Sarah

There’s a lady whose time

Marks in rhythm and rhyme,

And she’s writing a stairway to heaven.

When she gets there, she knows,

If the bookstores are closed,

With the right word, she can get what she came for.

But today’s not that day.

All the words are put away.

And the staircase is littered with poets.

All in slumber and sleep,

Their quills gathered in heaps

And their parchment strewn to the heavens.

Oh, oh,oh, oh, and she’s writing a stairway to heaven.

Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin, 1971

The instrument let out it’s awful sound.

No matter the time given to practice,

there were but two options:

rhythm OR notes that didn’t screech.

Each screech left Bennet’s ears on edge.

The intercom crackled.

“Please have your pupil come to the office

Prepared to leave for the day.”

Another screech and then

The poor, screeched-out accordion was boxed.

And that was the last it saw daylight.

There was screeching and boxes,

But not about music.

Daddy had died.

Deep into the canyon, the sun drove its fading light

Between the gathered concrete walls it reached, like some child stretching behind the sofa to get a long-loved toy that has slipped just too far. An inch just too far…

She nestled in the murky dawn,

Shivering.

The night had curtained joy so long,

Lingering.

The cold wind, merciless,

Whistling.

The stars, her only warmth,

Twinklling.

Frigid fingers ‘round her nest,

Icicling.

The air, itself, held bite,

Prickling.

Many passed her desperate state,

Not noticing.

No comfort came.

But dimly breathed the sun…

Despite the darkness all around

She knew that night was nearly done.

Repelling thoughts of pointlessness, she stirred,

Lifting notes to meet the dawning hope,

There amidst the frigid winter deep,

Her bare-remembered melody of spring.

Calling things that aren’t, as though they were.

Doodle and Houdini

Were resting on the bed,

When Doodle heard a noise,

And lifted up his head.

“Houdini, what was that?

Houdini, did you hear?

It sounded like a cat!

Open up your ears!”

Houdini stretched and yawned

Before saying “Holy Cow!

I think you’re right, Doodle.

That was a ‘Meow’. “

So, off the twosome raced,

Yapping as the sped,

Forgetting further sleep,

Upon the warm, red bed.

“You rest; I’ll pray,”

A friend told me the other day.

Four simple words,

And I’m reduced to tears.

Because, for so long

I thought I must be strong

And stay awake

And pray for God to hear.

The cries of so much subtle chaos

Of which I am in charge,

To not lay down my duties

And the tasks I had at large.

But here my friend was saying,

“Go sleep; I will keep guard.”

“Go be at ease; You’re not alone,”

“Soldier, I’m on duty now”.

And so, I laid my pack aside

And I slept a deep, deep sleep

And knew on my behalf,

Between my friend and God,

There was nothing I need do.

Nothing they wouldn’t keep.

Aside: Here we are, before the Sun comes up, dragging ourselves through. Imagine if another poet said this to you…You sleep; I’ll write. And you were relieved of duty, just when you were too worn to muddle any further. <3

And were I vain, the least bit wary, of donning, thus, my wig—

Of scarves fastened fashionably with haphazard pins,

I’d have Eliot write for me, a t-shirt, and this is how it would begin—

They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!

Dear Writer:

I will call again to you, no matter what you say.

I will call again to you to lay down here and play.

And rest your head.

And close your eyes.

And let those silly poems synthesize.

That’s right. Zzzz.

Zzzz are our friend.

Zzzzzz……………………………………