The Poetry Marathon

Transparent rain-coat worn

Green frogs perched on strawberries

A jar of tomatoes or children

Science falls flat they say

in face of imagination doing its jig

stupidity or madness writ in head

questions the established scene

Imagine if earth were flat

and not round as we are taught

It could be so, because we do not tilt over

anywhare we walked

Why this curvature so obscure

What if flatness is the truth unseen

or let’s say it is a funnel

we then are in a whirlpoool of dreams

and the only place it all ends

is in its sucking hole

of lost whims

in a 100words and less

I could tell a story

that contained grit

but more gory

how swords were pulled

skulls were culled

in rhyming fashion

an industry was dulled

overhauling the corporation

wasnt a good idea

it led to much grouse

it broke many a house

why this sudden innovation

to invent and renovate

when products are refurbished

do old ones get a new phase

employee and employer

count none on each other

they look over each other’s shoulder

for the one ready to burst in

plotting a back-breaking

fall mid-riff

that hurts one and all

pink-slip or purple-dopple

A quite summer morn
Some dogs bark,
A rooster crows:

A flock of birds, a flock, suddenly(3)
Fly, fly, take to sky

Far, far, far they fly and fly
Far, far, far they fly (2)
and the sun sighs
in quest so high(2)

Where, o, where are you fly
Why, o, why live this lie
Why o why on this paradise
you live this lie, you live this lie

A flock of birds, a flock , suddenly(3)
Fly, fly, fly, take to sky

And disappear out of sight

Now, now, blue-brown

Rest and give a low-down

on how

Red-yellow gave you

a show-down

Blue-brown behave

It is insane

Trying to be brave

When blood and pus

Oozes from innate

Skin and veins cut open

Red-yellow’s free

Sun tans

Water and air purifies

Blue-brown’s grit and girth

A spider winces in pain none

Its eight legs

Splayed and bent as parachute

raises it above

all things grounded.

It hurries hither thither hence

but finds its corner

and rests in contemplation

webbed in dreams

Its head is heavy with

thoughts concrete and clean

It needs that

solid grounding at right angles

to make home and stay put.

‘glazed with rain’ is the line I steal from William Carlos William’s poem– (more…)

Prompt #7
Deseeded

I love you very much
Love you
Naturally sweet but
Your trapped hardness wept
And softened you within
Weakening your defense
Which glowered in recognition
Of the worm I am
Who hating you, invaded you
Boring the resistance offered
By your thin skin
That protected what was indeed
Your rock-hard strength
Your creative seeds.

I hated you
Hated you very much
Wanted to know why
Where your strength lies
Separate reason from feeling
Even if it were to kill me
I had to find the tunnel
That took me inside you
And gave me insight.

Hatred was might
Love Is light.

Prompt #6
Stanza-one, Timer on
Run along pen
My mind the ticking bomb
What clock wears it out then
Powerhouse of my own workhorse
Catatonia is its pet alarm
Warns of mortal danger or bad harm

Math of clocks or my mental horns
Battle each other in high altitude
Where nonsense creeps into benumbed mind
Making it lose cold blooded aptitude
For the dark insane hunt of the ticking bomb

I run around with it in my mind
I am in flow of emotions, not temptations
I don’t want to manipulate my muse
Into submission beyond its grace and kind
Time and tide both clock their own countings
Time has hands, tide its crests and troughs
One framed by wood, metal etc
The other rocking between surf and shore
One puts human feet to trod
The other engages muses and me in trance

Stanza-one, timer on
Run along pen
My mind the ticking bomb
What clock wears it out then
Powerhouse of my own workhorse
Catatonia is its pet alarm
Warns of mortal danger or bad harm

Math of clocks and my mental horns
Battle each other in high altitude
Where nonsense creeps into benumbed mind
Making it lose cold blooded aptitude
For the dark insane hunt of the ticking bomb

I run around with it in my mind
I am in flow of emotions, not temptations
I don’t want to manipulate my muse
Into submission beyond its grace and kind
Time and tide both clock their own countings
Time has hands, tide its crests and toughs
One framed by wood, metal etc flows
The other rocking between surf and shore ebbs
One puts human feet to trod on and rest
The other engages muses and my fingers in trance