The Poetry Marathon

Through the Screens of Time

Hour 2, Prompt 10, Year 2021

He wakes up with the rising sun
But there is no work to be done
His trade is closed because the week has come
To liberate the god Saturn

He heads down to the town square
A person of every type is there
Rich and poor, dark and fair
Singing through the cold December air

He buys a candle, and some cake
On his shoulder, he feels a sharp shake
A Saturnalicus Princeps with a grinning face
Knocks him down, his wares he takes

But oh well, that’s how things go down
At the end of the year in this Roman town
When you meet with loved ones and laugh at clowns
Till this year ends, and the next one is crowned

She wakes up with the rising sun
In a time different from the one above
The Christmas music has begun
Her work for the year is fully done

She heads down to the living room
And unlike the outdoor winter gloom
Everyone is in a joyous mood
Setting out heaps and heaps of food

When they’re happily, merrily, extremely drunk
They begin playing White Elephant
But as soon as she gets a new coffee mug
It’s her brother’s turn, and away it is swung

But oh well, that’s how things go down
At the end of the year across cities and towns
As they have every century, every single aeon
Till this year ends, and the next one is crowned

Branching Out

Oh my goodness! Look what I see!

I forgot to water my decision-making tree

 

It sits there so stoic, remaining quite calm

Looking like a date tree or maybe a palm

 

I’m sorry old gal! I forgot you existed!

Thank goodness you’re here and that you #persisted

 

I carefully examine each branch and each limb

While singing a worksong, a personal hymn

 

Hello there, old tree, what did you say?

I made a good decision by watering you today

 

Old Lady January Birthdays

Old Lady January Birthdays

 

Generally cold,

it often snows.

Now that I’m old,

my grey hair shows.

 

When skin was tight,

we’d all drink liquor

and party all night.

Now parties end quicker.

 

We’d drink too much

and then regret it.

Now we’re out of touch,

so let’s forget it.

 

 

 

Ace of Sprials

I’ve been inundated

with that self doubt and loathing

great tides of fear

indoctrinations of my youth

 

The ram assures

eyes steady and sure

the rain must come

so the garden will grow

 

(Hour 9)

X. Amid the Winter

Amid the Winter

 

It is likely that the winter wind,

wending ‘round the windows again,

will whine and whistle, with a moose-like moan,

all spike and thistle, with spiny groan.

 

And then in haste, will whistle away,

dust dairy and dinghy on a snowy day.

frost, and frigid, brittle with bite,

especially on a starlit night,

when the worst of weather howls like wolves,

stampedes through the pass, on thunderous hooves,

 

tells lies to the spruce, the juniper, pine,

huddled like old men, bent in decline,

whose green-wooly overcoats shudder with snow,

sun-warmth forgotten amid the blow.

 

As over the hill, in the valley below,

Jingle bells ring and Yule logs glow.

Hour 10: A Need For Seasons

Now, at this long end of June,
Unplug those showy winter lights.
Leave them to crumble.
And year after yawning year,
More slowly than
Your own beauty grows
Then goes away,
Begin to comprehend
The solemn logic of
Candles in December.

A Christmas Memory

Dear Sister do you remember at Christmas

when we were young and had so much fun

I recall us climbing down the stairs,

 Silently so that know one could hear

It was before the day’s first light

Just to discover and to our delight

The presents brought joy and happy tears

That was our routine for so many years.

 Everything about the those holidays

Were so very special in every way.

MAHJONG

An endless game,
much like fooling myself.
If one game doesn’t work out,
you can always do it again.
It’s nothing but a simple
tile arrangement and a matter
of choice — who to marry,
where to live, to keep
or not keep a pet, which tile
matches another, and in which
order should the dominoes fall.
Do I push or pull, walk or
trot, live or stop.
And am I ever allowed to
rearrange the years, putting
the cardinal wind directions
ahead of the seasons?
Who am I fooling?

Hour Ten

Sun and Soul

 

All round me are words, and words and words,

today the world is a little more my own.

I don’t know politics but I know the names,

it was hot, so hot, before the eunuchs came.

What is this drink but The April sun–

getting a man to love you is easy,

he talks, turning a sun-stained.

This is a noon for beggars with whining

of sun, burning in today’s.

At sunset, on the river ban—

It smelt of new rains and of tender.

The night, dark-cloaked like a procures–

 of late I have begun to feel a hunger

How can my love hold him when the other 

bereft of soul.

There is a house now far away where once,

this love older than I by myriad.

Fond husband, ancient settler in the mind.

 

Source: A first line single author cento composed from the lines of Kamala Das’s selected poems.

2021 Poetry Marathon, Hour 10

As much as I like the image, I went with the text prompt for Hour 10.

In keeping with the season
we shall observe the ritual
as we have done for many years now
long enough that the practice
from which we turned away
has become unfamiliar
as though it were taking place
in a land where we do not share language

By coincidence, there are sacrements
familiar to those who observe
that we also enjoy—
but this is a function of place
not of loyalty or belief

Where we and the faithful both partake
to strengthen bonds and cement covenants
they do so for closeness and revelry
while we do so for distance and indifference—
because it’s only a game, isn’t it

We’ll all get to see the commercials
for the next six months

26 June 2021