The Poetry Marathon

Crow hour/prompt 18

Crow

creative problem-solver, undaunted by human encroachment,
she uses traffic lights to crack her nuts and gather them only when traffic is stopped,
prophetic symbol of transformation, soaring on wings of freedom
linking the living and the dead, with gratitude.

messenger of Lord Yama, ruler of death and justice. beware should one harm the crow, for she will remember.
time has come for healing and respect for what you might have taken for granted. the karma mirror reflects one’s destiny. each day a gift until your final resting.

Weight, Hour Eighteen

Weight

A family trip across the whole of the United States
when I was six years old
at one point in our journey brought us to an ancient pueblo,
once subterranean but now open to the sky.

It no longer had a name,
nor a living people to dwell within,
its ancestral walls were broken, sunlight streaming through,
yet it inspired the anthropologist I would one day be.

I approached it cautiously with my mother,
carefully traversing the rock strewn terrain
as best my small limbs could manage
until we found the entrance.

We stepped inside, and my childish chatter was stilled,
a respectful hush maintained merely by its gravity,
though my young mind could not yet consciously comprehend
its meaning, I felt the weight of centuries of humanity in this small space.

Voices of the past seemed to keen on the wind
that piled desert grit up its sides ever more with each passing year,
and the combined souls of thousands spoke to my own,
an awareness I carry in memory to this day.

Hour 18 – A Spectral Soul

In twilight’s realm, where shadows play

A ghostly figure fades away

A specter from a distant past

In whispers, memories steadfast.

 

A wisp of life, once bound to earth

Now wanders, seeking second birth

In spectral form, it haunts the night

A spirit caught between the light

 

With eyes that hold eternal pain

A ghost relives its earthly chain

A tale of love, or vengeance sworn

In death, its purpose still reborn

 

It drifts through time, a silent wraith

Invisible to life’s bright faith

A reminder of what once was real

A haunting presence, time can’t heal

 

Though death has claimed its mortal frame

The ghost endures, a lingering flame

In the cosmic dance of fate’s grand host

A spectral soul, a timeless ghost.

 

© Divya Venkateswaran

Hour 20 “Renaissance Fair…”

Hour 20

9/3/2023

 

“Renaissance Fair…”

 

The Garb …hell yeah, ’tis the Garb

and the “steel’ of yesteryear

outside,

inside

heart and whim.

 

It means a different world

earned respect and civility.

Rule of Law and responsibility.

Making with pride

Living in the moment

existing beyond our sad norms

and reaching for echoes of freedom.

 

We wander the times

’til the new “thens” become our “nows”

and yes, we DO miss the smiles we leave behind

…as we exit the parking lots.

 

Chris

(C) Chris Twyford 9/3/2023

“Banned Book”

Hour Eighteen: Haunting

This library book must be long overdue, because I remember when you took it out years ago,

Too ashamed to take it back? I’ll carry it for you. No? Why not? Don’t touch it?Don’t open it, don’t look in its center. Well I just did, so there.

You’re kidding! Come back here!

My ears aren’t ringing, I’m hearing an internal song, never heard it before, but it goes on and on “It’s only a book. It’s only a book. My fingers are cramping, it’s only a book. It’s only a book, my chair just shook, it’s only a book, it’s only a book. My fingers are cramping, and my arm is taking the shape of a hook. Oh, it’s one of those banned books. DMW

Hour 18 – Ghostie-Ghost, Come Out Tonight

Ghostie-Ghost, Come Out Tonight!

Arms linked
We marched around the yard
Shouting and shivering
In fear, in the dark

One o’clock – no ghost!
Two o’clock – no ghost!
Three o’clock – no ghost!

Somewhere in the bushes
Or around the next bend
A companion waited
To jump out and scare us

Ten o’clock – no ghost!
Eleven o’clock – no ghost!
Twelve o’clock – Ghostie-Ghost! Come out tonight!

Having played both roles
I now wonder which was scarier:
Looking for the “ghost” in the midst of a gang
Or waiting to make the scare – alone

Hour 18: Pitcher Plant

A pitcher plant attracts its prey

With the smell of sweet nectar

And bright, beautiful colors

So the naive insect

Falls through a trapdoor

Into a pool of fluids

And there it is broken down

 

Your smile

Your laugh

Your honey-sweet words

All nectar calling to me

Ignoring the slippery pitfall

Until I was neck deep in your poison

“Whelve”

I run across an abandoned place,
On a signed erased by rain across the road.
The house stand still despite it aged,
The squeaking sounds and random cracks
Breaks the silence.
The old house speaks its language.
It tells a story of an orhpanage
On how this place used to be a saving grace
Of kids who’s been abandoned by life
Or people’s escspe from a knife.
One day, they said one burned the
And all this place was burn down.
Some kids were trapped
Their screams and shouts
Remains in an eerie quietness of the place.
People whelve on the story
But i kept it as a mystery.
An unforgotten memory
Haunting me,
Once more.

 

Text Prompt : Write a poem about a haunting, real or imagined, detailed, abstract.

 

#POETRYMARATHON2023 #HOUR18 #24HRSCATEGORY

 

 

The Struggle

I’m not sure how I survived this state of being for so many years,

especially as a developing young woman,

drifting back and forth between the verge of sleep and being spoken at.

I didn’t allow myself naps until college, and by then I was so sleep depraved

I spent most of my free time catching up on all I’d missed

and now spend more time wandering the plots of my dreamlands

than fostering empty goals in the woken world.

(Hour 18)

Prompt Eighteen – The Sacred Crows

Hour Eighteen – Text Prompt

Write a poem about a haunting, real, or imagined, detailed or abstract.

Image Prompt – Ravens and Crows

 

You always know, when you see a crow

Of the powers that they own

For those who die, are unable to fly

Up towards salvation, alone.

 

Their soul just flows, into our crows

Till they’re ready to leave this earth

Its not a haunting, not even daunting

They merely await rebirth.

 

This is a fact, not a made up pact

Hindus believe this to be true

The crows are fed, when our own are dead

So, we feed our own folk too.

 

For as long as it takes, no one breaks

This sacred circle of life

To ether they go, the humble crow

Carrying, parent and child, husband and wife

 

When you hear crow caws, please just pause

And say a silent prayer

For they’ll fly away, in the next few days

To deliver the soul to Universe’s next layer.