The Poetry Marathon

Hour #7 (Normal)

Normal-

Is what I imagine the world would be

if it was in hiding,

getting by on a sliver of illumination

scared of its own shadow.

I used to hide myself as well

from everything-

under layers of distance

often under layers of clothes

but that was not normal,

or so I’ve been told.

 

I’ve always been afraid of mediocrity

the sister demon to normalcy

more insidious in its patience

always loitering around the corner;

the siren’s call is always there

if I choose to listen.

 

So in my second incarnation,

as I slowly pick my self-installed locks,

I can see normal from a distance

peeking its head out

curious and waiting to pounce.

But I walk right by

Eyes forward into the bright deviancy.

Promiseland – 7 of 24

We are going to the Promiseland
but Eli’s not invited.
You’ll be gutted to know,
you’ve went into battle for
nothing and now
all of your wounds are salt-soaked
with his crocodile tears.
You wear the disguise of a wise woman,
someone sewn shut, acquiescent,
not peculiar.

Bloody from one thing,
stinging from another, God is a
bully and a voyeur.
His spies lay among the weeds.
The man isn’t God’s apprentice,
he is barely even his creation—
a backwards Frankenstein,
gorgeous as sin
but all the prattle is malevolent.

He made a diorama of all of the
wonderful places you could end up,
should you oxidize for him,
should he breathe you in. A brilliant display
of What-If’s, held up in sound’s painful
memory where he is still glowing
and you are still proudly naïve.

New Normal?

The new normal we got
isn’t what I’d envisioned.
There are still racist systems
that have kept us imprisoned
by denial and lies
–a history’s retelling,
a prettier story’s been told,
but I won’t buy what they’re selling.
I won’t turn a blind eye
to centuries of damage.
In the face of injustice,
I’ll continue to be outraged.
Those who shirk are complicit
in the deep harms compounding.
Their persistent denial
is for some so confounding.
The answer is clear,
they are serving themselves.
And forsaking all others
for their comfort and wealth.
The riches enjoyed are taken as given.
Their new normal is just more
of the privilege they live in.

It’s time for real change,
and what’s been normal be damned.
We can do this together.
Draw a line in the sand.
It’s time we live up to
the this country’s bright promise.
With the strength of our people
I know that we’ve got this.

This Life

This Life

 

Troubled but not in despair

Puzzled but not in confusion

For the Lord is always my desire

And He’ll care for my every portion

 

Tempted but not in subjection

Tossed around but keeping the light

Jesus will give me direction

And, through all, I shall come out bright

 

Jesus, my all in all

Harken to my gentle call

And when from the storm I’m raised

My Savior shall still be praised

Hour 7 – I Only Want What I Cannot Touch

I Only Want What I Cannot Touch

 

The word normal hovers

outside of the unexpected,

that is to say 

that it exists outside of life itself.

Normal is the fantasy 

you created in your Barbie dream house.

It is milk that still tastes the same

after the cereal has come and gone.

An orchid blooming in dry heat, 

resting in my mother’s living room. 

Normal is the curtains closed 

when I am hypomanic and 

laughter when I’m depressed. 

It is a night unkissed by satellite blinks

or a moment when all I can feel 

is joy. 

 

HOUR 8 A Ravenous Rond de Jambe

A Ravenous Rond de Jambe

 

Our collective conscious sweetly plagued in agreement,

Her resolve at style over fleeting fatality,

Pleasant in the thoughts of which,

For now, the hunt commences,

A body torn asunder,

By one’s own hand,

A true Volta.

 

Now we attend to that which matters to the twin entity most,

The target to be laid low within the sanctity of his own surroundings,

An alpha predator in his own sovereign swan like wilderness,

To be brought to cavorting mortality at the whimsical hands of violent grace.

 

Now we move in separation as one animation of bloody intent,

A target marked upon his stage unrequited passions,

As if the would-be hunter awaited our call met,

A potent concoction of my own composition,

Soon to be administered during interlude,

We await his sole rendition.

 

Alone at last he begins his solitary turn,

Unaware of my concealed presence,

All it takes is a poisoned prick,

My angel dust purveying my spurn.

 

 

Now open suggestion his final dance,

For the Valkyrie approaches,

Testing his elasticity,

Stuck in the trance.

 

Now he contorts,

Now he suffers,

Now death comes.

 

 

 

 

 

Return to Normal

New norms, social distance, mask and quarantine

Over a year debates

Pre-pandemic, pandemic, post-pandemic

Over a year debates

Return to normal…

Where is the normal?

@Maritza – Hour Seven

Mirror

We are made 

Of 

Meaning

Minerals

Mirroring

Of these 

We weave

Stories

Of admiration 

Of disdain

Of compassion

We see ourselves

Through 

Waters rippled surface

Glass’s wavering lines

Other’s veiled eyes

From these refractions

We gather 

Pieces 

To blend with 

Our own vision

To see 

Ourselves home

To know 

Ourselves whole 

The missing heartbeat- hour 7

I hear it all the time.

Bequeathed with a lone adage, it appears out of nowhere, melting the arched eyebrows of penance.

Into the melting frost from leaves that let go of a part of themselves in the process, digs the arteries of balance.

There is something missing you say only to collate the nerves of probabilities into a neat pile beside your bed.

From it you draw surreptitiously one of those that echo into the night

The Magic Black Diamond

There first was a little girl
Then there was another
Soon there were more and more
The first little girl
Assumed this was
The Order of the World
and modeled her life after
This in every way

‘First there is me,
Then others follow,
I know the way of things the best
Because I’m the one who came
The first; I will always no more
Than the rest.’

When she was near to grown,
Many things in her life had changed.
She had a different father
She had a new religion she
Was directed to believe in and
She was told when to bow and pray
In an entirely different array.

One thing that never changed was her knowing
That she was smarter than those around her
Especially her mother
Who always obeyed whatever new father
Came her way
She also knew she was superior
To her six sisters
She knew that women other than herself
Had little purpose
Needed to be treated roughly
And men were a waste of resources every day

She was then given a large black shard of diamond
It was almost bigger than her finger at that age
Her mother told her she had earned it
But the girl was unhappy and wished she could throw it away
It was too ornate, too gaudy and kind of scary
she could see a distorted version of her face in the black diamond
She looked fierce and evil, angry and vengeful
It was the only thing that she’d ever been given of worth in her life
So she kept it tucked safe away

Her sisters, one by one, were each given a stone
The eldest knew that it was a stone that they were seen to be suited
Not a birthstone or anything so banal,
With each stone given, this sister a ruby, that one an amethyst,
this one an orange one she didn’t remember the name…
It was a pink sapphire that made Eldest angriest
She punished each sister according to her rage.
Her face distorted until each day she looked like
The reflection she wore on her ring.

When she became an old woman, she could never be
Around more than one sister, without the black diamond
Coming out to play
Like jewels in a box the old women rolled and fought
They could never stand to be close to each other to stay
It wasn’t just the Eldest
Although, without her present the others discussed,
‘it’s much better’, until they began to fight
Over who was next worse and they left wounded and hurt

Each sister had learned many lessons
Though there were seven, they were no rainbow of light
Starting in darkness and ending in silence
None would discuss the lessons they learned
Inspired by pain and fear, sewn up in solidified carbon diamonds
Their pain festers on
In generations gone wrong
Silent angry dinners with their second and third husbands
And those who have children who will speak to them

This is a the shortened fairytale.
I assure you it has everything a good fairytale needs
(all but one)
Witches, stepmothers, magical prisons, princes and kings!
Fairy godmothers, castles, magic spells, enchantment and magical rings!

But never oh never will you find the one thing, every good fairytale has;
A happy ending will never be found in this story
Because it’s a true story in the end.