The Poetry Marathon

Love in a Pedestrian Evening

Your words carry me on.
Through the dark night, under starlight.
The ships in the habour sleeping.
We’re an hour or so from home,
But I don’t notice.

The river is canopied in midnight,
But the conversation drifts us on
A current, I spin under your arm. An eddy.
On into darkness stained with sodium.
We have been dancing.

I’m sure our feet and knees are tired
The clocktower chimes, we start to climb
The hill bejeweled with shop-front signs
We side-step revelers from another world.
And we are all oblivious.

The quiet night is rimmed with trees
And burred with buses’ engines heard
From streets away. You hold my hand
And tell me of exciting plans
I nod, and nod the sleep away.

We’re nearly home.
It’s softer now, though often
We hear sirens call like evening birds
Far far away. I lean against your arm.
You shift your bag to let me.

We awake from some shared reverie
Suddenly, to find the key.
Our stories pausing at the door, and then
Denouements trailing through the corridors,
We find ourselves back home.

Music Prompt/Hour 6

Vibrant and melodic
A pleasure to hear
A song bursting with color
Pastel pink, blue and lavender
the music, a voice
speaking eloquently
carries me away
on a wave of melody
The rhythm to much
to write a poem to
But good enough to hear
while cleaning up a room
Vibrant and melodic
it flows like the sea
an ocean of sounds
a pleasant experience for me

IMAGINARY TRAINS – Hour Six (2021)

IMAGINARY TRAINS

 

what we never think about confounds us

wheels abroad the highway in an inaccessible America

wondering at the rate of direct delivery

when Amazon gives a food stamp discount no joke

so the city’s desert fails to find fresh fruit

bodega brunch down at the boardwalk dock

krispy kreme’s a brighter future foreclosure

where we’re blamed for the state of our shoes

soles and souls and we bear it all in luscious blasphemy

gold glinting from atop the church dome cross school closure

but who’s present to do better? not out here in the streets

but on high steel to the red bridge in frosted windows

chilled to perfection

 

shiny metal boxes on a hungry highway

racing past their neighbor’s fallen fences

Hour 6: The Grave of a Poet

An unmarked grave

Sans name, sans words

Lies outside the town

Somewhere around the old library

My friend says, it must be a poet

But I do not agree

Surrounded by weeds

Only wildflowers to be seen

This tiny space in earth

Must be a resting space

Of someone’s dreams…

Their words stolen

Their story untold

Their imagination, fascination, wonder

All buried to make way for life

Real life

Of dragging oneself

This job to that, this chore to that,

The whole practicality.

So you see, poet or not

they live still, albeit pragmatically

It’s only the naive hopes

That were dealt a death blow

And laid to rest

Inside this unmarked grave.

stiletto feet

I saw them in the thrift store

black suede six inch heels

looking almost like new

I knew what I had to do

buy them

 

it took practice practice

to strut my stuff

posture erect, head held high

wobble, slow, tip-toe

move forward, backward

side to side

stiletto feet moving with pride

 

6 – Getting up

Why is it so steep?
A wagon full
Of children
But as heavy as a load of lumber
Pushes the handle deep into my palms.
I dig in.
A work horse.

I need to conquer the hill.

I dig in
Toes trying to stick
And cling
The weight of the cart pushes back
As four sets of eyes stare.

Ugh.

Swear pour s down in make up drips.
My head starts to pound.

Up
Up

Why did I wear flip flops?
I may be a work horse
Yet I am so poorly shoed.

I vaguely see flowers
A bee
The weight pushes pasts my palms, into my shoulders.

I heave.
I pant.

I turn the final corner

To find stairs.

Stairs.
I just stare at them
Like I can vanish them
With visual intensity.

Four different people help lift the wagon.
We are now a grunting team of 5 horses
Stomping the ground
Straining muscles.

For a while
My breath calms
The breeze smacks the sweat,
But the sting is sweet.

The flowers co e to focus.
The grass greens up.
For 200 feet
Until we find more stairs.

Getting There

Invited to run with daughter —

LOVE the daughter, Jenny May.

I admire her physical activity level —

she is 20-some years younger.

 

But, no, running is not comfy for me.

I prefer the pace at which I can see

the variety of weeds, trees, flowers, and

the breathing pattern does not change.

 

Let’s notice these little white caps on clover.

Seems that when I was a girl, they were occasionally purple.

Be watchful of the three leaved vines on that tree;

poison ivy loves to climb on, and cling to, strong trees.

 

Did you know this orange jewel-weed is more than pretty?

It usually grows near poison ivy and really soothes the itch.

Oh, I wish I had known, when you kids were little —

this broadleaf plant has antiseptic elements for scrapes and such.

 

Your Bentley and Royce want to go faster, don’t they?

They are accustomed to your energy level, and

they are fortunate four-legged brothers.

Perhaps – and most likely – you will take them for a real run later.

 

Look, here is a dandelion in its last phase.

You can make a wish, and blow those seeds all around.

Papa Claude may have preferred all green grass,

but I just love the sparkles of yellow throughout my yard.

 

At this pace we can chat — how happy you are with Amy’s and Andre’s baby news,

and how challenged you are with the team at work —

that resents your earnest efforts to supervise and maintain.

And we talk about getting back to God.  He’s waiting patiently.

 

So, thank you for this nice little jaunt at my grandmotherly speed.

Lots of grandmothers do run like you do –

traveling through the paths, seeing enough to stay safe.

But, I love our “chatting pace” and tiny nature study.

 

By Nancy Ann Smith,  Amherst, Ohio

#6- The City and I

Cold and warm at the same time,

My blankets heating the ice in me,

Seeing only the black behind my eyes,

As I pull the hoodie closer to me.

The car my little home,

Like a tortoise carrying my home around,

The comfort of it soothing me,

Like a warm bear hug.

My sleeve stretched to my palm,

I wipe the glass before me,

I lie back down in my cocoon,

My eyes unfocused on the scene before me.

The whole city in front of me,

Whispered in my ear conspiratorially,

Unravelling itself in front of me,

Telling me all of its secrets.

The thermos in my hand,

As I sip my hot chocolate,

I whisper back to the city,

Telling it all my secrets…

~thryaksha

Trudging On (Hour 6)

Calm settles upon us,

and the shrill of the night is

heard on both hemispheres.

 

In these four extant corners of convergence,

the earth, the wind, the fires, and the waters

melt into our virtual migrations.

 

Even as cardinal points make synaptic sketches,

with desert storms and monsoon winds in fierce clashes,

the centre still remains where we all belong.

 

We will trudge on,

through mist and fog, dust and dew,

under clear and cloudy skies.

 

From my differential desk of divergent words,

a periscope captures the fleeting motion

of us all, in this global feast of virtual migration.

 

 

Written from a combination of the two parts of Hour 6 text prompt.

 

 

When the world seems a blur,
Wipe away a tear
Overcome your fear

Unceasing the feelings were,
You are in love,
My dear!

Of all the songs I hear,
Your voice is
Just clear!

All I know
And live for is
The love, so pure!