The Poetry Marathon

Hour Six: Rush

Rush, rush, out the door,

trip on the mat, urging,

“Hope you brought wine,”

then hurl yourself across the street,

open the car door,

hit the gas,

speed through town,

hit the brakes,

open the car door,

trip on the curb, impediment

to the pace of the next gig,

flying by,

screaming at the back of your neck,

run, run, run for your life,

as if you could,

as if the hurt never touched

down in your cells,

fueling a body on the move,

a mind at odds with feet

that rush, rush,

out the door

avoiding

evading

eluding

coming home.

 

 

Ancient Spirits Live—On

 

It was the sixth hour

Rain did pour—

As my mind scoured

Through old folk—lore

 

The clock’s hand began to rotate

As my eyes fixed to gaze

Synchronized with the hand of fate

I swear— its only existence was that to amaze

 

I glanced down to read some more

As time— began to reveal

The same that was; had been written before

And now was here in life that’s real—

 

Spirit of ancient kings—

Engraved and left behind?

Within these pages and these codings

Spirits lifted, guides assigned—

prompt 4 – just on the other side of stars

“…these existing plays have already begun answering the questions of where we are all came from” as if we had no idea our stories held our babies like pits in peaches and all our wishes lived just on the other side of the stars next to the ones who held our names in shaking hands until we return from this burning planet to hold our babies once more in the breaths of our grandmothers’ prayers for our waking when walking became more than anyone could manage in these days of dirt and images the opposite of sonograms singing stories of life when our babies are more than just bones and dust filling our mouths with anything else but gasping

these plays these days take our stolen questions into the rib cages of all those babies so we can sing behind them in the resonance of this earth who loves them more than the land could feed them medicine for this nation’s plan for us all in the days when they wanted us all to vanish

the questions of where we all came from hold the marrow in me so i don’t leak on the ground like fractured fiberglass oozing black gold on the bottom of rivers held up by crimson relatives breathing water to keep us all alive to tell the stories of our families living in the spaces between letters between lines between questions of how coming here would be so many beginnings

Treasure Trove

Buried deep beneath the earth
evidence of love, death, birth.
Remnants of a time long past
have seen the light of day at last.
Such treasures hold our memories.
A history planted with the trees.
Roots of family life lived well.
Stories that these items tell.
A sharing across time and space.
I’m glad we found this sacred place.
 

Prompt 5–Enslaved

She had the same wishes as I
Praying over her kids
written with a pen dipped in ink
I imagine was stolen
from master

its rare but we always find a way
to learn
to grieve
to exist
to be

I imagine her nails
digging deep through soil
clumped beneath nails
in desperation
to be human
for once

to speak freely for once
this was her life line

She was amazing
beyond the laws that tore into her
existence
children ripped from wombs
natural habitats routinely
beaten from inside her
we were never meant to belong here

Somehow the tattered
outer shell
carried no light other than prayers inside

the very struggle seemed carving like

Symbolic to a world that still struggles to see light in our dark
a shell that thrives beyond outsiders comfort

carvings still seem relevant
her speech
buried in the woods behind our back yard

her prayers

her light
dug up
like bones
in a capsule that contained
crystallized writings like quartz
Fractured pores
interconnected to earth
like tree roots

it had a story to tell
inside

Prompt 5

751 unmarked graves found,
just children,
innocent ones who should
not know such awful truths
about humanity or rather
inhumanity

751 lives cut short,
separated from family,
from community

751 unmarked graves
of children shipped off,
language and culture forbidden.

751 children whose land we stole

751 children

what did we do?

Revived

Tired

Aching to the bone

Strained eyes

White lies

Frozen knuckles

Stretched muscles

 

Exhaustion, an old friend

Cloaking in warmth

Washing my pain

My farce, my fancy

Hugs of deep seated sighs

Smiles of tender consolation

Speaking a familiar tongue

Of failed successes

And successful failures

 

Limping and dangling

Wasted and jangling

Clinking coins of fate

And destiny, all efforts in vain

Washed in the cool sprinkles of rain

My fatigue seeping from my bones

Broken spirits skipping like stones

Gliding on water, swishing fast

The wind of resolution

Braving unto the last

Recalled to life

My memory, my spirits

Gay and smiling

Picking the last bits

 

 

 

Hour 5 – When You Ask Why I Went to the Protest

When you ask why I went to the protest,

I am speechless. I am speechless because 

I even have to explain, speechless at the 

Pure disgust in your voice when you ask. 

 

I go to the protest because I cannot

Fathom not being there. Because 

It matters too much to sit at home. 

 

Someone wrote once about 

Speaking out because one day it 

May be you they come for and no one 

Will be left to defend you but – 

That’s not why it matters. 

 

I do not protest out of a selfish 

Need for reciprocation. I am there

Because how can you see the suffering

Of other human beings and not care? 

 

How does the injustice not make your

Blood boil, make fear bubble up inside you

For the future? 

 

How are you not speechless at the horror? 

 

So when you ask why I traveled

Eight hours just to tell Donald Trump where 

He could shove it, when you ask why I 

Went back for more tear gas just to

Hammer home to the Rochester Police Department

That Black Lives Matter, 

Maybe the question you should be asking is, 

Why didn’t you?

Leaving

Born on the ocean.

Threw rocks at the ocean.

Shot bullets at the ocean.

Swore at the ocean.

Resented the ocean.

Fucked by the ocean.

Smoked by the ocean.

Dumped shit in the ocean.

Bodies found by the ocean.

Priests molested by the ocean.

Abused children drowned in the ocean.

Family secrets in the ocean.

Even Vikings left on the ocean.

Tore roots from the ocean.

Left the ocean.

Forgot the ocean.

I am this ocean.

Philip V. Coombs 2-3am

 

Sky thru my window

marmalade soft clouds

walking freely by the sky

mesmerizing hues

@maritzam-mejia – Hour Six