The Poetry Marathon

Broken Palace

Probably knocked down by a bottle from the heavens.

Maybe the gods must be crazy

To think I’d believe I’m in the bed of a king.

 

Two days ago, I stumbled upon

A scroll.

And in it, was scroll within scroll within scroll,

Until there was nothing but chaos in my flesh.

A quick rush and bam!

I’m up, up and away into the dark night.

 

Here I am, face to face with half dressed ladies

And smoothly shaved men whose eyes followed my every movement.

“What do you care for?”

“Should I get the water hot while I await your call?”

I close my eyes an make a wish.

I am never coming back.

Prompt 2: Hour 2: The Smell of Tomorrow

Coffee and change,

the smell of what tomorrow may bring.

Strong, delicious-

like her lips

as they press against mine-

Searching for the roadmap

to bring me the sublime.

Hour #5 (Skyward)

Sometimes, while walking in the cemetery,

I stop-

and looking up at the sky,

arching my neck beyond its capacity,

I am enthralled by the curvature above.

I can never tell—

Is it moving or am I?

I know that the earth moves

as do the clouds

and I am less than a spec

in that spectacular rotation.

We miss so much

in our normal forward movement;

So I wonder, do the dead, in their perpetual state,

lying in unspoken reverence,

eyes to the sky forever,

see what we do not?

Are the living missing the show

happening right above us?

After a few moments,

I retract my head,

tired from craning upward

and longing for the known.

We are too tied to the ground.

#300,000

#300,000

Her tummy kept rumbling
She was so hungry
Indeed their poverty was grinding
She wondered at how to get money
What could generate money to feed
Her eyes alighted on her children playing
Her eyes shone with excitement
Her heartbeat quickened
Yes, she finally had the answer
To her solve her problems right before her
Her kids! They were sellable!
She made the connect
And sold her children, her flesh and blood
Her bundles of joy, literally
For 300,000 thousand naira
A whole lot of money, she thought
That would solve her problems now
And the problems hereafter!
What to tell hubby?
She’d cross the bridge upon getting there, joor!
Afterall, there’s nothing new under the sun
And so the deal was struck
Her kids handed to whom she wist not
For the price was right, she wist thought

The Photo

The photo captured

a man, virile and strong,

bright in hope

but numbered days

like for us all.

Who could guess that danger’s

exciting call was tempered

by reason at times, or that

cheese would satisfy just as

easily as cold beer?

A lopsided grin and chiseled

arms crossed in a place

where dreams become a

familiar dialect pushing us

to live our own.

 

Hour Five

Cap of the Past

Found are the memories of a time past.

Telling a future what was.

It was hidden.

Now uncovered.

Good or bad.

It is not showing something.

Has truth been untold?

“Ah, Toads”

“Ah, Toads”

 

One toad.

Two toad.

Big toad.

Small.

 

Hopping toads.

Lazy toads.

Lively toads.

Splat!

 

Ah, toads.

Prompt 1: Hour 1: Changes

The end has come

yet the feeling of sadness

holds no place inside.

 

Quarantine

One two three four
walls
Sometimes white sometimes grey
always full of holes
I wake up
I eat
I sleep
I wake up
I write
I sleep
I wake up
I read
I sleep
One two three four
walls
Sometimes a cage sometimes the world
Always full of hope

Hour Five, Image Prompt

At Rest

The image is meant to soothe,
inspire tranquillity,
deep thought transcending
a world in turmoil and outer chaos.

Empty bottles are artfully staged
with generic meditation statues
devoid of life, as is the corpse-
like person displayed as though
on a coroner’s slab, hearing nothing
through unconnected headphones,
unseeing eyes fixed on a middle distance,
a half smile pasted to a slackened face.

It is so smooth it annoys,
so still it suffocates,
monochromatic and emptied
cliche advertisement.

The fourth wall is breached
within my mind
as the corpse removes his headphones,
turns, and slyly winks.