The Poetry Marathon

Hour 4/No Holding Back

“I cross the street without an arm to hold me back” — They Both Die At the End

 

Cross the street

don’t glance back

because walking in fear is walking

in darkness

 

Don’t let the world

hold you back,

fight inertia

add bumps and curves to the line

move with purpose

find your light within

believe you are strong

be true

true

to yourself

 

Cross the street

don’t look back

move forward,

carry on

take the next step

and the next

and the next

because holding still

and pretending

is

death

Borrowed “Netting”

Did you know
some insurances will not
cover fertility?
Mandated STD testing
Fertility shots
Blood tests to see
if it worked this time
(IV? Only if you can afford it.)
All costs borne by
desperate-to-be parents
But when it fails
when the fetus is
declared dead
insurance will pay
to vacuum out the parts
for blood tests to figure out why
for years of therapy
to cope with the trauma of loss
My friend went through this
not once, but twice
Now she stands on rally lines
crying out for universal health care
admonishing inadequate
and unfair practices
sharing the humiliation
of her own story
“Otherwise how could she recover,
how would she survive?”

Closing line from “Netting” by Oluwabambi Ige, published in Agni 93 (140-146, 2021)

[Prompt 4: Grab a book from your shelf. Read the last line in it. You have to use that line as the first or last line of your poem (with credit).]

Poem 4-Hour Four- Voices of the Climbing Fir Trees by Ingrid Exner

Voices of the Might Fir Trees

ring from a high-

“Climb! Despite all, you must climb!”

“As the rock moves-so do we. Climb!”

“We climb because we must!”

Our life is balance and a climb to the top and, climb

we must.

Anchors of soil hold us between

Earth and Sky as we

Rise to greater heights-

Thriving in the distance!

Dressed in haloed and hallowed crowns

of fog

wrapped in mystery

We stand like great beings

Towering in triumph.

Poem #4 Poetry Half Marahon by Ingrid Exner

WALES – DENMARK

I. must. not. be.
late. Repeat.

The Danish and Welsh fans are both
in red for tonight’s game. Had this been
a medieval tournament, one camp would have
looked very much like the other. One goal
will look very much like any other goal, but

I. must. not. be.
late. Repeat.

The difference will always lie between
what you catch and what you fail to see.
What escapes you will be more spectacular,
more enviable, more jaw-dropping, and no
slow-motion rewind will change that, so

I. must. not. be.
late. Repeat.

We’re past the flight of arrows, the longbow
has been put away. No need for cannon on
the lush green lawns, no bullets whistling,
nothing but the crowd singing, shouting,
as the ball is thumped from foot to foot.

I. must. not. be.
late. Repeat.

Hope for the Hopeless, If Even For Just a Moment

“Then, for no reason, you start to laugh”*

because hopelessness has its limits.

Collapse all around:

The water rushing in, the bills piled high,

the unknown illness with its inky red fingers

curling around your tightened neck

and still a pool of

contentment sits still in your gut

just waiting to stir up the feelings of

power and purpose,

a personal prayer

pushing you upward and onward and then

bursting forth in a gut-wrenching

ache to let go,

if even for just that brief moment

you know nothing can be done

except to live with your breath,

maybe even whoop at

the absurdity of the place you

have found yourself.

What better choice is there then than

to grab on,

let go, tittering, and feel

the curve of a smile creep

round your wrinkled countenance?

 

 

 

*On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” by Ocean Vuong

Hour Four

4. …of Mom. Thank you William Hudson

…would have slain me to see what would not now be in them

had I looked
had I taken the flight
picked up the phone
called myself to task
shown up wearing black

would have slain me to see her wearing the periwinkle dress from my wedding decades ago

had I been brave

to see her pretty hands that she hated to watch age, crossed over her belly familiarly like when she dozed in her chair next to his empty one

had I been a little more selfless

would have slain me to comb her mom hair and paint her nails pink one last time and tuck her fancy shoes in by her feet and favorite afghan

had I been stronger I know that her divine eyes would no longer refuse to look into mine, since the sorrow which seemed eternal and would have slain me to see what would not now be in them.

Before Darkness

Before Darkness

 

A blinding flash of light.

 

So hot it fried

our skin, roasted our muscles,

melded our bones to the furniture.

Disintegrated houses to piles of sand.

Boiled oceans, making fish chowder.

 

Soup, soup everywhere…but not an animal to eat it.

 

Dimmed and cooled,

steam rose, then hardened.

So cold it covered

the barren land with ice,

froze the air, making snow slushies

 

Daiquiris, daiquiris everywhere…but nobody here for Happy Hour.

 

Just a big ball of ice

when the darkness came.

 

Ceaselessly

Arduous journey
Heaving to and fro
Uncharted course,
Location unknown

Black depths
Foaming white caps
Waves or mountain peaks
My eyes cannot behold

Boundless horizons
Senseless of time
Mysterious creatures
Magical finds

“So we beat on,
boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly
into the past.”

The Great Gatsby, F.Scott Fitzgerald

HOUR 5 The Melody of Macabre Path

The Melody of Macabre Path

 

Our paths ever crossed in a sinister serenade,

We have feasted at the demise of the chosen,

Demolished the lifeforce in the wake of our judgment,

Yet more is desired and specified in the wake of our salacious desires.

 

Our paths set on the next subject of our callous chanting,

Her yin to my yang enquires of a melodic method of dispatch,

A penalty to be fitting for he who has caught our tuned eye,

Techniques used in the form of new glorious pleasures.

 

Our paths awaiting my form of destruction for the intended,

Blackened hues of coiled vengeance crawl through me,

Silent slithers move with malice upon my fractured psyche,

A hushed chorus of intent and soaring jubilation ring within.

 

Our paths soon to coalesce at my final blood driven decision,

‘The intended’s death to be met at or hands fitting in my regard,

glorious and sweet to be dealt in blissful suffering,

Swift and painful will be my gift and his final agony induced reward.’

 

Trust will be given.

Orchestra chimes demise.

Anguishing malady to be administered

An intimacy in death to be gifted

 

Poem No. 2

Poem No. 2

Yellow Irises in my Pond

glow on a cloudy dull grey day

Lilies are still waiting patiently.

 

 

—–

Sundar