The Poetry Marathon

The Rain

And the rain

the rain pouring down

so hard so hard

Wash it all away

all away

 

The betrayal betrayal

And the rain the rain

Promises loving care rebirth

rebirth

Forests bloom and flourish

bloom and flourish

 

Promises kept promises kept

Deserts dry and acrid

No rain no rain

Deserts barren and alone

barren and alone

 

Stinging sands whip and scar

whip and scar

No rain feeds pain feeds pain

Promises broken no rain

no rain

 

Here comes the rain

the rain

Washing cleansing renewing

cleansing renewing

 

Hope explodes

The rain the rain

falling hard falling fast

falling fast

The flood the flood

 

Death

Tail of the Dog

Cujo Fido Hamilton, III

Walked up to my door and left a turd.

He peed all over my porch rail,

Looked straight at me and wagged his tail.

He bit my cat. He trashed my car.

He and his dog have gone too far!

Smug old bugger, both, they be;

But they won’t get the better of me!

I’ll taint their kibble with a bit of Ex-lax,

Then watch them run while I relax.

 

*A rework from a piece a few years back. Still not happy with it, but it is meant to be fun…maybe as a greeting card attached to home-made ‘chocolate chip’ cookies?

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

listen to the crackle

listen to the crackle

listen to the crackle

mmmm…. listen to the crackle of the Eighth Fire burn

stoked by blessings from the only ones to turn

the wheel in the right direction

Some say it’s easier to fit a circle inside a square but we’ve seen how that will go

it’s time to awaken the spectrum within the rainbow

listen to the old ones and then flip their paradigm

lessons come with experience but wisdom knows no time

Listen to the crackle

Listen to the crackle

Listen to it crackle

Mmmmm….. Feel to the sound of the Eighth Wheel turn

 

 

 

(Photo from Pinterest)

 

Skeletons in the Closet

How many years

has it been since

we heard,

“Kill the Indian, save the soul”?

 

It’s been repeating

like a scratched cd.

Like that CD it skips

to the next song

“The only good Indian is a dead Indain.”

 

These songs ring through time

as they crush the dreams of many.

These songs snatch the hearts

from parents chests.

 

With arms that reach

to the tears of the legacies

that are carried away

By men dressed in Navy Blue

and silver buttons down the chest.

 

No song is heard as an iron thing spews

Columns of smoke and

Takes the heart of the future away with them.

 

Their culture now shunned by rulers

and whips, with strict rules

that cut their pride and erase their love

of Nature.

 

To relapse to what must be remembered

is to be reunited with Mother Earth.

Hour Three

Prompt 3:

Masked Motto

While rushing in the morning for work,

my diary pages whispered–

“You got this!”

Dried leaves crunched 

underfoot screamed as I crossed the avenue

“You got this!”

Reached workplace.

Phone buzzed with a default daily reminder–

“You got this!”

As I took the first sip of my freshly brewed coffeeo, To rejuvenate my mood for the day

my boss uttered “You got this – work for today”.

To the unborn one- hour 3 poem

” …all of the past and all of the future, …meet and forever meet, at one single point, now.”

The Dancing Wu Li Masters, Gary Zukav (173)

A terrace of shiuli die at the feet, cajoling a scent out of the remorse

a rainbow at your navel waits to be navigated through the lens that falsifies distance, giving out little truths in spurts, imagining the continuum dissecting your delta of dreams: an uproar later there will be blinding light, a shift of horizons, cries so tender as

A terrace of shiuli dying at the feet, cajoling a scent out of the remorse

waddling through the benificient waters that break open life, you will become; from a transient banal staccato of pain will flow the nuggets of life here in the now as your eyes make meaning, your mouth echoing your past, your fingers and toes graspig and letting go

A terrace of shiuli that had died at the feet, no longer cajoling a scent out of the remorse

* shiuli: a flower

 

 

 

Of Fallen Flowers

Fallen flowers are always a joy to the heart
Fallen as they are they bring beauty and art
Their silence and their grace make a sad heart smile
The dew in their petals is always worthwhile

Fallen flowers are always a joy to the heart
Muted as they are they create an impact
They still serve their purpose still work overtime
They still do what they’re called like little old chime

Fallen flowers are always a joy to the heart
Fallen as they are still beautiful as a tart
Fallen yes fallen but still serve its purpose
Still a beauty like a red red rose

Fallen flowers are always a joy to the heart
Fallen though fallen creates its canvass an art
And will lift every spirit every sad heart gleeful
still serving its purpose making sad heart cheerful.

Hour Three: Write a Poem With a Line Repeating Three Times / A Final Close with a Variant of That Line

Scrawled in the yearbook are forever promises of people I've now forgotten. 
Which exact Mary informed me I was "sweet" then drew a flower?
I can't recall the "fun times in Spanish Club" over forty years later. 

Scrawled in the yearbook are forever promises of people I've now forgotten. 
Which football player did I admire from afar? I remember the feeling but not the face. 
Why did I overlook those next to me in theater and debate? 

Scrawled in the yearbook are forever promises of people I've now forgotten.
Afternoons of painting scenery, running laps, learning poems now echo in my memory. 
We shyly interacted then hurried home to essays, multiplication tables, and notecards.

Boisterous and buoyant or timid and tender, we learned about first jobs and first loves.
We idealize those days, yet we remain those growing teens even now.  
Quarterbacks now teach immigrants and refugees; beauty queens have become grandmothers. 
We set stages and memorize roles for work as accountants, custodians, engineers, or counselors. 
Yet some do not continue.

Gunshots, depression, sudden illness, or freak accidents claimed some of us, 
now forever remembered as thirteen to eighteen, young and full of the life we others 
remember and reach back to hold and reclaim and live in spirit. 
Captured in the yearbooks are timeless moments of those whom we can never forget. 

Diamante-Love/Hate

A word of explanation.

I accidentally published at 1126 originally. This is actually my 12 Noon publish.

Diamante style poems cane be antonyms-which is what is presented here.

Line 1 Noun

Line two adjectives pertaining to line 1

Line 3 3 gerunds pertaining line 1

Line 4 two nouns to line 1 and 2 nouns to line 7

Line 5 3 gerunds to line 7,

Line 6 two adjectives to line 7

Line 7 Opposite noun

 

Love/Hate

Love

wonderful, playful

exciting, sacrificing, helping

marriage, friends, enemies, anger

fighting, gossiping, murdering

forceful, vengeful

hate.

Poem 03 – A Lie Thrice Repeated

I am incapable, and undeserving of love
Scars written on a heart
Hanging heavy with hurt

I am incapable, and undeserving of love
Faltering and fumbling
Frustrated and fucked up

I am incapable, and undeserving of love
Grasping for reality
Imprisoned by my mind

Seeking to find myself
When I’m right beneath my nose
I am capable of deserving love