The Poetry Marathon

The Dog (Prompt 2, 10am)

The dog was a puppy at the rescue,

on the first day that we met.

The wrinkled face, the floppy ears,

She stole my heart with no regret.

I was nervous to bring her home.

What would my two cats think?

A wiggling ball of energy,

who I bathed in the kitchen sink.

 

The dog is now medium, friendly as can be.

She loves to play and zoom about the yard,

Chasing squirrels or birds who drop on by.

She’s not caught one yet thankfully,

Though she sure loves to try!

She loves to watch the neighborhood,

hoping for pets and treats.

 

The dog has helped me meet the neighbors.

She’s helped me make new friends.

She brings joy where ever she goes,

Her goofiness never ends.

 

Hour Two, 2021: Use One of These As A Springboard — A Dog

Oh, dear, this enormous dog
keeps barking at me.
It’s quarter to four, and
I’ll be late for my tea.

With snarls then ruffs
circles and puffs,
we stare eye to eye
this canine and I.

Dog, you silly dog,
STOP barking at me.
Four o’clock is here, and
I am late for my tea.

Wags and paces
Darting into safe spaces,
Our contest is hurried
as we both scurry.

A dash here, a plea there
hops and sidesteps
we prance this strange dance
amidst yowls and yips.

The dog, sweet dog,
purrs contentedly.
At now quarter past four, 
we’re sharing crumpets and tea.

To her- hour 2 poem

I often imagine a warmth drenching me , specially when dusk dawns in this neighbourhood of innumerable weeping willows.

I know my mother more than she knew hers, she says. There is a dam somewhere I feel, holding back a reservoir of memories, bound by a silent oath, never to be spilled.

I often imagine the crows’ feet on her skin growing wings into those of the crows that live here, a couple of thousands of kilometers and a generation apart.  I often imagine her as a towering figure bending down to help my little palms hold on to some dreams.

 

Coffee and Change

I don’t like coffee.

 

The wind blows through the trees

And the grass

And the leaves

And me

Until we are all nothing but wind

And wasted potential.

 

I don’t like coffee,

But when we live together,

We will have a coffee maker.

 

I stare at the horizon and I feel the tires,

And the engines,

And the angry voices yet to come,

I feel them as they tear apart a home

That was never really mine.

 

You like gas station coffee the best.

You eat it on late nights

and early mornings

Paired with stale saltines.

 

The cars are coming now,

And they steal the wind away from me.

They murdered who I was,

And now,

They threaten the man I have become.

 

I promise,

When we live together

I will buy you boxes of saltines,

Just to let them go stale.

I will walk with you to 7/11

Well past midnight,

Just to get a drink I despise.

 

I will do it all,

if you just promise

to get me away from here.

Coffee & Change

Rich, full, and bold
Your aroma,
Temptress of my nose.

Consciousness streams
Bright light
From head to toes.

Lifting dense fog
Awakening slumber
Awareness of totality.

Darkness ebbs
Knowledge permeates
The Beast transforms.

Poem 01 – Liminal Lamentation

When the harbinger of light finds me
I feel sleep’s sweet embrace slipping
Darkness departs in stirred slumber
Trials for a new day greet
Slowly stirring consciousness
Words form constellations
I should have written them down

A Dying God

You woke me from a dream where thre works never ended.

My husband ached; orange candle wax smeared in my ex-husband’s scruff.

You led me to my spot amongst the pillows and skulls, last night’s Pink Cat Cheshire sticky in the glass.

My lovely god of death and ruin.

How gracefully your flesh melts and your voice roughtens.

In your endings I am renewed.

Hour 1 – Unboxed

Too may boxes for far too long

have been checked on my name

with sweeping declarations –

“You’re fat”, “You’re lazy” “You’re ugly”

“Sloppy”, “Forgetful”

And many have me filed under the not’s

“Not street smart” “Not capable of handling things”

“Not quick on your feet” and

the list goes on.

I listened and I believed

and ripped myself into tiny pieces,

each one scrambling to get a nod,

to erase the tick mark.

Till one day – there was nothing left

and I heard my own voice say  – “Enough.”

Now I am on a journey

that belongs to me alone

and on this path,

I walk as a whole.

 

 

The Joy of Unseen Things

Water runs along the gutter
down the drain
into the sewer

I don’t need to see it
to know that it is there
taking our waste away

The same way
my heart beats at 60bpm
moving blood through me

I do not see the work
that brings electricity
into my home

Or understand how
I can send a text to another country
in a matter of seconds

But I take great joy in
what I receive from
all these invisible workings

Clean city streets
Love to share
Connections

[Prompt 2: The joy of unseen things.]

Suburban Pastoral #2

Day lillies in June

day tripping

dropping pretention

and petals

Hello, America!

narrow and rushing

stubborn and tempestuous

despite such poor soil