Poem 15

Beautiful boy I believe

Your business attire

 Won’t hide the heart on your sleeve

 

You wear your feelings quite well

Darting eyes and hot cheeks

I sit and admire all your lovely tells

 

Shall I lead you to the bed

What would the boys think?

Does that fill you with sweet dread?

 

We kiss for a while

As you lie on your back

I sink down low and smile

 

The more I uncover, the more that I reap

You say you play wolf

Secretly, you like playing sheep

 

Beautiful boy don’t act so naive

Don’t cover your face

It won’t hide the relief

As I give and you take and receive

Chasing Contentment at Seventy-Five

At Seventy five, He counts his life with delight
He fulfills all his children dreams, his calculations
His youngsters enjoy with bright prospects they live
But, he can enjoy existing life with interesting trips

There he moves with discomfort lingers,
He’s not satisfied with his earnings
Still he is not satisfied of good income
Pension draws without any tension

Yearning to churn extra income sources
In his quest of thoughts, his spirit burns
Every day, he calculates other’s income sources
He shook his head, with a wistful sigh!

Once I questioned- A day that presents satisfaction word
Are you satisfied with your earnings and life
He smiles and says my property is so meager
I spied a thirst for contentment, in his restless chase.

 

Prompt -15

Hour-15

Hour 15 – Home is home is home

Home is home is home

I am home
in the chaos
in the clashing
of lightning and sand
of metal and bone
in the transformation
of a violent instant
into a soft one

I am at home
with ribbons of water
guiding my palms
toward the ocean floor
back upturned
and wading
wading
waiting

I am at home
far away
from breath
from life
but still so close to you
you are home
you are
you

(Hour 15) 12.30pm-13.30pm. BOTH PROMPTS: another POV + pot head.

perfect posture

Priya has put the pot
On her head … & left it there
Oh why is she doing this
Poor girl she’s hardly said boo
To me or anyone the 3 days
She’s been travelling with us
& now this strange attention
Seeking behaviour from nowhere
I hope she’s not feeling
Left out &/

                /Wait what’s going on
This is weird. She’s walking round
Picking up things. With her toes.
The pot still, unmoving, as if glued
On her head. We all start watching
Intently as she kicks Ben’s apple
Core upwards & wiggles her neck
catches it in the pot. Despite our
cautionary silence. We all cheer.
Now she’s dancing. Russian squat
Irish River. Twerking. Flossing.
The pot a part of her as much as her hair.

But the best thing — her eyes glow
In the firelight & she’s grinning like a tiger

2023 Hour 15: Revelation

Write a poem about an experience, but from the perspective of another. For example you could write a poem about your wedding from the experience of your spouse, or you could write a poem about an argument with a stranger from the perspective of the stranger.

My mother and my aunt gathered up the four of us –
my cousins, my sister, and me –
and drove into town each December
for the annual Christmas parade.

After Santa waved his goodbyes
And the crowds began to thin,
My mother would hand over a ten-dollar-bill
To me, and another to my sister,
And then handed both of us
Over to our older cousins
For the outing’s second act.

Paired off with a teenager
In one of the town’s two five and dimes,
We painstakingly sought out special gifts
For Mom, for Dad, for sister,
And one for the cousin who cheerfully
supervised the excursion.

Even then, ten dollars could only
Stretch so far.

Handkerchiefs or socks for Dad,
A toy for my younger sister.
Maybe some perfume for my cousin,
Or a bouncy new ball
For when we played jacks together.

But, what to choose for Mom?
My sister veered toward the outrageous –
The more impractical, the better.
Bright red nail polish,
An iridescent purple string of beads
Forever enshrined in family memories
As “the ball bearing necklace.”

My choices, though far more practical,
Failed to attain superior status.
Tubes of liquid glue and a
Padded cover for an ironing board
Must have surely been a disappointment
When the colorful wrapping paper
Parted to reveal its meager contents.

What do the gifts we offer to one another
Reveal about the relationship?
How must I have viewed my mother
At that tender age,
That I offered such mundane gifts
To the woman who offered me
Everything?

The Secret of Death

In Mexico, we’d buy goats before for our large family parties.

My cousins and I would crowd around them to pet their soft haunches,

not fully conscious that these acts of adoration would be the last of their affection.

And then we were ushered away to be distracted somewhere else,

unknowing the creatures we’d just begun to love upon

now instead were filling our bellies in warm welcome and family reunited.

At what they deemed an appropriate age, I finally witnessed the pink-and-porcelain marbling

hung from the rafters of the tin-roof car park and the whirls of blood that drained beneath.

It felt some sort of offense.

Not because the goats every summer had been loved and butchered and savored,

but because the tradition of it all had been shrouded in the unnecessary cloak of secrecy.

 

(Hour 15)

Egregious Error

Hey all, Haras here! I made an error this go around, but hopefully I have fixed it!

 

I used the schedule feature, but none of my poems were posted on time. :/

 

I hope that doesn’t mean my completion won’t count.

 

Hope you all are enjoying the marathon and that it’s going well for you!

Hour 15 – The Imprisoned Flame

The Imprisoned Flame

– Title taken from The New Colossus by Emma Lararus

Framed in copper
Covered in gold
Liberty’s flame stands frozen

motionless

If the beacon of Liberty is imprisoned,
is freedom still free?

Who are we without it?

Stained soul

STAINED SOUL

My stained soul

Silently crying for freedom

My stained soul

Desperate for a loving touch

My stained soul

Craving unlimited hope

My stained soul

Grieving what we never had

Winter.

Winter’s on my tongue now
Shivers chilling down my spine
My hands grow cold, my eyes dry
This is the kind of cold no warmth would suffice.
Winter’s on my tongue
I haven’t tasted nothing more bitter
The sun hides behind
curtained clouds
And the cold
creeps onto my bones.
Winter’s here
and it’s on my tongue.