The Poetry Marathon

Cyborg poem

1. A conversation with Cyborg cashier working in Taco Bell .

 

I pull the night by  its fore limb into the driveway

And listen as the sound of my car slowly

Fades into oblivion.

I hesitate in all the steps I take into Taco Bell;

My body is an aching that must not die yet.

My body is an aching with insatiable cravings

For crunch           The cashier is a purple cyborg

Eye and codes intact          I feel a certain breeze of loneliness

So I ask                How many aches would it take the body to survive

                               To become indestructible ?

She, in her loyalty to her code, ignores my concerns and displays

A hologram of their menu       I’m too liquid to crave a Baja blast

So I ask again          How long would it take the world to bed rosés again?

 

Cyborg, in her loyalty towards her programs refresh the menu for something

Other than a crunchy meal.

Hour Eleven

From A Differing Perspective

The argument that seemed so dire

to you was to me nothing 

more than Tuesday,

I tried to explain my view

only for you to turn the other way.

 

My words meant nothing,

you didn’t want to hear…

it was all about you…

much as it always was.

 

My tears fell unwarranted

to find that you did not care,

so my urge to argue was 

unimpeded by  the need to

head your feelings instead.

 

Hour 15 – The War Within

Wipe your tears

The war within you is over

Healing is a process and it will take time

Wipe your tears and keep walking

Keep walking until you reach the end

‘Wher’ you see the lights

Glowing through thick walls

It is obvious to feel doomed

But you have survived those dark times

Look forward to a new journey

Pick up those wildflowers on the way

Just walk up a little further

Do not stop on these roads

Let the wildflowers grow

Worries will come and go

But I will hold your hand

I assure you this will be different

I know you will rather relive those painful memories

But girl, you have always been you

Let’s try once again.

 

*From the perspective of a healer

 

© Divya Venkateswaran

Hour 15 text prompt – Experience

Oh, you look so different from …

Well, the norm

Are you doing something later?

A larp? A dance?

You look a lil cooler, more confident

So that’s how you see yourself?

Well you should do it more often.

Be yourself.

Sister, Hour Fifteen

*Sister

We floated in warmth and quiet together,
my sister and I,
outside sounds muffled but for the beat
of our mother’s heart,
her singing voice lulling us to sleep.

She grew larger than me over time,
her flailing limbs weaker and slower,
while I, though smaller,
and pinned to mother’s side,
was stronger, more sure in my movements.

We grew, we two, and dreamed infant dreams,
of the lives we would one day live,
but those dreams would fail,
a nightmare begun,
the day my sister died.

We remained together, still connected
by blood vessels large and small.
Her heart had stopped
its rhythm with mine,
my heart beat on alone.

*Side note to this story: my twin girls developed twin to twin transfusion syndrome, a condition affecting the blood vessels of identical twins, while in utero. My daughter, Martha, died of heart failure ten weeks prior to their birth, and I carried both her and her living sister, my daughter Sara, within me together to thirty-five weeks. My daughter, Sara (Anderson) is writing in the marathon with me now.

Prompt Fifteen – Down Memory Lane

Hour Fifteen – Text Prompt

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.

Down Memory Lane

It strikes him then, as she pauses at the gate.

It hits him as he watches her hesitate,

This is the first time she has ever gone back.

Back the way in life. His brave lost wife.

He grabs her hand then, aware of her pain.

And propels her forward, down memory lane.

The long winding drive of the house she lived in

Four decades ago.

They walk together, a curious trio,

man, woman and her seventeen-year-old self.

This house stood for everything she had lost.

Childhood. Parents. Gone abruptly.

Solitary Sibling. Feral Squabbles.

Disintegrated Shared Childhood.

And suddenly it was there, in front of him.

The old house, in a state of enchanting disrepair.

He watched as she watched her young self

Run ahead, into the house.

He watched as she tried to follow.

He watched her breathe in and swallow

the Past. Return to the moment.

And reach for the doorbell.

 

 

Dance for the New Thought

Dance Dance

Sway left and right.

Twist and twirl.

Dance Dance

Step forward and back.

Side slide, now again.

Dance the night away.

Have fun in the thinking.

Between the walls

Between the walls,
inside that room
listening to her voice,
the voice is creating lust,
outside I can’t be me,
I can’t be naked,
but inside
I’m free to feel,
I keep smiling,
I let him look at me,
I’m still sexual,
I call him with my body,
I feel him inside me.

HR-3 Just sillyness

Everything is everything
But anything can not be everything
And nothing can be everything

Everything is complex
And everyone is simple

Everyone is everyone
But someone can not be everyone
And everybody can be everyone

Hour Fifteen: A Listening Point of View

Shouting does not make me hear you better.

Your voice booms naturally, arguing, singing, storytelling…

The boys across the balcony can hear you revving up about the latest political absurdity.

That phrase you repeated to the kids, “indoor voice,” or

the husky-soft wisps that thread through the air vents when you guide meditation,

those voices I can hear, words so calm and clear a megaphone could not silence them.

You want to be heard.

Speak so I can listen.