The Poetry Marathon

7pm

Don’t go into the basement
you might not like what you
find

They’ve always told me to
not go down there, but they
never explained why I shouldn’t

Every single time I tried to
they would redirect me
such a frustrating concept

Little girls shouldn’t go into
filthy basements, they’ll ruin
their dresses

One day, home alone
to the basement door
I slowly crept, checking
just to make sure I could do it

Coast is clear
Up on that chair
unlocked the lock
that was just out of
reach

It’s so dark down there
not a light to be found
in the darkness I think
I drowned

It’s so big-
I can’t understand why
is it another floor of the house
that no one lives on?

Is that laughter I hear?
I’m scared-
concerned-
Should I turn back?

There’s a lit door
on the other wall
it doesn’t look scary
at all

AH WELCOME WELCOME
IT’S NOT OFTEN WE HAVE GUESTS
PLEASE COME IN

There’s a mummy in the corner
a vampire on the couch
a big hairy dog opened the door
and someone with a cape up on stage
face hidden behind a mask

They don’t seem too scary
don’t seem like I should run away
They even seem friendly
and misunderstood

They were wrong
I went into the basement
and I liked what I found

Skay Hour 12

Last sentence from: “Very good, Jeeves!” P.G. Wodehouse.

A free flow Saturday in strange times
Brown stains left by coffee cups
On the white window sill
Dialogs with oneself
Dialogs with the world
Dialogs with the people
Ruling one’s head
I ponder thoughts and philosophies
And words and carefully avoided rhymes
My head screams “Stop!”
My clock screams “Done!”
My glass screams “Refill!”
So its closing time, bar the shutters
Shut the door. Cheerio.
“Cheerio, sir, if I may use the expression.”

Prompt 12 Hour 12

Peaceful Days. Nights of Blood(Inkspell)

 

Rest my peaceful warrior
you were not meant to guard the nights
demons of guilt leave hearts heavy
and you need strength to fight
rest my peaceful warrior
the sun will shine again
there you show your courage
when the days begin
weather of blood or of storm
you are my braveheart
rest my peaceful warrior
wake with a fresh start

 

Poem 12

Her diary spills the truth cross the bare floor
Not just one killed her body many cut
Her soul to tears til she is not a girl

She is the body.

She had a mother and father til death
Dreams floating to a time past tomorrow
Before use, abuse, alcohol – despair

She was more than the body.

But a body be only flesh and bone
When bones break again smashed to a stone wall
The heart beats still but the hope burns dry – dies

She became a body

When a corpse no longer uses lips to speak

It is a body

When history dies and just torn flesh remains

It is the body.

When it goes to ground it is less still – past

The body will become a passing memory. Forgot when the last memory holder dies. Dead truly. For all time.

In life she was a girl. She became a body. Now the body rots.

Soon, it won’t be the body.

Love returns (Hour 12)

Love returns

A vast cold and a somber quiet
leave my breath stretched tight.
I need air.

This night has gone on too long.
Darkness over the land
feels death-like and ruthless.

Softer air revives me.
Light gentles its way in.
Love returns.

*Source: “The air stretched tight, quiet, and cold over the vast land.” [Chapter 1, Two Old Women]

Untitled

~On a line from Natalie Goldberg: Writing is an athletic activity.’

 

Writing is standing in the corner

smoking a cigarette.

 

Is this where I’m supposed to work?

An ant’s crawling across the floor.

 

There’s a pond nearby that athletic

folks run past.

If you like that sort of activity,

then put out your cigarette.

I do

I do

not have what it takes

I do

have what is important

I do

not think you would agree

I do

know that I am right

I do

because its me and who would know me better?

Strange Food, Prompt 9 – 9th Hour

9th Hour

Strange Food – Prompt 9

 

I saw a firefly zoom by me,

as if he were invited to drink and eat,

of the porridge I just cooked.

An aroma of unknown fare,

captured his attention so much so,

he was not aware that I was there,

wearing a mask, in my favorite seat!

 

There, on the patio of my cottage,

I sat basking in the warmth of Summer’s heat,

as usual, drinking a cold bottle of Pepsi Cola.

 

He begin to appear lethargic,

flitting back and forth,

from the yard to the treeline,

trying to locate this exotic plant,

that produced this strange food,

and  almost caused him to lose his way.

 

Flying forward, buzzing backward,

wings flapping at an inordinate rate,

he paused in mid-air,

realizing he was just confused,

and baffled by the hot summer day!

Thorns…

They say roses have grace,
Where roses bloom,
The thorns come around too.

Beauty is the rose,
The queen of the garden,
The gift from heaven,
Then where do thorns come in?

“What is beauty without pain?”
wondered the actress,
while polishing her nails again and again.

“The rose is the queen,
Thorns are the useless pawns,”
remarked the gardener,
while sitting on the lawn.

“The rose is the child,
Who saw her petals mercilessly plucked away.

So now she stands all alone,
With thorns as the defense of her own.

She knows the cost of opening up,
So she stays still,
With thorns adorning her stem,
Hidden as they are,
For those who dare to harm her in any way,”

Whispered the girl with the scars,
For the time had taught her,
To build her walls high,
To lean behind the thorns,
Hidden even in plain sight.

• – Addy

Body Keeps the Score

Combat soldiers
Drive Syrians into a refugee camp
One visits and encounters a trauma
Dreams of the Congo or in a jungle.