The Poetry Marathon

Commando (prompt 15)

she looks at my motorcycle
drags her cigarette
and says “no fucking way”

it takes some convincing til
she makes me look away
as she swings her leg over the back

explains, she isn’t wearing panties today

gasping excitement into my neck
unaware that I’m getting close to
my new apartment

she taps my thigh and leans in
somehow whispers over the engine
“turn right here”

devastated, I thought she was a sure thing

she dismounts and peels off her jacket
asks if I’m good at scaling walls
what kind of question is that?

I watch her skillfully climb 8 feet of brick
like a cat leaping in one fluid motion
unbothered by chunky boots

she is definitely not wearing panties

her friend is out of town
the summer moon drips sweat
she sheds the remainder of her clothes

without a word she throws herself
into this private backyard pool
glittering siren beckons me to follow

she was known for being unexpected and easy to remember

Reoccurring

cw: none

When they came back –
the same gentle hands
that did not hurt.
They came back.
The canary expected
to bleed words for them.
But the hands were
still gentle,
and instead of vellum flowers,
it was fed birdseed.
Its stomach didn’t hurt.
The gentle hands left again –
but, even though it was foolish…
the canary hoped.

What Love Is

What Love Is:

 

watching him walk down

fingers entwined with her, lost

but only in her

eyes as she clutches the white

bouquet that means forever

Hour 3: My encounter with a Drunkard

POV of the drunkard

My spirits were high within and without
Walking on stars was I
Minding my business, keeping to the sidewalk
An old wrinkled hand pulled me by my collar
Crashed me to the ground.
I slowly rose up
Studiously ignoring his helping hands.
I snarled at him, ” Ya old geezer!
Whaddaya mean bashin’ me about?”
Smiling at me the old brute said,
” Go home, young man, sleep it off”
Sober was I as judge and slowly sauntered off

5pm. Poem 15. Out of Little George’s Eyes (a tanka)

5pm. Poem 15.

Out of Little George’s Eyes (a tanka)

Tears at your wedding
were not of joy but sadness
that another man
stood next to you and promised
love for the rest of your lives.

Barley McBones

he is small

he is large

he will protect you

he will love you

he will bathe in the sun

he will burrow under the covers

he will walk forever into the sunset

he will walk across the street and turn around

he is large

he is small

he is my favorite

he is chihuahua

and i love him

hour 13: we win

a storm of feelings

but we’ll still win

how do i make it through from here

you might ask

and answer like i do

how is it so that i seem to think i know

but don’t do

and how may i still have more questions?

with your ability and everlasting will to answer,

i surrender

Moving On – Hour Fifteen

Moving On

We will never see eye to eye
Our differences too great
It makes no sense to question why
It would make us irate
It may be sad; we may have tried
But it’s just not worth our troubles
We’re better off our separate ways
In our respective bubbles

I’ve tried to see your point of view
As you’ve tried to see mine
And yet, neither you nor I will budge
From our hard driven line
And with that said, we’ll part our ways
To each his own, they say
Windows may open with closed doors
Come the end of the day

I’ve no regret debating you
We both have held our own
But now’s the time to move ahead
And change our tongues and tone
I wish you peace, I wish you well
May you find what you speak
Let this be but a lesson learned
to think before you speak.

Hour 13: What Do You Do?

When people ask me what I do

I tell them I read people by the soul

String them up by their sanity

And leave them to dry by a warmth

Only known by being understood

When you thought you were alone

 

I tell them I make people fall in love with me

Deeply

 

I tell them I am a haunted house

Not one you visit on Halloween

But a house

That is actually

Haunted

 

I nurse the kind of wounds

That don’t come from weapons

That can’t be healed in hospitals

The kind that MDs try and fail to medicate

 

I tell them I am a healer

Doing my work one dagger at a time

Carving pieces of people away

Because how else are you supposed to

Find where the hurt is

Except to show them their own heart

And say “here”

 

They always look at me

Shocked and terrified

They stutter, “Y-you get paid for that?”

I tell them that is not what they asked

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 15

Yes a storm is brewing –

yeah there’s already one

knocking on the doors and

wrapping on the window panes –

 

I’m sure you’ve heard the warnings

but in every Pandora’s box was

all about hope not the monsters

and I’d like to think you understand

 

that if you’re reading poetry.T

he hope -the silver linings –

the little miracles are all

so much more valuable than

the worry, the fears, or

the demons pretend to be

 

and the sooner you embrace thatt

he more likely you are to

live the life you keep telling

yourself you will. And there is

a certain tint of artistry

that can only be utilized

by those who recognize

when they have been moldedb

y the storm to such a degree

 

that they in turn become it.

 

-M. Rene’