The Poetry Marathon

Yoda in the House (Prompt 9)

Poem 9

Summer 1883

I can’t write good.

Emma writes for me.

Some days I am low down sad. A dog chewing his rope to catch a rabbit at field.

Dad is dead 10 summers, feels a hundred moons. Mom is dead but a few.

I want to get a dollar and spend my pennies up. The man with yhe peeling paper and cigar ash on the floor had nothing for me.

One lady offers me food and bed – all I do is lay on my bed. I do what they say. They stay nice that way.

This is so I can remember

One day

One of these wealthy men will take me away.

I don’t want to forget how the curl of mama’
s hair twirled round like steam rising from the coffee.

I won’t forget bare splintered floors when I have rugs.

Skay Hour 9

An exhausted afternoon sun strikes lethargy
In a stifling thick air of the summer cottage
A tired fan groans as it makes yet another
Circle midair in the dense heat.
Fumes rise from the bottle of need
Putrid, rancid, and plain old strange
My head dances a tribal ritual,
A porridge of unrest, tears and obituaries
An escape atop wings to a cool paradise
I raise my glass and down the bitter drink.

Poem Marathon 9th Submission

A Mysterious Party
Ann WJ White

The country cottage,
surrounded by evening light,
is host to the many fireflies,
nightbirds and shadowed creatures. 

The building wears a 
mask of civility under the 
languid heat of summer night.
Strange voices project from the treeline.

Stars hold the brightness 
near lamps down low, seeking
the dancing of the moon and her friends.
They share a strange bottle of time.

For years, those who wore the mask
of mysterious circumstances
came under the stars
to show their longing. 

Insects sang with their viols, 
while they zoomed flirting,
telling fables of treasures
enchanted world long ago.

 

 

2020 – 9

Heat fills the room,
Almost visibly,
Passing through every item
On its way. Changing
Their core being,
Inducing lethargy.

The open window
Is not sufficient
In this strange city,
Making one long for
Treelines in the distance
Instead of vehicles
That keep zoming past.

Prompt #4: To My Other Half

O my dear how I miss thee.
I miss my companion to tell my inner most feelings to.
I miss my partner in crime to tackle life’s challenges with.
I miss the love that we felt and the affection we shared.
O my dear how I miss thee.
In the time since you left Father God has guided me.
He helps me rest in green pastures while winds tear through the skies.
He gives me revelation about events past
and better times to come in the future.
O my dear while I continue to miss thee
I pray that you are healthy and well.
That Father God is guiding you too.
That there will come a day when He will bring us back together again.

PITY

PITY

 

The heat of midday faded

as the brilliant summer sun

settled below the tree line.

 

Strange seemed the firefly

who earlier zoomed about the cottage

now looking lethargic and spent.

 

Had he succumbed from the heat of the day

or did he drink too much of the sweet nectar

thick like porridge, placed about in bottles

for our visiting hummingbirds?

 

Masked in his gluttony

his attempt to entertain us with dance and flight

landed him in the campfire.

 

Pity!

Almost Normal

References to Portal 2 and Half-Life

---

Wheatley is once more alone, or as good as,
His companion mindless, and deaf
To his monologue

GLaDOS is once more in charge, or as good as,
Her memories back in their box, her
Control, absolute

Chell is once more going home, or as good as,
Though her home lies in the past, beyond
The Seven Hour War

The player is back in the real world, or as good as
Though cake will be forever significant,
Blue Sky lies ahead

#9

You
must not
Think much of me
If you think
Pursing you’re lips
tightly
While holding your breath
hardly
As you kiss me
Hello
Keeps the
barley from bursting
out.

Fireflies

It was a strange magical evening,

the fireflies danced with the stars.

Flitting just with in the treeline,

they zoomed around the cottage.

The nightly heat filled us with lethargy;

our young bodies glistening in the dark.

Holding tight to empty porridge bottles,

waiting, in a mask of sweat, to capture

the flickering fairies of youth.