Season of Apocalypse

In Greek the word means
unveiling or unfolding
to reveal something
we had not seen before
perhaps cannot even
begin to recognize
because we have
no frame of reference
for it to find a home
in our thought
So it’s true
we will need an apocalypse
to find our way
to anything new
A massive storm
of incomprehensible change
A complete freeze
of our past
and a blinding
sunrise of warmth
to thaw new pathways
we have never
walked before

[Prompt 7: Write a poem titled Season of the (fill in the blank).]

Season Of The Stupid 1/2 marathon poem #7

Season Of The Stupid
1/2 marathon poem #7

Did they fall from the skies
Or grow from the ground
Seeded in ignorance
Is where they are found
Did they fall from the trees
And dig in their roots
Nourished in bullshit
With bitter fruits

Harvested by bigots
To vote for bullshit
X’s for Tory lies
And poison Brexit
X’s for Donald Trump
And racial hatred
Pickings are rich
In the season of the stupid

They don’t seek shelter
From Corona’s ill winds
They all head to the beach
To be Close to friends
Ignoring Two metres
Everywhere a rubbish tip
No need for masks
In the season of the stupid.

(C) Scott Coe 2020

Hour 7: Season of the Huntsman

A queen sends him on his way
with an empty box and a mission,
Under the orders of the magic glass
he is recast as the assassin.

In soft shoes he beckons a girl,
into the depths of a mossy wood,
over root and worm, acorn and leaf,
to do what no other could, or would.

The huntsman’s knife is at the ready,
he walks behind her, holding a breath,
but when the time comes, his strike is halted-
the young girl pleads to stay her death.

The ferns that dress the twisted trees,
the mosses that whisper a sigh,
The oak that bends its heavy branches,
all of them, too, ask the huntsman, “Why?”

As she runs into the distance,
the air thunders with the creaking of wood,
as the forest turns its branches to him,
for doing what no man would, or should.

Season of Reckoning

All roads led us here,
though we couldn’t see where they’d end.
We promised love for forever.
Now we’re just trying to be friends.

I didn’t ask for this season
or the wildfires that burned.
We didn’t imagine at the beginning
that our lives would take this turn.

Now it’s reckoning season,
our chickens came home to roost.
There is no turning back
from the change we induced.

Let’s just burn clear the land
so we can both start anew.
I’ll let go of your hand.
It’s the least I can do.

Let’s both make a fresh start
at the lives we envision.
I hope we both find ourselves
as we endure this division.

A new season awaits,
as this season ends.
Let’s move forward, hearts open
Let’s try to stay friends.

Poem 5 (Hour 5) Qundeel

“Ambition”

 

I dreamt, a dream about perfection

Without envy, malice and racial section

 

I have designed a boat of my life

On which I sail the thing I strive

 

All the natural elements praise me

Bounteous ocean, stars and birds on tree

 

My goal is shining behind the hills

I will manipulate all energy, tactics and skills

 

I am a rebel, can’t travel on another boat

Sail will be mine, that fate, I wrote.

The Revolt Poet – A Slither

Sometimes, “conspiracy theory”
Is a term thrown around too liberally,
As a synonym for incorrect fact.
Don’t presume that.
Instead clarify,
Assume the knowledge you can provide
Is not already possessed.
Do not let the meaning of that phrase be repressed –
Because “conspiracy” requires organised thought.
It is the act of plotting, or conspiring, of course,
And that is not my saying to discard all you’re taught,
Only most of it,
The Imperial bits.

After all,
It is a hot day today,
But the Prince won’t sweat.
But that is not because he is a lizard,
But because he’s patiently inside awaiting
The reopening of the Pizza Express.

#3 11am

I wrote a bio poem (didn’t like the BOP prompt)

Joyce

who is creative and talented

who is related to everyone(since she is adopted)

who loves cats and dogs and quietness

who feels deeply emotions of others

who needs more sleep and quietness

who fears today’s world

who would like to see cures to nasty diseases

who shares her love and compassion

who is loving strong and faithful

who is a writer, crafter and reader

Bugbee

 

Season of the Lost Summer

Friday, March 13th, was definitely bewitched

and not only for the nefarious connections tied to the number.

It was the last day of school of the 2019-20 school year,

though the students, teachers, and staff didn’t know it.

The Covid-19 outbreak brought forth a pandemic

with the only option to effectively slow the spread

being to maintain Social Distancing of a minimum six feet.

 

Teachers held online learning sessions with their students,

But those went the way of the Dodo bird.

The students fluttered away as the work was deemed optional.

Netflix, boardgames, and puzzles can only fill so many days.

Houses transform and gardens flourish.

Long walks under the sun slowly battle the disease.

The introverts rejoice and the extroverts suffer.

 

Toilet paper, paper products, and hand sanitizer soon vanish.

Worse yet, summer plans fizzle like a dying propane tank.

Vacations disappear, and despair sets in.

Beach goers blow away like sand from the shore.

Recreational vehicles sit idle, while flights are jettisoned.

Summer sport’s leagues and camps cancel any hope of parental rejuvenation.

The ultimate gut punch occurs when grandparents cannot be utilized.

 

The much-needed respite which refuels all teachers

rolls by as a tumbleweed tumbles along the dusty plains.

My deck is now my refuge. The dog is now my best friend.

The stack of tomes my only hope of passing the time.

My motivation is sucked dry as the protective clouds evaporate.

The summer morphs in to one long fitful nap.

I wonder if this pandemic is ever going to end.

 

3pm Let’s Move

Find the space beyond what your mind is telling you, when you reach your arms up leave the need to grasp, when you forward fold let the past go, remove ego and let you head lower down to the ground. Stay there, give the mind a moment, give the breath a moment, you are going to feel here, allow it. You are going to want to come up, not yet! Time does not exist, stay in the moment.

H.7 – Season of the witch.

  1. Her breath laced with the taste of fear, lay  hidden beneath the rags, hoping hate didn’t reach out its cold fingers,  it’s ugly thoughts tainting her with  pregitious ,  hoping her leaves and roots   medicines  of earth, could save her from mans hunger , from societys  greed.