The Poetry Marathon

Season of Healing

I don’t believe in God

I believe in the Keeper of the Stars

The thought of the conception of the universe

Terrifies me

The unknown

 

We are constantly being tested

Have come close to failing

But what does that entail?

 

Doomed to repeat history

Not sure how to create our own

Every little thing makes someone angry

It is not them who I worry about

It’s Him

 

We were given one task

Survive together

His message warps throughout the years

 

Everything we do in one day

Will one day come back to us

Unseen consequences

A butterfly flaps its wings

And the world ends

 

An unbelievable burden to bear

Studying for a class with no test prep

Not even sure when the test will end

 

I used to believe in good people

But we’re all a villain in someone’s story

A hero in others

Egos too large to leave any room for empathy

The right thing is a blurry abstraction

 

I am afraid of the unknown

But know that one day the test will end

And we will begin, The Season of Healing

 

Hour 6: A Sense of My Ideal Day

Today

sun fills my open hand

with birdsong,

flows along my arm,

tickling fragile hairs awake.

A drift of mint reminds my nose

of dappling leaves waiting for me.

Water flows across my toes

as I share a drink with the garden.

I wander on, until

familiar voices call me home.

Hour 7

Season of the Awakening

 

Apparently they didn’t know

didn’t know things were so bad

 

But somehow

between being locked down

stuck in our houses

forced to live via screens

 

and watching

(apparently they had to watch it)

George Floyd be lynched

 

White America woke up

 

It helped that Trump was so blatantly racist

shit hole countries

brown kids in cages

 

It became too obvious to look away

 

Welcome to the cookout

You’re late

But we’re glad you’re here

Hour 7: Season of the Books

Oh how splendid would it be

Just imagine a season of books!

Yes, books…

Blooming like flowers on roadside

Or a meadow full of them

Falling from trees like autumn leaves

Or dew on a wintery morning.

Books…

Of all kinds too

And genres! Can’t forget those

Maybe they will come flying

Like butterflies or

Soar like birds

And we’ll have to run to catch them

Or they would drift away…

Quite a thought I say!

And we, yes the readers

will get some exercise too this way.

2. Recipe for Disaster 

Recipe for Disaster:

1. Stress
2. Overthink
3. Worst Case Scenarios
4. Psych Yourself Out
5. Manifestation

 

Sprinkle a little stressing out over the situation you’re faced with.

Make sure to add around 4 cups of overthinking in addition to the stress, and marinate the situation with both for an additional four days.

Now after the four days are marinated with stress and overthinking, you can being playing and replaying the worst possible results for the situation in your head for another 12 hours. This will lead to you being psyched out about the whole thing all together. Don’t worry! That’s normal during this process.

Finally you will manifest the worst cases that you replayed in your head as your true reality.

Break free (Poem #6)

Mr. Carty it’s not a party
It take every thing outta me body
Me chest a hurt me, me head a hurt me
Left me nuh
I wanna break free

Mr Carty its not a Party
Teach we the remedy
fi make we successful
Him sidung round aback a hold wi dung
Left me nuh
I wanna break free

All rights reserved copyrighted(c)2020 Roxann Harvey-Lawrence

©️ Prompt 7 – 2020, H.J – “Season of the Dream”

Following Hour 7’s Prompt (2020)
”Season of the Dream” by H.J ©️

 

The winds of change are brewing –
Trading out Fall’s leaves for Summer’s dew;
but playing roulette with a virus or two!

Summer’s dream is not how it seems;
But delays don’t mean denials.

Amid the rolling greens of Vanity,
And the lost seas of Sanity,
We find pause and new perspective –
Which brings Clarity

And stronger amity,
Toward what matters most.

The season of The Dream,
had not a fairytale theme;
But,
as it seems,

We are better for it.

Nothing Made Sense (Hour 4)

Imagine nothing made sense to you anymore.

All that you knew to be true was false and vice versa.

How many homemade Nutella peanut butter cookies would you eat?

Definitely leaving my options open, but I’d down at least five.

Doesn’t seem like enough now that I consider nothing makes sense.

I’ll have one for me, and the rest of the batch for my love.

#7 Shoulda Been

Red felt cowboy hat

Double holster holding two cap guns

After smoke the smell lingering

 

White stitching around the brim

The hat resting on by back

Covering my five-year old self

 

I saw no cowgirls

No politically correct ladies

On horseback ready to ride

 

Women were in saloons or

Canning vegetables back

At the ranch

 

I shoulda been a cowboy

Or a mountain man tending

To my bountiful whiskey still

 

But alas no one noticed

The cowboy in this girl

She faded to chasing boys

 

Curling her hair

Hanging up her guns

The red felt hat forgotten

3pm – seven – Walls

People are strangers,
No one wants to talk,
If you are in a crowd of people,
Listen to the silence of
Loneliness.
People are building,
Straight and tall buildings,
No graceful arches, no circles,
Or any at all!
People are tearing down the
Bridges.
Building more tall walls.
No bridges
Just walls.