The Poetry Marathon

#2: As Time Moves…

#2: As Time Moves…

It’s a strange thing when you feel your life passing by. The days get shorter and the nights drift. Suddenly, you’re another year older.

But this strange thing happens. Nostalgia. The things you once enjoyed become the same your kids make fads about.

Hipster jeans and slayer dreams. These kids are so funny. They tease us for being old but mirror us just the same.

Yes, time is a strange thing. The way it weaves to and from. Will we ever know where it is in a rush to go?

Time ticks by too fast sometimes. Nevertheless, thank you for the memories.

wrapped around your fingers to please you forever

The body falls again as you try to hold it up
You put your ears to the chest and when you hear nothing,
I see it-
The slow way your face scrunches in pain
Then the tears roll down your face.

We both saw the man walk like he was running away from something, someone
He bumped into you and your cup emptied its content on your shirt
You’d loved the colour mix of the shirt, but now you may never retrieve it
The beer has mixed with his blood

The man walked away after murmuring something, maybe an apology
You go after him and Even if I’m outside, I hear your screams at the other side of the bathroom wall

You rush to the body when the gun goes off quietly
You hug it and save the head from landing with a thud

I want to ask if you know him, you are screaming, not the same way you screamed after the beer poured on you
You are screaming because that is how you are, you feel everyone’s pain
The body falls again and this time you take your hands to your head and walk towards me

“What have you done?”
This is not the first time but you ask me like you do not know I hate when anyone vexes you

Hour 12, Poem 15

When can we get out of here?
When can we breathe?
When can we be not afraid?
When can we be free?

No answers, just a box of darkness—
Meant to be safe, now its what holds you back.

Try, try to get out
knock knock knock

bang bang bang

Try, try to get out
Knock or bang on the door

When would someone hear us?
When can we finally breathe?

please let me be free

Hour 14 – An Address to the Staff

Love

I wouldn’t even begin to try & define it;

i think everyone has their own

personal concept of what

it looks like anyway.

But maybe there’s more to it than just

wanting to be with someone forever.

 

In any case, I’m ready to venture out

& see what looks like for me.

Something tells me I won’t be disappointed.

A Ballad for the Brokenhearted

Here’s to the friends who’ve been lost along the way

to silence, to fury, to sleep,

and to the lessons we remember today

some that we laugh at, some which make us weep

 

For those who had held us in our times of need

but vanished as soon morning landed,

gone like a ghost who had died with the seed

the distance between us expanded

 

And to the bastards who drove us straight mad,

can’t regret half the words that I’ve said

at some point you mattered through happy and sad,

but life’s better without you instead

 

This one’s for those who were forced to let go,

through ending of cycles to peace

If I could be sure you know how I still miss you so,

I might feel something better, at least

 

Here’s to the friends that we’ve lost along the way,

who’ve helped, hurt, and loved without cost

in spite of the frustrating ache of heartbreaking

without you, I know I’d be lost

(Hour 14)

Solitary Serenade

An unfamiliar face sitting alone
sitting aside on the pavement
He’s enjoying in this own world with delight
erasing pains at this moonlight night
He may be listening to a radio
Through cell listening, other side of the voice

If he enjoys music, he’s melodic
At this hour on moonlit night
All world is dreaming in their chambers
He’s a solitary figure without any fantasies
So, The music weaves some tales of joy
A moment that he feels and shy sometime
loneliness beats some frustration
In this night, seems he’s stillness freeze.

Someone captures his pic, never express emotions
But, In stillness, His soul mounts a moment of peace

 

 

Prompt -14                                                                                                     

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 14

I grew up in a house where art and laughter

were rationed and metered out and never

supposed to be shared together. Art was a

privilege and laughter was a reward of

the highest order. Growing up paint splattered

was never a lesson I  thought I needed nor

does it actually seem to benefit from. I have

colors from moments and memories that will

never fade or get sunbleached or water damage –

I have colors I put there intentionally to remember

who I want be as time goes on and the poems

extend from pages and screens to trees

and gardens and songs carried on stormy skies.

 

This was a lifestyle that no one should ever

relate to – but I know people will and that’s

a shame. So let’s turn the paint-splattered ache

into wonder and typewriter prints and poetry

that will indeed make the world a bit brighter

 

.-M. Rene’

National anthem

It’s a way to express our own

patriotism without coming across as

too self-absorbed.

With 196 out there, it’s hard to

imagine any one song coming out on top.

Because there’s merit to all of them

& maybe if we weren’t too obsessed with

our own,

we might be better able to see the

world through other people’s eyes.

Profesh (Hour 13)

I am an illustrator of thoughts,

I am author of sentiments,

Producer of poetics,

Director of dialectic diction,

I am a liaison of literature

Scripter of scripture

Writer of picture

Mixture of blood ink and liquor.

Composer of the spoken texture

Builder of verbal architecture

Lyrical director, ink think and inventor.

Painter of paragraphs

Blacksmith of wordplay

My birthdays are earthdays

On Fridays and thursdays

I’m steady in earthquakes.

I am the word based word face word ways word pays.

My profession is proficiency in prose and propaganda poetics, paragraphs and ethics, Prolific methods, penned penitence.

accupation. Computation.

Problem solving. Calculation.

My profession as provider.

I’m a lover and a fighter.

Hard to say, but,

I’m a writer.