The Poetry Marathon

My Ideal day w my 19th Century Crush (6th hr 2020)

The flames from the fireplace ferociously heat my backside,

As I keep my sights upon the desolate wintry fright.

Frigid and wisped, the wind blows the panes.

While my fingers trace a few letters on the bitter frosty bays.

A glacial heat vibrates through me rolling electricity through my spine

as a crack from the logs sound out from behind

But I stay staring at the bleak December we waited for.

The one that you have spoken with such fervor before.

The one with a few horrid ghost tales of talking black birds that you so abhor.

Leaving me to crave and rave for a haunting much like yours,

Forevermore.

I wrote upon the wintry glass, nevermore.

Goodbye #4

The last time I saw you
You wore green
and a sad smile
maybe you knew this was goodbye
I wish you had told me
what you knew was to come
Maybe I would have remembered
to give you the note
that might save you on some nights

I don’t know where you are today
Friend, if we meet again, could you stay?
Tell me goodbye when the clock strikes twelve
Hold my hand for a while, is that okay?

Transitions

You would often say,” I want to go by the water.”

The salty smell and temperamental waves brought you peace eventually became your sanctuary.

You loved how the deep blues and somber grays mimicking the rich clouds in the sky.

As you watched the fishes jump up high in the air, I can see a childlike joy in your smile.

The refreshing cycle of life.

The highs and lows of it all displayed for the world to see.

It was enough for your toes to graze the edge as you took in your chosen destination upon this land.

Missing the softness of your cheeks and how you often watched your grandchildren with care.

It’s strange how we took for granted you would always be there.

A fighter with the heart of gold so many stories were left untold.

Your sense of style has been adopted by your only granddaughter.

Your presence felt in the heart of your grandsons.

Each of us have continued to hold on to your spirit, grace and hope.

Assuring ourselves that we could never forget the imprint you left on this world.

Forever blessed to have shared space with you, to have your tears drop on my shoulder, to

see your smile and rub your feet.

Mom your transition reminded me that without you in this life I could never be complete.

Tribalism

Tribalism: It is us vs them, an endless war.Whites vs blacks, blacks vs whites. It is like chess, but we can’t say checkmate. We should remove the notion of Us vs them and start seeing people as equal as men. Remove the labels, remove hate but keep the honor with the past and unite through educating and corroborate towards greatness. Through this greatness we can create a more safe and turn up the brightness to be viewed as a united nation.

Prompt Six (6): All Roads Lead To Broadway [Hour 6]

All Roads Lead To Broadway

A soft cool breeze … as I step outside to the fresh spring day!

The smell of New York City … from Central Park.

Green trees and chirping birds …

A song of joy …

A song of life!

Walking with a song in my head …

the notes clear, my voice stronger than ever …

Am I singing out loud? Of course, must rehearse …

and the sight of words that make my heart fill with love: Stage Door

Yes! I am on Broadway . .  .

The Greatest Place on Earth to us who love to . . .

perform theatre!

The smell of the crowd, the roar of the greasepaint . . .

Although, these days, it’s the smell of musty old theatre parts, clean costumes.

The greasepaint is Max Factor and a bit of pancake make-up. Microphones taped in your wig.

Still, a theatre, no matter where or what size … that wood and dust that makes an asthmatic wheeze;

yet, with joy!

Lights blinding me from the coughing, oohs and ahs of the blurred faces.

I can feel their energy, their expectation … butterflies move through my stomach and to my knees.

Nerves mean you care … their energy makes me fly high! I am flying high.

Never toked a day in my life, but every performance on stage … I fly!

Those hot lights feel like God himself is smiling at me . . .

summoning me to sing the joy in my heart and soul!

This is orgasm of the whole body … it’s like an explosion of ecstasy! BOOM!

Manifesting the dream! MAGICAL!

#6 My Ideal

We gather around the living room,

Cards in our hands, laughter in the air,

Freshly roasted peanuts, everyone’s favorite,

their aroma wafts, tempting.

Snippets of conversations from politics to rising humidity,

A slap without bite stinging on my thigh – a price for teasing,

the hard floor comfortable beneath us,

Mum and brother arguing over game points.

Aunt fussing over my hairdo and my cousin egging her on,

movie dialogues thrown dramatically in the mix,

Mum humming an old song.

The heat, insufferable, yet welcoming,

I feel light, this is home.

HOUR 6-PERFECT DAY

Awakening to the birds heartfelt tune

Scent of freshly cut grass

and pitter-patter of raindrops in June.

In the garden child laughter

at the fire we sit cosy

passionate lovemaking

my cheeks turn all rosy.

End with a bubble bath

candles and wine

A day like this would go down just fine.

2020 Hour 6 – A Dying Cat, Beloved

Socks soaked, again
Nose crinkles with fury
one more fucking thing.

How many times?
Too many, too close.
Not spite, loss of control.

Worse than we thought.
Sticky paws, wet fur, plaintive meows
gone unnoticed for how long?

The vet’s not far,
And she’s been sick before.
Still, she might not come home.

Very old for a cat.
Almost old enough to vote.
And she’s been sick before.

She’s had a good life.
Five cat sisters, older and younger.
A safe house, a happy home.

She used to be so fat
like a low-flying zeppelin.
Yeah, a very good life.

A generation-old cat
with the love of three little girls,
She’s had a happy life.

Six months, a year?
Still, no cold exam table, no needle.
She gets to come home.

Socks soaked, again.
Ah, that’s alright, little kitty.
It’s just a tiny thing.

Why? (Poem 6)

If darkness flows from a river in the heart,

Why is the blood red or blue?

 

If the ungodly lurks in the mind of man and woman,

Why is childhood blamed for the crimes?

 

If emptiness fills your stomach,

Why is there an appetite for destruction?

 

If the heart is the true killer,

Why does depression bring on aggression?

 

Drowning sorrow in a glass of booze,

Thinking you have nothing to loose,

Why have you already lost yourself?

 

If we take the ‘D’ from ‘devil’,

We’re left with ‘evil’,

However, if we turn it around

We’re left with ‘live’,

Add the ‘D’ back in

We have ‘lived’

Why do these four words exists within each other?

Poem Hour Six

An Ideal Day

Lazy, sound of silence
Maybe the song of birds outside,
Safe and cozy covers surrounding us,
As we smile at the lack of anywhere to be.

Later, immersing ourselves in stories, laughter,
Comforting cups of tea and sandwiches,
Curled up together
As we listen to pitter-pattering raindrops outside.

Warmth holds us close
As we hold each other,
Content and relaxed
On a lazy, perfect day.