The Poetry Marathon

I Have A Plan For Us – Hour 5, Prompt 5

I have a plan for us.
When the sun sets and all is quiet
We’ll steal a boat and sail upon  the lake
We’ll bring a lantern a blanket, and ourselves
and lay looking up at the stars in its hull.
“I have a plan for us,” I’ll whisper,
and you’ll be none the wiser,
that this plan is already in motion.
“Take my hand, and you can join me in the stars,”
You’ll look over and giggle, but I’ll mean it.
We can go anywhere in the world together,
but we’ll need to do it tonight.
And if the sun rises and the boat is empty
I’ll know that you love me
As much as I love you, the stars, and the universe.
But if it rises and we’re still there, I’ll know
that not all love is the kind I hold in my heart
for you, who makes me want to be human.
And that’s okay.
No matter how you answer,
I have a plan for us.

Sea of Stars

The boat drifted on a stunning sea of stars
But it was not lost, not in this heart of ours
Sad to say farewell to a love with me til last breath
Who gazed into the heavens to show me joy beyond death
Her curious eye saw wisdom in the absurdity of the day
With a sturdy mind she kept the fools and naysayers at bay
As the boat drifts to the shiny horizon I won’t forget
The joy she gifted me from the fateful day we met

#5 Hardened

It was soft once for it

believed in old adages,

good begets good, justice will be served

and the likes.

But day after day, its belief was torn to shreds,

honesty was ridiculed, thieves were rewarded,

fools were celebrated and monsters emerged victorious.

It hardened gradually, it learned slowly

That the kind and fair no longer had place in this world.

 

-Prachi S

5. Sunrise. Lupos’ Crescendo.

translated from The Book of Lycan Poetry

The Moon, my love, my gift. Lunata.
must retire.
A goddess must rest to rule.
Her love. Her Mate, gives playful chase.
Lupos, the light wolf, is bestowed upon by
Her painting of the dawn.
Soft. Like the goddess herself.
Smudges of the beautiful blackness
that fade with the crescendo of his light.
Their playful symphony carries until
our fur and bones are once again given to Gaia.
Would it be blasphemous to howl with him?
To sing with him to his queen?
As we do to her when she rises
and shifts the tides in our blood?
Certainly, it would not.
Song is incorruptible
In the eyes of the light and the dark.
White and Black and Grey wolves
we sing.
– Oryn

One I Love Most!

“Not her, not her, not her…

write about her later,” He says,

“Not time, not time, not time…”

Yet.

Cosmic map of consciousness;

man of men and women,

you led me here,

then say “stay silent”!

I play along,

laughing at your wisdom.

“But, you are writing

about her!”

Yes. Lovely, beautiful her.

I Bake When It Rains

I turn on the oven
Its warmth fills the house
as I start whipping eggs
and adding vanilla
sifting
and sorting
blending
and tossing
and turning
kneading the dough in my mind
waiting patiently for it to rise

punch down
stifling the bad memories that come up
let it rise again

I wrap the smell of home baking
around me
like a protective blanket
to fill my insides
to shield me against the hate

Falling Through

What will the sky tell me today

will it light my way or cloud my path

Weightless steps into the vastness

leaving worries behind

The dream that escapes me

and remains out of reach

as the monsters grab me and pull me back

The sky fades away and darkness swallows

Tree Steward in The Forest, Hour 5

Squinting through the canopy, she looks for the sun

Leaves falling like dry brittle tears

Crunching footsteps through cracking twigs, Unaware of mycelium network underfoot

Each towering tree once a sapling she nurtured from seed

Individual unique perfection

She caresses the bark of each, calling them by name

Oblivious to their interconnection

Doorways, Windows, And Eyelids (Hour 5)

What play of light is this?
That catches my mind and twirls it through the swaying treetops.
Some distant sense of adventure calling through the wind,
tossing my restless spirit to and fro,
orbiting this central point of recognition,
of realization,
of eternity breathless in a single moment
when my lungs are truly felt,
when the blood in my fingers throbs with my pulse.
I am the micro, the macro.
Each level, not one atop of the other,
but one within the other,
patterns repeated on a small and large scale,
doorways ever opening toward more doorways
windows leading inward,
leading outward
blink
branches of dancing trees—
blink
the veins inside my eyelids—
blink
the sky is the pale fathom of my own eye staring back at me.

5: Stuck

The empty body
stays empty

long after the rest
of the world moves on