The Poetry Marathon

Prompt 3 (Poetry Marathon)

“Different People”

In a world of a chaotic mind,
We veer death as a common wine.
Friend or foe, people versus people,
Who are we to know the real reason.
A long walk during summer season.
An old words that we need to mention.

We are people, we are all different people.

One day, we will learn the difference of two,
Colors and faces will be nothing to you
A treason to mankind old fathom blue.
Did our old heroes trace a clue?
Who are these heroes anyways?
An asian, american, a latin or an english man.
None of all, I am never a fan.
All of them just shooting guns.

We are people, we are all different people.

One day, we shall see an old fuck up memory.
Humanity can be soon an old fuck up story.
Bend it now, belief of an old.
See each other as one and the same,
Forget the history and those painted pain.
The game is never about to whom we blame.

We are people, we are all different people.

#Prompt3

#HalfMarathoner

SunDew

Misty gold peers over the mountains

The grass cold and glimmering with morning dew

Small details so meaningful and fulfilling

 

Away from the city

Away from all the pain

Just me and my gold

 

Watching the sun float through the sky

Dawn break is it’s fastest run

And then it creeps

 

The days will soon race by me

I will forget the gold

I will forget the dew

 

When I die

I hope to feel how I feel now

Golden

Smile

Nature is happy

With every drop you save it,

Let’s go and do it!

@Mejia – Haiku – Hour Five

 

Prompt 5: The Midnight Sea

A thousand stars light the way

A thousand ways to confuse the mind

Which path to take

Which light to follow?

Silence deafens us

Except for the punctuation of the oar.

The open sea

The vast night sky

Seek to swallow us whole.

We sail out to find the answers —

The answers that are hidden deep within.

A thousand stars light the way

A thousand ways to confuse the mind

Which path to take

Which light to follow?

The one that shines the brightest.

Hour 5 – Defeated

Why do the snakes
Keep creeping in my rooms
Every rain, every monsoon?
And why do I have to spend my life
Sealing the gaps I did not make?

Why does that window simply not fit
Back into its own frame any more?
Just – someone had broken it off?!
And it refuses to protect me any more?

Why does that wall still keep
Getting damp, year after year?
Still get me cold, still get me shivers
Every time I touch it?

Why does the sunshine burn
Everytime? I just want to feel the warmth.
Why does the snow bite
Everytime? I just want to feel the white.

Don’t let the past define you.

So why does the past
Keep redefining itself
Over and over?

How many mirrors should I cover?
How many windows do I close?
How many stabs? How long it takes?
How many doors and how many snakes?
How many times and how many hours?
How many faces and how many failures?

Yes, She Says (Poem 4)

Yes, she says

When I saw her across the room

Yes, she says

As we met where the flowers bloom

Yes, she says

When I put the rose in her hair

Yes, she says

As I touched her with tender care

Yes, she says

When I drew her near

Yes, she says

As she trembles without fear

Yes, she says

Yes, she says

Yes, she says

As we kiss..

Yes, she says

When she says nothing at all.

#1 Sloppy Eaters

Woodpeckers, Jays, squawky Grackles emptying feeders

The Crows wait on the ground for theirs

Never a cute little Bluebird, a Yellow Finch

Always the loud insistent sloppy eaters

 

Bags of seed and slabs of suet disappear daily

Trips to the hardware store a weekly event

Needing a coupon each time to keep bellies full

The pleasure of nature becoming a mandate

 

Now Pigeons in the barn dirty feathers abound

A nightmare of bodily debris gathers

Swooping low to exit with indignant cries

As though their eviction would be illegal

 

A mother Robin manages to hatch her young

Risking trips for food while Pigeons complain

Perhaps another week until her babies can fly

To leave this hostile world and return to trees

4) Emotion

You’re emotional, he says.

It’s all in your head.

I’m a kind man,

caring, sometimes

even love you.

But that 80 proof

and 100 proof helps

me cope,

you know.

Me da was that way.

And sure my family understands.

It’s how we all cope.

Been doing so for generations.

 

But she?

She’d love to tell him, explain.

She’s emotionally dying,

becoming brittle

where once was voluptuous.

Sour where once was wild sweet honey.

Calloused, blistered and broken

where once was cream, smooth and warm.

 

She is selfish, if she leaves.

There’ll be nothing for her.

It’s how Ireland treats its women,

its mothers, its wives.

 

Men in starched white shirts,

black form fitting suits,

with their leather suitcases

and curled pointed shoes

tap out commands, directions,

orders.

You’re emotional, they say.

But she?

She’d love to tell him, explain.

She’s emotionally dying.

She is emotionally dying.

 

DEAR BERTHE MORISOT: THE NEW SHOW   

Dear Berthe,

I wish you could have seen the new show. Yours!  The first of note since the 1940s.  At least four long rooms – a connected suite.  One side of a vast floor of the Musée d’Orsay. You know, the railway station turned into museum (you would appreciate that they left the station’s big old ironwork clock)..

All the galleries were crowded even though Thursday was a perfect July day. And gloriously sunny.  The trains and Metro were running again, so you could have easily ridden into town from your summer place in Bougival.  (I bet you would have applauded the striking workers last week.)  Even the signage was brilliant.  Not pretentious. Not patronizing. And translated into English for those who don’t know French.  (Though, of course, we both know something is always lost in translation.)  They even remembered how Degas called you the most experimental of your friends.

I wish you could have seen everyone craning, lingering. And not just adults, but children like yours.

I wish you could have joined me.

1pm – five – soda

clink, clink, psssft…
sploosh, fizzzzzzz…
sip..sip…gulp…
ahhhh…
refreshment…