The Poetry Marathon

HOUR 3 MY HEAD IS A JUNGLE

My head is a jungle, trees and beasts
And shadows of old shapes
Only imagined. There she feasts
On putrid meats and grapes,
Elusive tigress, waiting, biding.
We hunt each other, stalking, hiding.

Did Lao Tzu ever imagine such a thing?
Did Martin Luther dream this dream?

Who remembers how the first questions
Were conceived; remembers the farmer
Recalls the mental massing of
Innocent villagers,
Stuffing of spears and grammar,
Body counting as one by one they fell
Until we two only remain
The striped query and I?

Did Lao Tzu ever imagine such a thing?
Did Martin Luther dream this dream?

My head is a jungle, fears and cries
And mutinies. There
She hunts, never sleeps or flies
Away. My uncut hair
Is going silver. I feel my knees
Collapsing under all these trees.

Did Lao Tzu ever imagine such a thing?
Did Martin Luther dream this dream?

A Stranger’s Kiss

Those swirling mists beckoned like a stranger’s kiss
Fear wracked the warrior who hungered for eternal bliss
Tired from a life of constant blood and battle pain
He’d fought against demons and black tyrants in vain
The seer gave him one final quest to rest his weary heart
A golden tropical fruit in the world Ghenna slimy and tart
He’d have to brave the vampire flies in a forest so thick
That not a drop of sunlight reached a floor so black and slick
But the fruit was such a priceless reward for a dangerous task
A kingdom was his, draped in silky clouds beyond the Evermore Pass
He only had to risk a trip into the shimmering gate that held his fate
One last glance backward, then he stepped into a light blindingly great

Fight…

Fight,
Don’t give up now.
You have traveled for so long,
The destination is around.

Fight,
Don’t let go now,
You have worked so hard,
It’s time to charge on.

Fight,
For yourself,
For every person,
Who was forced to bow down,
Who was never given a chance

By society,
By this world,
That is too discriminatory,
That lives on in the fantasy,
Propagating the theory of perfect people and the perfect world.

Stand up,
No time to rest,
Brush off the dust,
Keep your eyes on the prize.
You might have lost a battle,
But the war is still raging on.

So fight,
Don’t give up now,
Don’t let go now.

– Addy

A Great Quarantine Night – Hour 2

Warm Milo
In my favourite white mug
Just enough milk and Milo powder
Place it on my pretty wooden coaster

Softest pyjamas
Cotton caressing my skin
With pretty floral patterns
Like walking in a blanket

Friends
On the other end of a Skype call
Aisha, Tarin, Tasnim and all
The best company a click away

Old movie
To take me back to a nostalgic time
A chance to live in a different world
A classic tale to pass the hours

No responsibilities
Unemployment has its perks
Too much free time on my hands
Anxiety-free and relaxed

Cosiness inside and out
Mind body and soul
Ingredients to my recipe for
A great quarantine-night.

How to thank

Oh how to describe something so big, happy and endless
Without the joy from all I would be sad and friendless
So inspiring, their furry friends standing loyal by their side
WIthout their devotion and vigor many would have died
Their financial support meant so much to my tattered muse
How could I possibly describe how they rescued me from the blues?

Oh how to thank so many who gave so much to me?

The book is coming to a close, the result of hours of labor
Pages bursting with colors and lines of power to savor
To share the lives of those caught in a great historic struggle
I have to feel their toil, tears and grasp lives in trouble
So many in different walks of life, so many heartful tales
All seeking to evade a dreadful killer taking our lives off rails
How to express the horror and yet the compassion for them all
What can I do to climb this towering white literary wall?

Oh how to thank so many who gave so much to me?

I can only do so much in a few short phrases to light the way
I will never forgot those laughter got me through the day
Those who joined together for a project to find the joy in the dark
Who understood the importance of laughing at doom to give a divine spark
They will be with me forevermore as things draw to a close
I will remember their faces as I draft a final piece of prose

Oh how to thank so many who gave so much to me?

Story Keepers – Poem #4

Always there has been
A family historian
Mostly the women

Aunt Teen obviously
She kept track of everyone
In mom’s family

Aunt Alois too
Dad’s brother’s kind, soft-spoken wife
By caring, she knew

Now times have changed
No longer is there a center
Keeping us arranged

Sisters and brothers
Cousins expanding, few knowing
About each other

Those we know about
Are very different people
So we sometimes shout

There’s still Aunt Becky
She stays near to the old center
Of dad’s family

Felix, my cousin
Carries on Aunt Teen’s legacy
Eldest living son

Lax for far too long
Now I must pick up connections
Keep the stories strong

Memories have welled
Perhaps no one really cares but
I feel so compelled

My brothers and I
Have no children our very own
To ask about why

We are who we are…
Still, a hope grows deep in my heart
That others afar

Will seek us one day
Compelled by curiosity
What our voices say

For the moment, I
Will write and speak all that I know
Until my last sigh

Poetry Marathon Submission #3

Injustice in America
Form: The Bop
Ann WJ White

When a teen, I raised my fists against racism, violence;
but for LBGTQ rights, women, elders, battered children, nature.
I squeaked and squawked in righteous fury, pushed away, seated,
a white bread girl against a tide of political indifference. 
I pointed out a promised future. Waved my hands, wanted to join.
But peers, elders...I was unliked, invisible, ignored. I fell away

Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale,
Boring filler on a plate, something stronger must rise.

Children vibrated in rainbow colors, full truth, hope.
Fed my nature, fed my soul. My own tin pot dictatorship
with rules that opened doors. A classroom. Be kind, true, needed.
These were the policies of deterrent where I had control.
But outside, on the corners, bus, streets, nothing changed.
Segregation by class, schools without props, myself ignored.
Brief wars came and went, unfocused and fled. Still unresolved.

Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale,
Boring filler on a plate. Something stronger must rise.

Until the internet, the wave of life was submerged, then...
Black, Brown and Gold, chased by armed police in riot gear, 
military weapons of war, killing knees, choke holds, no humanity.
Streets filled with horror. I heard the rage I felt. Breathing.
The young rising up, elders standing in the streets. Riots,
followed by protests, fighting for change. A plague to battle.

Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale,
Boring filler on a plate, something stronger must rise.

Summer in the time of Covid

Those days of lime-soaked watermelon summers, sharing a plate of potato salad and BBQ, kissing boys, grandma’s cheek—

Now,
I am just waiting
to get vaccinated.

So now we know, now we know (Prompt 3)

So, here’s the problem. I’m in love, but I’m not. Love him, don’t.

I knew before he came, wide-striped stalwart dragon breathing me.

I dreamed him in my bed, in my shower, at the gas pump, eons ago,

a new mom, old wife, frigid, estranged, but there he was, faceless.

And when he spoke my name, behind the bush, at the hotel, I shuddered.

Shut. down. So that’s what I look like, that’s the rod and reel bait. Me.

 

So now we know, now we know.

 

I had to love his strength, muscle-bound black and white lines, like

“hey, you know you’re my world; don’t shatter it. You’re mine.”

Does everyone truly love a fascist, twisted up, tied down in a cliche?

Ten years gone, a heyday of sorts, of sordid pause, a shadow in relief,

Who said a woman must have everything, in adamantine chords, chained

to the sound of her own voice? Watch out for wishes. They may drown you.

Like smoke, drink, coke, a bite of your nails to the nub, habits stain passion.

We fold ourselves one into another, unravel and curl up in slaughtered sleep.

 

So now we know, now we know.

 

I’m a diver. I can’t swim, but I can float. The thrill of the leap tempts me,

every time, but the water’s deep, suspends, airless, still, wide-eyed sleep,

when you stare down death in an air bubble, tip of the nose, fourth eye.

And when you break the surface, you can breathe in the banal with relief.

My lonely habit, soft spectral contrail, I long to touch, until my fingertips

crush beneath your palm, captive tears, dying to free, me, to the river’s edge.

 

So now we know. so now we know.

 

 

Hour 3: I wake up again at the start of the page 

Three days and four nights spent 

Three years and four decades lent 

To the unraveling of entwined narratives

Mapping each face of righteous dissent 

I write and note, and jot down, and measure,

Having sorted through history, I close my ledger

 

But I wake up again at the start of the page

 

Fazed and undone, I fathom at the mystery 

At the unruly habit of redoing history 

I scribble again with vigour to map out the mistakes

To wake up again to the same bewitchery 

Unlearned and discarded, the stories are forgot 

The struggles bought, 

And martyrs marred, 

I labour again to rewrite and remind what was sought 

 

But I wake up again at the start of the page

 

Irked and betrayed, I speak what I sought to write 

Can my voice thunder over this historic blight?

My companions have pens, they now write in my place 

But something lurks from the shadows, ghastly and trite

We hold on to our pens, our words and our tales

But it’s getting misty, blurring the details,

 

And we wake up again at the start of the page.