The Poetry Marathon

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.

REVERIE – Hour #3

The relentless rain pierces the silence of my morning reverie,

mingles with the  pungent aroma of fresh coffee

and warm sweet smells of breakfast baking

while canvas, brushes and paint await my arrival.

 

My nose tingles with excitement

the bitter-sweet elixir touches my tongue

flows through my body

I sigh with delight.

 

My mouth waters with anticipation

I ever so gently bite into the doughy bread

its very essence nourishing every cell

I feel ready now.

 

My mind stirs with possibilities

I pick the brush that speaks to me

We dip into the paint that calls us

We are one.

 

The relentless rain turns rhythmic, lulling me into a still, silent space

I with the brush and paint draw together

The canvas responds to our strokes

Images emerge from beyond.

 

Wild spring season

City girl moves to the country
needing a different light
time to reflect and grow
sitting on the deck watching nature bloom
in this wild spring season

Nature seems happier
less noise less pollution
a majestic owl hoots in the palm tree
as a busy spider spins silken webs
capturing tasty flying treats

Robust red cardinal preens and prances atop weathered fence posts
Mockingbirds magpies and bluejays tease and taunt feisty little sparrows
while hawks and ospreys tangle in the bright blue skies above
swooping down occasionally to grab a bite
geckos and anoles scatter

Meanwhile chirping crickets cicadas and June bugs
add a bass rhythm to the melody of spring in heat

Poem #2: Recipe for a Fulfilling Life: Learning to smile and giggle

Ingredients:
~ smiles and giggles
~ golf clubs
~ glorious sunset or inspirational sunrise
~ designer handbag
~ kind remark to a stranger

Laugh until you cry. With or without your best friend.
Find a dash of humor in any situation.
Add lots of smiles and laughter.
Remember, they’re both free. Doesn’t that make us all wealthy?

Dice up the life of leisure: golf clubs and stunning destination courses as a substitute for real love.
Fold in the perfect place to watch a glorious sunset or inspirational sunrise.
The secret ingredient? Whom I shared my time with and what we shared together.
It didn’t have to be man-made artifice. Or extravagant.
It could be simple elegance: laughter and giggles. Giggles and laughter. Add to taste.
Remember, you can’t over-season using laughter and giggles.
Add copious amounts of giggles and laughter. Share.

Fold in smiles and more smiles. 7 miles of smiles in Negril.
Stir in the joy of Cartagena. And around the world.

Chop up fear and designer handbags and shoes and pick up a helping of trust. Blend in kind remarks to strangers.

Time to revisit that old family recipe, “A beautiful journey.”

She Wanted to Be a Mama Prompt 3

She Wanted to be a Mama

 

There’s a road down into a valley where people who want to 

make a difference move in.  The valley is flat right up to the mountains. 

There is brush and dirt. The best crops are low to it or under it. 

Mushrooms and potatoes. In the windy season, Spring, you can get lost 

in dirt storms. Houses are small and old. Most buildings are fifty

or more years old. Then there are the people. They have been here 

for generations. New ones learn why the land is dirt cheap. 

 

All she wanted was to be a mama and now she is 

though she can’t buy diapers ‘til the welfare check comes in.

 

Girls here tote babies as they read English texts 

and do math problems if they are lucky enough to have 

a mother or grandmother or even an older sister, 

not yet 20 with 2 or 3 kids of her own, to push her

to finish high school. But most often she doesn’t 

join the mamas’ classes, getting bigger every year. 

She’ll live in her own bedroom with the baby or maybe 

the father’s house if her parents have kicked her out 

to give them more space.  

 

All she wanted was to be a mama and now she is 

though she can’t buy diapers ‘til the welfare check comes in.

 

If you’ve come here to be a social worker or a teacher

who cares, these girls will pierce your heart with their lack 

of interest in a future.  What are they going to do? 

Sign up for welfare. Life is cheap here in the valley. 

They can make it. Maybe work a few shifts at McDonalds, 

but not too many. Teachers, it’s hard to make a difference here.

 

All she wanted was to be a mama and now she is 

though she can’t buy diapers ’til the welfare check comes in.

Hour 4, Prompt 4

Write an epistolary poem that is a letter from you to someone who has passed and/or someone you have not seen in a long time.

Begin

How can we heal all the hurt in the world?
Undo the past and the harms that linger?
How can we stop the blaming, shaming, and wagging of the finger?
How do we right the wrongs that abound.
To create change we’re so desperate to see.
I don’t have all the answers, but it begins with you and me.

When will the painful judgments stop?
and when will we cherish each other?
When will stop seeing otherness?
and instead see our sisters and brothers?
When will we live up to the promise
of all this country was intended to be?
When will hear freedom ring from sea to shining sea?
I don’t have all the answers, but it begins with you and me.

Who will start the journey from our painful past to healing?
Who will find find expression for all we have been feeling?
Who will build the bridge from where we are to where we’re going?
Who will use their wisdom and our expanding sense of knowing?
Who will light the fire, to spark the change we wish to see.
I don’t have all the answers, but it begins with you and me.

Time is running out

At a time in my life

Find myself looking at  a desk

With only 2 speeds to work with

Either I’m moving fast or moving slow

Thinking of time

Hoping the time will wait til I’m finish one thing

Yes

Time slow down so I can catch my breath

Feel like time is moving to fast for me

Damn

Before I know it everything changes

Starting to realize time is not on my side

Time to make a move

At the time in my life

See myself somewhere I’m not

Feel like time is not going to slow down

Time to take time by the neck and make my move

Think it is time to make my move

Seems like

Time is running out

Step Out (written for Hour 2)