The Poetry Marathon

Bunny Love (a Bop)

 

Bunny Love

(A Bop)

 

A hawk stares down on me

from high above, I see a dove.

Naïve bunny that I am

I bop along sunny bunny trail

grass beaten down just enough

to show me where to go.

 

Bunny love is funny love

but also is a boxing glove.

 

Can I love this creation?

Does it matter if I swing and miss?

Does it matter if I fall down flat?

The team depends on me.

My ancestors and descendants

stare down from the stands.

It’s hard to tell if the rain I feel

is cheering, booing or just indifferent chatting.

 

Bunny love is funny love

but also is a boxing glove.

 

I need to figure out what to do

but there is nothing to figure out.

I need to be in this moment

as if the stands aren’t there

as if everything and nothing are the same

as if the answer is a little further down this bunny trail.

 

Bunny love is funny love

but also is a boxing glove.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boss is a Lie (Hour 3)

Clean suit on straight lovely pants

Screaming tie, transforming into a noose

An Italian leather briefcase ejects a suffocating Mac laptop

Spreadsheets pop out multiple eight-digit figures

A lean workforce trembles, a fat board expects

All sat, listening to slides brimming with lies

 

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

 

Profit is squatting nearby, seeking a new abode

The workforce is dying, beaten ill by the boss’ ire

The boss’ SUV outside exudes pity, unable to help

The board has slept with juicy tales all year long

All sat, waiting for the pregnant magic of transformation

But the spreadsheet figures are not adding up, they won’t

The board is spitting eight-digit curses upon the payroll

Profit is standing afar, winking at new spinsters

 

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

 

The meeting disperses like the aftermath of war

The bourgeois boss sheds tears under the corporate almond tree

The pillars will collapse like a weak house in the woods

It’s time to redeem the lies, to roll up the sleeves

But the beaten workforce will care no more

And the boss feels the biting hollowness of the pyramid top

 

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

 

 

 

 

 

Untitled – I attempted a bop per the prompt (1/2 Marathon, Hour Three)

Saying that the ghost is dead is
Unnecessary redundancy serves no purpose unless
There is a deeper death for a ghost in
A state more than hollow, a soundless crypt becomes
The scariest and coldest and darkest moment swallows
Everything is more repulsive and more putrid and more . . . more while

The ghost is dying.

What if more . . . is a fecund death that is
An oxymoron is only true if
Death can grow into a newer, more horrible thing to
Witness the ghost become a monster who
Could it consume something that the ghost is scared to touch
Its own heart is spoiled until it is ready to eat it
Became cannibal of
Afterlife itself is a horror while

The ghost is dying.

I did not come to kill a monster but
A monster was waiting for me to enter
Into this darkness, my home is lost for
Ever will I mourn the ghost that might have
Loved is past tense in
This tomb is my home while

The ghost is dying.

Hour 3

Forgotten

 

Here are some names you might not know-

Tony McDade

Nina Pop

Riah Milton

Dominique ‘Rem-Mie’ Fells

Monika Diamond

 

Black trans matter lives

 

Some people say

Black lives matter

Includes black trans people

The “all lives matter”

Of the black community

They say gender and sex are the same

That we create division where there should be unity

Transphobia over love

Leaving those most vulnerable to fend for themselves

 

Black trans lives matter

 

But we will not forget our brothers and sisters

Our non-binary family

Their lives will not be taken in vain

They receive hate from both sides

The black community

And the gay community

 

Black trans lives matter

A Carving of A Chinese Fisherman

Once upon a time, I smiled so broad, so regularly
My eyes big and bright and blue; I was only three
A tow-haired child who taught herself to read,
Who remembered everything; and now, with eyes of blue-grey-green
At forty-five, I’m honey-blonde; I hide and rarely beam
Lips curled more often distantly, in nostalgia and memory –

Old fisherman, carved so long ago, is it the fish that keep you smiling?

Today, the house I love is quiet, still and cold
No grandmother in the kitchen, as in days-of-old
No grandfather smoking cigarettes – so bad, we’d all been told
No ump-teen children visiting neighbors, all so bold;
To this land of salty air, I return, to heal from months of mold
To the land of my birth with skies of blue, beauties dreamt of, long-extolled
In northland years, while (unbeknownst) my heart, my mind were controlled
And I stayed away, a make-believe-love having sold me a bill of gold

Old fisherman, carved so long ago, is it the fish that keep you smiling?

Quiet. All is quiet, now; and still – except deep in my heart
Where songs still reach and rivet me; whence springs any of my art
Except flowing through my mind, where memories burst and smart
And yet, it is here, where I was born, I’ve hope of a fresh start
Here, where perhaps I may live, despite having to live apart
Dare I take it piece-by-piece? Choose love a la carte?

Old fisherman, carved so long ago, is it the fish that keep you smiling?

3

3/

bullet blender breaks
floating flakes freeze frame
shit storm surges surely
memories mornings make

What Difference

They begin days ahead
of the holiday
snap crackling pops and booms
One rattles the windows
“How is that legal?” we ask
but no one is arrested

The difference, an FBI sound expert says, is gunshots are all the same volume,
but firecrackers get louder and then softer and then louder again.

Our dog shivers behind the sofa
won’t even go out to pee
RayRay stays locked in his room
earbuds in all night and day
Both have been
on the receiving end
of the guns men held
in their hands

The difference, an FBI sound expert says, is gunshots are all the same volume,
but firecrackers get louder and then softer and then louder again.

“Fire in the hole!” the neighbor yells
before the sonic boom
I shove another pill in cheese
to feed the dog
throw out another bag
filled with RayRay’s empties

The difference, an FBI sound expert says, is gunshots are all the same volume,
but firecrackers get louder and then softer and then louder again.

[Prompt 3: Bop poem]

Now.

The world, as we know it
far too volatile, far too long
ignited by guiltless death
tragically not uncommon
finally not unnoticed
my city, my neighborhood

over and over again, the
worldwide video refrain..

They/we killed him outright
representing us as community
complicit far too long
we bear the senseless death
as if it were our knees, guns
now video proof of our evil
screams from every newscast
each protest, placard for justice

over and over again, the
worldwide video refrain…

Brought now to the light
we can no longer complain of
the harsh glare of the truth
the time for saying we will
‘do better’ is long passed
now is our reckoning

over and over again, the
worldwide video refrain…

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Bop attempt from voiceless space

Waking with fuzzy hair, I just met Bop today
as nobody expected, shamely invited it on a date,
this somebody or someone got awkwardly silent,
I was its reflection on mirror that couldn’t watch.
We both heard the golondrina morning sound,
Mind something in the roof, or in my mind.

Beyond of all, locked people are still feeling fine

How I’ll get there with noise in my head and fuzzinez inside?
maybe Bop and I just met today so we got an insight,
I’m myself a trash can of idead, but Bop is there being balm,
playing or saying that everything is about to somehow be okay
remind me of how life is a struggle or how things gone to far,
Its somehow comforting about madness or apocalypse, calm,
do I must give it coffee, tea, some kind of liquid dight?
or again it’s maybe that we got to know eachother right?

Beyond of all, locked people are still feeling fine

I got instead an idea of cutting the bad things around,
listening the bugbie or dogs by the chaos in their bark,
or watching the rampage passings of a group of cars,
they look chill, making a delay smoke like no one cares about,
Chalco and Ixtapaluca are here, breathing earth and warm,
Bop is still trying to tell me to not be affraid of earthquake sound.

Beyond of all, locked people are still feeling fine.

The Partisans

Unsettled scores four ago

Charlatans disgorged our secrets

Picked at the scabs, pulled at the seams

Poured on the Gasoline

Every man for himself

Taking up arms against the Other

 

 

One step to the center and please. And hurry.

 

Into the news decade come the factions

Alternately storming or limping

Battle hardened, worn and weary

Unready for a plague

Unrest

Reset a few frozen ideologies

Melt identities

Together anew or further askew?

 

One step to the center please. And hurry.

 

The solution is not November

Opportunities arrive much more than every four

We are people within

Not only partisans

Surrender your opinions

Hold up the banner of human

 

One step to the center please. And hurry.