The Poetry Marathon

All Bridges Eventually Collapse (Hour 3)

Two continents insist on their division,
repelling, pulling father from the other.
Torrents of a deepening sea swelling between them,
waves crashing without mercy upon each shore.
The foundations that serve to uphold their connection
are built from the minerals of both worlds,
yet all bridges eventually collapse.

Two hearts turn away from the center
imbittered, scarred, left to warm their own fires.
The distance in her voice sequestered in her thoughts,
The draw of his eyes dreaming in some other night,
a living gravity severed, two compasses pulling apart
leading to separate shores of the same melancholic ocean
to wander through the ruins of the heart,
to scavenge amongst the rubble of the earth,
where all bridges eventually collapse.

In the blood, there sings a voice,
before the branching arc of a vein,
a drum that resonates with ancient thunder.
Histories, hearts, roads divaricate like bolts of lightning
in storms at sea, illuminating the truth of the night
with blinding, holy light, instances of clarity too swift
to register in the mind, yet burning throughout the senses—
all bridges eventually collapse.

Hour 3, Prompt 3 – Faithful

The preacher preaches faith,

Without a step-by-step approach.

I ask a question, the response is a fumble.

There is no conviction in those eyes,

The vision, is like a veil of gauze.

Does nobody see the broken mirror?

 

A village is only as good as its preacher.

 

I step away.

Answers are too buried in their politics;

so where do we go from here?

The expectation is greatness, with no design in mind.

Without a coach, I am my own leader;

begrudged, I dredge the earth on which I stand.

I am hollowed out,

Questions must serve as substance.

 

A village is only as good as its preacher.

 

Seedling ideas drop into the crux.

Of nothing, answers grow

for me, of me.

The preacher’s voice stumbles in the debris

of the cracked mirror.

I break it. I see the pieces fall.

 

A village is only as good as its preacher.

 

 

#3 Moment to Moment

I’m frozen in the memory

of what I saw that day.

Can’t seem to move on forward

even if I pray.

But… I must move on!

 

I see the past before me

and in the future too.

I see it my daydreams

in everything I do.

But … I must move on!

 

I know the Lord will lead me

but I must humbly ask.

Please come and walk beside me

I feel You here at last!

Today… I will move on!

Something Real

The devil went down to Louisiana
looking for a place to get a meal,
surrounded by beggars as he often is
all imploring him to make a deal.
He rubbed his knee and lamented his fate
“I hate my job but it makes good money,

dressing wounds that will never heal.”

He picked one out, “God’s favorite I guess,
we’re at the crossroad, state your appeal.”
“I’ve searched for money, God, and sex,”
Man said, “something, anything, to make me feel.
But still I stand here, empty, numb,
spinning round and round that dharma wheel.
Give me something to believe in, something true,
something eternal that I know is real. I’m sick of

hiding wounds that will never heal.”

The devil pulled out his contracts, checked his commission,
said “Prick your finger, sign here in blood, your fate is sealed.”
Man stumbled away in pain, leaving a trail of blood he couldn’t conceal
as his pricked finger dripped dripped dripped blood forever.
The devil walked on limping, still hungry, didn’t get a meal.
He makes good money but can never find the time,

too busy making wounds that will never heal.

Of Swans and Ports

There were times, I know
You were ready to go
But you stayed
And my world spun on
Gave me air to breathe
A reason to still believe

Is there time, to go back and remember, who we are?

You came up today
In the light of my brain
Just as I thought to step away
For a second or two
I’d forgotten your face
Darkened by my anger
And my idiosyncratic ways
You brought me back to my senses

Is there time, to go back and remember, who we are?

There are words to say
Moments left to play
Out in the world
We brave the worst together
Even if it’s the worst in us both
We’ll remain right where we both need us

Silver Lining – Hour 3 Prompt

The sky darkened and the cool breezes regaled

Trapped outside, she felt the urgency to hurry home but she also reveled in the beauty of nature

What was a person to do

Lightning began flashing around her as thunder inched closer

Still, she stood, camera in hand as the seconds ticked away from her walk in safety

The rain began to pour

In every challenge, there is a silver lining

Whipping on the breeze, the rain smacked her face like a fist on a volleyball

She picked up the pace, as the lightning zigzagged over her head

Her heart raced as she struggled through the rain, gushing like a waterfall

She failed to notice the crack in the sidewalk; her shoe did not

Falling, as the thunder clapped, she screamed as her camera went flying

Bruised and battered, she tried to get up, disoriented in the rain and from the blow to her head

Was the walk or the attempt at pictures worth it

In every challenge, there is a silver lining

She did not think of the camera, as she headed home to nurse her wounds and ice her head.

Did she even remember it? Hard to say.

The scene could have described her life: lonely, confused, empty and battered

As she bandages her arm, a knock at the door.

A sweet young man held her camera. He had just moved in.

”I saw you fall and took one picture for you.” He said. It was a rainbow of hope for their future.

In every challenge, there is a silver lining.

2020 – 3

The voices once quiet,
The ones unheard, ignored,
Even silenced at times.
They get louder. They echo
In chambers we built
To contain them.

But the cycle never ends.

The voices get louder.
The faces get seen.
No longer veiled by
The darkness we impose.

They speak of such horrors
We cover our ears.
We cover our eyes.
Their reality is not ours.

And the cycle never ends.

We take their words and
Attempt to change them.
We hide behind the ways
They chose to say them.
We draw the line between
What’s real for them and us.

So the cycle never ends.

Paranoia

September 19 is coming.

Confusion lying in wait

At the polling units.

PDP, APC, no difference.

Just same men changing parties.

F*cking government.

 

What do I do on that day?

 

They claim they are not like the others.

But were tutored by the same men they try to fight.

Like, who the hell are you?

I’ve made up my mind.

We have no government.

Just reapers in khaki shirts and first class theft auto.

I can’t vote them out.

Doing so, means voting them in.

 

What do I do on that day?

 

I think I should sleep in the arms of comfort;

Drown my thoughts in a cup of tea.

Or maybe, I should take the path to leadership.

Oh no! I didn’t hear God calling my name.

God, why didn’t you call my name?

I’m confused.

 

What do I do on that day?

 

One More Line…

I like my poems short and sweet
reading or writing, I prefer to be brief.
Some go on and on without relief
words flow, I yawn and off goes the beat!
But I do not wail or suffer in grief
Read them in full and you’ll be left in disbelief.

“Just One More Line, Baby, Just One More”

“Stop, Stop, Stop!”
aren’t those words enough?
so what happened to the ‘Less is More’ preach?
That goes on forever…Alas! Not again!
But if I could write like just a little more
I’d set everything aside and
I’d fill the page with colors more bright
and stop writing everything Just Right!

“Just One More Line, Baby, Just One More”

This time, again, I’ve broken my rule,
my words kept rambling on and on.
Hope you’re awake to the end of my song
But only to sing along.
And though the haiku I will not abort,
I vow to be open to both long and short.

“Just One More Line, Baby, Just One More”

prompt #3: the bop

I don’t want to be the grownup ~

 

In the beginning was the child.

She had to be a grownup even then.

Count the other children. Make certain

none were left behind, like the luggage.

She grew. She aged. Always the grownup.

The older sister. The mother figure. The mentor.

 

But I don’t want to be the grownup. I don’t know how ~

 

Now is the time of eldering. Grownup

on steroids. Where’s the damn wisdom

that someone said comes with experience?

Age confers only silver hair, reluctant movement.

People ask for help, for answers, for comfort and

guidance and succor and what the hell do I know??

 

I don’t want to be the grownup. I don’t know how ~

 

There are no books for this. No one to ask, no one

be my own good counsel. I listen. I listen. I love.

I listen and love yet again. It’s all I have, all I know –

that love, my mother told me, is the answer.

Even when it’s the question. Even when the silver

and the bones protest that I should know more.

 

I am the grownup. I am learning how.