The Poetry Marathon

2020

The country is burning

Brown skin a death sentence

Children locked in cages

No justice for the wronged

Fascists in power

Simple-minded individuals screaming about masks

 

And you ask me if I’m okay.

 

Citizens angry for all the wrong reasons

Racism bubbling over

Ignorance is a flavor they’re too comfortable with

Misinterpreting the bible

Highlighting history to justify their hatefulness

Know when to play the victim

Beliefs not their own

Hate in their bones

 

And you ask me if I’m okay.

 

In the middle of a pandemic, we fracture and crack

We argue over who is allowed to be murdered

You choose a job over another humans life

You purposefully choose not to save others

Masks are uncomfortable but you’re okay with murder

And you cling onto your hatred colored morals for dear life

 

And you ask me if I’m okay.

 

#1. Winona LaDuke

I can hear her voice now
the cadence, the shape, the brilliance and power
Of her words.
I remember the first time I saw her speak
and thinking, she is my forever hero.
(I will later introduce myself
In awkward, gushing fan struck style
which she will graciously and with abundant humor and humility
accept in stride)

How she walks upon this land
tilling soil
growing rice and hemp and faith
Defending her home
Speaking out, showing up
through hours and years
Of procedural hearings
Against those who would profit by devouring water and land
with their sickness of consumption,
while all the time raising her children
in power and love.
I am proud to say I have sat at the table with this amazing
and most courageous woman.
Honor the Earth,
Indeed.

GiGi

Lathering at the sides of your mouth,

your tongue curled at the tip, you’d smile and let out a half bark.

Black and white collie/shepherd,

you were a soft mass of long fur.

Always excited to see us, you’d run up,

cry out in dog laughter:  “Hello.  Glad you’re home.”

You’d jump upon me, loving me, lapping my face with your kisses.

Those darn claws had to be clipped.

Your big body could not grip the stairs.

When we’d leave you down in the basement, your tears welled with saliva

as you’d look up to us saying:  “I love you.  I love you.”

Waiting for our return, trying to get up the stairs, the door locked,

your hind legs giving in…

you’d hear the key turn and smell us.

“I’m down here!  Come and get me!  I love you!  I love you!”

2020. Poem 2

Recipe for surviving motherhood

WARNING: this recipe is not full proof, it will require tweaking and the outcome has no guarantees. Leave your expectations at the door of the delivery room

You will begin by following the instructions meticulously, reading several books even before baking begins. You will be aiming for a Michelin Star worthy bake but will be happy if the outcome is healthy.

At the early stages you will be delirious. It’s important to accept that you can’t always be in control.

So fold in love and fun
(even when the recipe states discipline).
Add the bubbles and dragons
(even if the recipes asks for homework).
Add the clichés,
like dancing in the rain,
splashing in the puddles
and looking for the pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow.

Season liberally with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.
Moisturise your hands before shaping and moulding
(but remember this delicacy will find their own form
and the main method is to allow growth and freedom to explore).

Hour 3: Prompt 3: Emotional Baggage

The clouds overhang

rain looks to be on the way

the fullness of each puff

looks like how I think my heart may look

when I think of you

Now what am I to do?

 

They creep closer

brining a sense of pain and worry

with every inch they blow my way

I wonder when it may finally happen

when the downpour of emotions

may finally hit.

Will they pass as quickly as the storm? I ponder.

Now what am I to do?

 

Just as quick as the rain poured down

my emotions flood back

emptying themselves into the raindrops that flow

as the clouds become empty

so do my past emotions I held onto for so long

Now what am I to do?

THE IMMACULATE KITCHEN

THE IMMACULATE KITCHEN:  COVID-CLEAN THOSE GROCERIES

1. Gather your tools. Know what you’re doing.  Step up.  Shake a leg.
2. In the immaculate kitchen one should not be deterred.
3. You are the god. Purify!  99% effective everywhere – bleach infused. Wipe, wipe. Pretend you’ve forgotten that 1%.  Pretend you’ve invincible.
4. Purify is your mantra. Say it again.  A hundred times.
5. In the immaculate kitchen one must be adamant. Quarantine non-perishables like your very own self.  Any old remote closet or garage will do.
6. Forget what you risked in the grocery’s narrow aisles for that oatmeal, crackers, flour, pasta, cookies, dried mango, coffee filters. Stow them. Out of sight, out of mind.  Shut your heart to them for three days.
7. Don’t cheat! In the immaculate kitchen one should not lie. That bleach on the spouts of milk cartons? Shut your eyes.  Count to 100.  Say it again, purify, purify.
8. Don’t inhale.  Avoid the eyes.  Wash your hands until they are raw.
9. Those gloves you thought would save you? Sweaty, musty, water-logged.
10. You are the god. Turn on the fan. Shut/open your eyes.  In the immaculate kitchen one should not be deterred.

 

Prompt 2 Making Kindness

Making Kindness

~willjxn~

Ingridiance:

2 lifetimes of forgiving:  ½ for self ½ for everyone else.

1 eternity of deciding

2 remindings:  day and night.

1 real smile pressed firmly.

1 ounce of prevention.

All the time in the world.

Patients spread thin but spread none the less.

Oven temperature:  360 degrees of warm thoughtfulness.

Directions:

Add the prevention and time together and allow it to leaven into a pound of cure. Mix half your forgiveness with deciding.  Stir in remembering everyday.  Poor over patients spread thinly.  Knead in the wrest of the night with a pound of cure. Work gently making sure to add more time as needed for kindness to be made tangible.

Bake in a warm oven of thoughtfulness.

While still warm, coat the top with the last half of forgiveness of yourself.

Then,  garnish with a smile and use the remainder of the deciding— to share with others. 

Poem 2 – Hour 2 – Aymen Zaheer

Recipe for joy!

Throughout my life,
I was struggling the mania of
Not being admired.

Today I am happy and joyful
Literally, not much tired

I have buried expectations
In the deepest corner of heart.
Ignoring the negativity in my path
Just to take a good start.

Be merciful upon those who are less
In money, status, food and art
To bake a cake of joy
Mix them well along spirituality in cart

Bird Song

Approaching dawn;
Birds tear the silence with a song

Mama…

Mama,
Such a small four-lettered word,
Holding so much power in my world.

Mama,
The first word I spoke.
Mama,
The first person I cried to.
Mama,
The only person I would go to,
When trouble would knock on the door.

Mama,
My first friend,
My first teacher,
My selfless protector.

Mama,
The reason for my existence,
The symbol of divine consciousness.

I dedicate this poem to my mother,
To the woman who taught me everything,
To my biggest supporter,
To my guardian angel,
Who is always looking out for me,
To my Mama,
And her unconditional love for me.

– Addy