The Poetry Marathon

Hour 13 – Bake or Cake

 

I tried to bake a cake today,

But things did not go my way.

I mixed the flour and the sugar,

And then I added the egg and the butter.

 

But when it came time to bake,

I realized my mistake.

I had forgotten to preheat the oven,

And now my cake was looking nothing but rotten.

 

I tried to salvage the mess,

And decided to play it by ear, I confess.

I added some cocoa powder and a pinch of salt,

And hoped for the best, though it was not my fault.

 

But when I pulled it out of the oven,

I knew that it was not for lovin’.

It was flat and hard as a rock,

And I knew I’d have to toss it in the trash block.

 

So next time I try to bake,

I’ll make sure to preheat and not make a mistake.

Or maybe I’ll just stick to buying,

And avoid any more cake-baking crying.

Pen (Hour 11)

My pen transcends and makes amends it makes comments it makes common sense makes threats makes poems and makes applications it makes graffiti it makes signatures and makes autographs and makes plans and makes plots it makes sentences.

My pen, my best friend, my weapon of choice, translate thoughts into voice. Represents me my pen sharp as any other sword deadlier than any gun to begin in the end of War let the ink pour from my pen.

To a mortal, it’s a portal, to transcend from the informal to the informant to the infamous to the infernal flame that blaze pages in my journal.

Wild words written in the wind time in rhyme intertwined within the pen-etentary.

Pentacle, a pinnacle of scripted spectacle.

Both respectable and Despicable both disposable and indispensable. Both terminal and medicinal.

Expresser of a twisted principle, disciplined disciple of discourse and dialectics.

Pen, forever in my palm and fingers,

Some have Venom, some have stingers,

Some have fangs, some have liquors.

I

have

a pen.

 

Happiness is a butterfly

It comes & goes like the wind

never putting an ounce of thought into

where it lands or could result from it.

& when it comes to us,

it’s like a warm breeze

washing over us.

 

when it leaves,

it just feels different

& you’re not sure what to do.

but you rest comfortably in the

knowledge that it will inevitably

return

one day.

Redacting with My Pillow

I’m going to bed;

I promise, I shall return.

Signing out. Goodnight.

Alexandrite hour 13

Alexandrite

Old gold rose-tone setting
scrolls and filigrees from
shank to bezel holding the stone.

Large, deep, faceted stone
vibrant purple in evening shade
and blueish green in sunlight.

I was told the stone was mined
in Ecuador, did some research,
learned that stones are found,

not by design but when mining
other stones. Rare, one Alexandrite
found for every 100 Emeralds.

The first stone was found in Russia’s
Ural Mountains in 1830, on Prince
Alexander II’s birthday; it was later

named for him. It is June’s birth stone,
and believed to be a good omen,
bringing good fortune and love.

I cherish this ring even more,
a gift from a friend who had said
he had a gift for me if I promised

to wear it. I did, I do, every day.
A jeweler told me a stone of this size
could be worth $10,00 or more.

I gasped but it doesn’t matter.
Both the gift and the giver
are priceless to me.

~ J R Turek Hour 13

Hour 13 – I defy your box

Stop trying to stuff me in your box
where I must conform to your expectations
when what I offer is a paradox
with expectations defiled by unintended wrongs

A nurse I am
but not a saint
I cannot reverse
your fatal complaint

An attorney I am
but not a saint
I cannot reverse
your moral constraint

I am an author
but not a saint
my stories are mine
with colorful paint

I'm a doctor of the mind
of psychology and how we think
with theories of old and new
and I transform not as a lunatic

I am a seeker of truth and hope 
that each person, despite trope,
can become their best and joyful self
and I advocate for your hope

Hour Thirteen: Stripes

Don’t laugh at my prison stripes

Look at the label on my ass

I’m strutting my stuff in a name brand

Making prison stripes look stylishly classy

Setting a new trend

For others to flatter me

With imitation

Code Talkers II

Code Talkers II

 

A part of history that is important

that needs to be shared

numerous times.

 

Several tribes from the Southwest

joined to form a platoon.

 

The military’s code

was constantly being broken,

decoded,

Everyone was clueless.

 

One soldier

from a small platoon

spoke of his language.

Together the tribes

came up with an

unbreakable, Indigenous based code.

 

The Indigenous language

is phonetic and descriptive,

like a story itself.

 

Throughout the war,

the code saved lives,

missions and cargo.

One line poem

holding the shape of his bunion grandpa’s moccasins

Hour 12 – The Ghost

The ghost has returned

At the window he shows

You believe him to be gone

He knows, he watched you grow

His patience not outmanoeuvered

He knows what you are thinking for tomorrow

He has to win each night

Beg to him, cry, he knows

You will give unto him

Until you find peace

Long after your tears and fears

He knows, he knows you enough.