The Poetry Marathon

Painful Wakeup, Hour 1

Once more under black velvet pinpricked by cosmic light
Once again conduct muses to give voice to this silent night
Once again sculpt from Eris’ random form into ordered lines
Once more into the depths of infinite Mind…

She stirred my depths to percolate what I thought forgotten
Made fresh the parts I thought decayed and rotten
The long-suppressed emotions I had tucked away in hope of my own safety
The demons that I thought no longer chased me

The tidal wave of passion nearly drowning
The loss of my self-discipline astounding

Ever wanting more

Ever wanting more than what I could consume
The way the world would fade away when she was in the room
And soon I lost all sense of self in rabbit-hole of who she was
The razor edge between infatuation and what I thought was love

But flowry words are cheap when gestures of affection unreturned
The fire of physical connection without the mental left both of us burned
And as both of us yearned for more than the other had to offer
I felt my heart inch closer to the slaughter

Lesson learned

Now months have passed and painful throb has faded to a half-forgotten ache
I look back at the times we spent and don’t see them as mistakes
Just another step in both our journeys, maybe in the right direction
For all else she shook what was asleep awake

First Born

Birth should be consensual
Mother, child, ancestors, god
Should be collective rhythm
Not

hospital disruption
Bright lights
Sharp words
Too many people
Still
Can’t stop god
Can’t stop nature
Can’t stop beauty
A miricle

Still

Grace Jean Mutzabaugh_Author and Educator – 1st hour poem kjkidder

You decide

Was it privilege or pride?

Poverty or prosperity?

Let’s look inside and see.

In 1924

Little Grace entered Life’s door.

Tiny father

Tiny mother

Six sisters

Six brothers

All were giants in her eyes.

Her life became bigger, to their surprise

She didn’t like school

Often broke the rules

But she had important goals

A child selling onions, radishes door to door

Many doors slammed on the girl who looked poor

One needed cash

To build her stash

Books and words she treasured

By them, a life she measured

Poetry, novels, all the great ones

Masters of wordplay and puns

She wrote her first story

A twelve-year-old writer! Oh, glory!

So many mouths to feed, poor father

So much love to give, dear mother

Little Grace, raised in the Word,

Longed to teach children what she had heard

And a teacher she became

Students around the world would know her name.

She’d write many more stories in her life and others

For rescuing students who failed,

Parents would offer praise and regale

Grace grew big in the eyes of the learned

They called her to travel, not spurn it

Her route to this honored place

Cost much in the life of Grace

She left her mark on me that remains

Which is why I pen these simple refrains

kjkidder 6/7/2020 9:51 am est

 

 

 

 

Hour 1: An Ode to Qandeel

I met her on the news, on stories in my phone, the glories of her tale 

Allegories of her name, 

Ring broken and omitted in legal records of her shame 

I claim, 

her pain, her shame, her crime 

Each time

I dare dream of the freedom she lived, the chains she broke so I may speak

They reek of her blood, 

I see in each man the coward that kills in slumber 

Can I put it in a number? The sisters, the mothers, the lovers we lost?

Lists of names running longer than the length of the rivers we’re drowned in 

Deeper than the ground we’re buried in 

Qandeel*, she lives in me

When I whisper her name with my sisters in prayer 

Qandeel, she lives in us

Where we lay bleeding, screaming, muffled,and  maimed 

When we chip away at the chains, piece by piece 

For a peace that we may never see

Ironing the crease, in an existence that won’t belong to me 

We chip away each day chanting, 

‘Qandeel’

Your name will set our daughters free.

 

*Qandeel Baloch was a Pakistani Social Media personality/model, who was a victim of honor-killing by her brother.  

Poem 1 – Hour 1 – Aymen Zaheer

“A gentle flower selling Lady”

My eyes are bearing
the stance of that lady
Who was selling the little knots
Of love.

She was persuaded everyone to buy
for rekindling the sparks
Of love.

She was amiable from top to toe
give little buds to penniless kids
Just to express familial codes
Of love.

She neither took advantage
nor she hesitated to give
her earning tool in her share
Of love.

Hammock

Laying in a hammock

swaying to and fro,

watching the birds fly by

I believe one was a crow.

Searching for the treetops

somewhere way up high

Suddenly an airplane

Jets across the sky.

Slowly I close my eyes to

Listen to Nature’s sound,

Birds, crickets, frogs and bees

Talking all around!

I breathe in the fresh air

Hear the rustling of the trees,

branches and leaves dancing

in the passing breeze.

I have a lot of work to do

I have some place to be

But some how this hammock

Has a hold of me!!

 

Author: Louana Vick

Hour one, prompt one : The Growing Season

Her hands work the earth tenderly but without reservation.

Once planted the long tedious growing season

becomes a lifelong journey into the unknown.

Weeds are many but the crop is strong

overcoming the insurmountable

to bloom beyond her wildest dreams.

She harvests what others cannot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HER

Shoot her with your hurtful words
Like a balloon, she will float up in the sky

Cut her with your sharp actions
Like a kite, she will, after a try, fly high

Burn her with your hateful eyes
Like a phoenix, she will rise and give a cry

Kill her with your deadly poison
Like an Avatar, she will wake up from where you had left her to die

You could tell she wasn’t from
The same place as the rest,

And this, for the world,
was wrong
But, in fact,
My mom was more than strong.

Did You Know, Coretta?

Did you know, Coretta Scott, what life would ask of you?

Were you afraid each time he left the house?

 

Did you know when you were dating

This handsome boy would be a leader,

That his voice would be remembered for all time?

That his words he spoke would move us,

That his work would change a nation,

 

But your heart would be shattered.

Does it help to know he mattered?

 

Did you know your little babies would grow up without their daddy,

That your husband wasn’t coming home one day?

 

If you had known, Coretta, would you still have loved him,

Or turned around and simply run away?

Hour 1: A Mother’s Love

A mother is accepting of anything,
Whether it be pain from a laborious battle or grief from the loss of one,
She will rise to the occasion for any child even if they aren’t her offspring.

In order to protect the young she will go to war for them, giving her everything,
Her love is unconditional and can never be outdone,
A mother is accepting of anything.

No matter the child’s circumstance, she will willingly bring them under her wing,
Caring for them as if they were her own daughter or son,
She will rise to the occasion for any child even if they aren’t her offspring.

She doesn’t see anything forbidding like coloring,
The only forbidden concept is to shun,
A mother is accepting of anything.

Open your minds and listen to that motherly instinct sing,
It shouldn’t be imaginary to anyone,
She will rise to the occasion for any child even if they aren’t her offspring.

A mother’s love is an example of what we need to bring,
For love is all we need to be accepting of any and everyone,
A mother is accepting of anything,
She will rise to the occasion for any child even if they aren’t her offspring.