The Poetry Marathon

Hour 16 – Starting Over

Starting Over

 

It could happen

that one day

you will be sitting

in the same place you’ve

sat for years

and realize

that the cushion on the chair

is misshapen

that you have buried yourself

in papers and prioritizing

 

You’ve grown so accustomed

to the tiny acts

of spontaneous combustion

and skittering roaches

that dance in front of you

that you snuff them out

with your bare hand

carrying on

 

Your dreams speak to you

only of deadlines

catastrophes and detailed correspondence

even this you may survive

ritually washing them away with

a deluge of coffee

first thing

 

Then it may come to pass

that you look into the harried face

of someone you love

and dropping your bucket

down deep within your heart

come up with dirt and dry shoots

and see that you

have become a drought

 

Riot of colors or a woman’s mind ?

 

Prompt 21, Hour 17

A riot of bright colors

A collage of vibrant dreams

A rollercoaster of emotions

A garden of positive thoughts

A universe of beautiful creations

This is how a woman’s mind looks like

 

Prompt #17

Wild child,
with dandelion dreams
painting clear skies 
with dandelions 
floating mid air
suspended in divinity 
making wishes come true. 

Wild child with a wild heart
so open 
so raw
so vulnerable
so pure.

So full of love 
and kindness
it's almost infectious.
Tender heart 
wild child 
wishing upon dandelions.

here's to hope.
here's to you.

-Janice Raquela Mendonca


 

 

He too

It’s a Brave new world

for those

with the guts to navigate it

 

 

Nod

Gritty eyes and cotton mouth

Ache when soft rain patterns

Past the steel skin and windows,

Bus coughing tired fumes to

An equally worn sky.

And we’re all nodding to the tune

Of stop and go, stumble and yawn

To a cool blue monochromatic theme.

Heads loll on shoulders, spines slump

And the rain softly streams,

My head dips, and I dream.

 

All The Colors [Prompt 21]

1. It was me!

All the colors …

All the pain;

All the blood, tears and laughter.

The Artist saw me,

through and through …

Who was this man?

or woman?

The name on the art…

only had initials.

Was it that day?

The day in the Park?

When I let my soul bleed …

my heart dream …

my wounds be visible,

to only the artist who could see?

He or she captured that summer day;

when the yellow shone in my red locks.

Or do I just see me …

As the artist intended?

Does every patron see himself?

Herself?

Artists create life …

or do we create the artists?

Haiku- Hour 17

Dismal 1am
A cold, strong coffee writing
at the old notebook

Neon

Board, shake your umbrella dry.

Find a seat.

Voices drown out the trickling rain.

Streetlights illuminate the bus, casting shadows.

Strangers squeeze together.

Everyone wearing Hot Breath No. 5.

Suffocating.

Germs disperse like a smoke bomb, touching me.

Don’t think about it, you’re fine.

People get on and off, more germs.

My mind wanders.

The seat I sit on, who was here before me?

Breathing becomes harder, my palms sweat.

I rock back and forth.

Let the bus move me.

Hearing everything in triplicate.

And then boom. 

19~13

Lie

down under the moon

Can

you feel yourself changing?

Throw

clothes off then grow furry

Pee

marks your territory

Dandelion

A.

Dandelion.

Yellow blossom.

White seeds with wings.

Wishflower.

 

B.

Dandelion orb

Seeds fly to find fertile ground

Determined to live

 

C.

They call you a weed.

Telltale yellow face in grass.

Dandelion grin.