The Poetry Marathon

A Most Excellent Trip

The black and white television screen flashes to a bald man
The color of his suit is a bright blue and with a blink of his eye,
I fall forward into the glass of my Hennessy colored table

Purple and turquoise fog clouds my eyes
While clarinet music screams at my ears
My body feels stretched like a rubber band

I fly through a foggy tunnel with a bald eagle at my side
She looks directly into my eyes without a glance ahead
Through the noise, whispers reach me without hesitation

Terror occupies every cell in my little human body but the thrill is too great
I swim across the fiery wind and reach the penultimate gate on the mountain
There I find the answers to my endless searches, but then my alarm goes off.

That partner i met on road.

A stony,cracky road forward,
I waited for my bus,
eagerly,without a blink of eyes.

A stray dog by my side,
he looked at me,
with intense love and hope.

A piece of biscuit,
left out of which what I ate,
I threw it to him.
Eyes filled with gratitude,
he ate that.

Hours passed,
people changed,vehicles changed,
I started walking,
with doubt and fear,
He barked,wagged his tail,
We walked,together!

Farmhouse

In the darkening afternoon a bee alights on a flower,
Little knowing the storm brewing behind her.
In the farmhouse windows are latched down
And valuables secured against future violence.
Their lives are fragile here, and even
The smallest stroke of misfortune may mean
The difference between starving and thriving.

That was the gamble this family made when they came out West,
Little but the clothes on the backs and belongings in their wagon
To keep and maintain them so far from home.
Desperation made them cruel and greedy,
A promise of opportunity sold that might never come to fruition.

When they went out and saw what the storm had done to their crops,
They decided to blame their neighbors.

Down Recovery Road

the path less traveled

one day at a time

baby steps- with unsteady tread

courageously continuing

 

the last one, began

inspired by a thousand

counting days instead of steps

comforted by written word

 

new adventures still await

 

straight on till morning

with words i wish i wrote

 

another odyssey

a wandering saunter

venturing the promenade

I explore my expedition

 

free range roaming

the itinerary

 

progress on a route sojourn

trekking the migrating

pilgrimage

 

venturing along

the voyage

strolling through the course

of passage

 

Amanda Potter©: 2019 Poetry Marathon

16 – metamorphosis

the land was quiet, in the sense that no man made noise,

erupted from within, only the footfall of one small child, with

the voice of bird, yet no feathers adorned her bony arms,

she searched for a nest close to the ground, for the song

of aliens, that echoed in her veins, she returned over and over to

her lonely cocoon, woven from dry grass and mud, and the shards

of her egg.

Modern Mama

Erasure

“A modern mama, you must lose”

Prepare the baby
With a cot —
Lay sleeping you must.

“You’re a mamma!”
You need.
So ignore your body?

Go!
Processed  milk designed for man.

“You’re a modern mamma!”
So when little boy turns one
why does he cry like that?

You’ve actually got it backwards.

Your advice is pretty rotten.

“Modern” humans are mammals
That mothers curled with nursing.

 

In Paris – hour 20

Around the city I am bound

in search for produce, flowers ‘round

here and there facade I see

art nouveau and fleur de lis

in parks I walk and often stop

to stare at fountains, coins I drop

the monuments, eyes gaze in awe, then

imagining what could have been

in churches, cherubim and seraphim

some destroyed in fire’s sin

makes me weep to see again

the musicians here, in subways, trains

always makes me sing refrains

and try an instrument again

the gastronomie, c’est magnifique

in restaurants fill up my cheeks

my tastebuds brighten all the streets

the concierge, le nom Yohann

my family since 2001

when towers fell, he was an ear

arm round my shoulder, quelling my fears

and then, when visit’s at an end

I’ll dream till I come back again.

-Sandra Johnson, 6/22/19

 

 

 

 

9:33 p.m.

What did those ancient creatures think

standing millions of years ago in

our footprints, breathing air that was

the same and so, so different

Nature’s design bends and

breaks and breaches, branching

to millions of pin points in the timelines

We have questions with no answers

and we have answers to which

we’d never know to

have questioned in the first place

Life is like this,

insurmountable and incalculacable

Roadblocks and Detours

Roadblocks and detours and ever winding roads

weary feet, disheveled mess

where it ends, I hope to know

cognizant boycott of roots going down

never in life was a I tied to the ground

mad nomad wandering this place

swirling gypsy feels no disgrace

the allure of the road, adventures untold

new strangers make friends to meet sometime again

down this road

train tracks, and horse tracks, many rivers have flowed over these feet

treasures untold, maybe gold maybe goldfish or just pyrite shine

the lakes and the valleys, the mountains divine

I saw a bovine

on the grass supine, I tasted

clementine in the tart summer wine

seasons they pass, none of ’em last

home is where I roam, outside the walls of Rome

I saw there a roan sitting upon a throne

do my rhymes make you groan?

or can you hold a smile and walk another mile through this

purgatory of deprivation, sleep annihilation

verging on desperation

walk with me until I crawl again

 

 

 

 

 

Where do we go from here

life begins beyond the edge of the map
so I pack up my bones
take my bags out the trunk
and walk towards uncharted territory

these brazen plains beg me
to use the remains of yesterday
and plant something new here
but I plop my baggage down instead
and lie to face the sky

I’ve been on my feet too long