The Poetry Marathon

Empty Fridge

It’s a crying shame, there’s no one to blame

No one other than me, so here is my plea

I took one trip too many, until there weren’t any

Frosty cold beers left, none to borrow from my peers

Three days from payday, nothing left for me to say

I suppose I’ll just do without, maybe sit and pout

My fridge has no soul with a beer shaped hole

My thirst grows by the hour, my mood is sour

I don’t know what I’ll do, how I’ll get through

I guess I’ll be sober for now, but mark my vow

I’ll send a prayer to the girl in the moon

Hopeful she will bless me with more of the High Life real soon.

 

Hour 10: Post 10: Broken

Shattered, Tattered, Worn

Enveloped in my soul

Demons in every corner of my ‘system’

That’s what they call my personalities

All sitting around the meeting table within my mind

Chattering, screaming, haunting me

Do it they say, get it over with

Bathe in our irrational conversations

Submerge yourself in the darkness

Plunge into our desires

Suppress us no longer

Prompt 13, Hour 10

Write a poem that contains at least five of the following words and possibly all ten.

Moonbeam

Coffee

Hush

Fog

Canteen

Damn

Concrete

fir

shelf

dock

The sweetest words (a haiku)

The sweetest words are

Those that are spoken with love

From the heart and soul

Now

Lights dimming in the atrium
Table clearing in the gallery
Patrons exiting to the streets and the alley

She eats the steak he eats the rice
The jacket wraps her back to warm so nice
Midnight and still sitting close and tight

We are now those people.

Cabal

Meet for the beasts,

in secrecy, gathering to mete out punishments

which are considerable ecstasies for the

witches most deserving secretions of pleasure

which swoon and sway the minds of mortals

beyond the cold fire of countable cardinality

consistent to an abhorrent scale

given over to insanities of unaccountable countenance

creating a mad Hell of Heavens consumed

melodies of mythology

to which the redundancies of returning are replete with the desire

to return and return again.

 

Favorite Book Ends (H9)

“My favorite book is the one I’m reading,”
and she stole a heart
through an open door.
or maybe it was a window left ajar in case of needed escape
But Libby didn’t wear a cape,
just a crown
and held a torch
that shined the way
though not to where anyone thought they were going.

Off the island,
hordes shouted while the rest looked on
feeling naked and afraid.

Her favorite book was the one she was reading.
Of course, that one always ends.

A song of ice and fire

This song has a good tempo,

so we’ll rehearse it right now.

What say you? You know nothing

about sacred music, but you’ll learn!

 

Don’t expect to become scholars

until winter is coming, but prepare

to embrace sounds and harmony!

Remember:where there’s a will, there’s a way!

Paris in the Fifites [9 – #booktitle]

Paris in the Fifties

Is the last book I bought at the used bookstore.

It sings with romance, with champagne, baguette, and brie

I will read it in a crinolined Chanel dress

And Audrey’s sunglasses, and my feet will not hurt in my high red heels.

 

We will walk in the steps of Julia Child to Cordon Bleu and find the haunts of James Baldwin, Edith Piaf, Sartre, and Sylvia Beach.

We will live la vie en rose and drink cafe au lait and eat croissant.

 

I will kiss someone under the tour Eiffel and he will murmur j’taime

We will dance by the Seine, look across the rooftops of Montmartre,

and make love under the vast Parisian sky.

As I Lay Dying

The morning sun rode bright and strong in the bluest sky that was ever seen.

The gentle breeze blew through the leaves of summertime in glorious green.

 

The sweetest tunes of songbirds rang through rolling hills and meadows gay.

Rivaled by the melodious sound of children laughing while at play.

 

A day of promise, of things begun; a day when all the world seemed new.

Yet in the shadows where no one saw, a raven over a hilltop flew.

 

On a branch it perched looking over its prize, knowing the time to feast was near.

The world was drunk on beauty and joy; and as I lay dying, there was no one to hear.

 

The silvery moon graced the starlit sky, as exquisite day became heavenly night.

And as lovers enveloped themselves in sweet bliss not a soul, not a one sensed something not right.

 

On the day that I left, the world carried on.

Never scathed, never changed, never ceasing its song.