The Poetry Marathon – Page 1902 – 24 Poems ~ 24 Hours

Posted By SaskiaLynge

Lavender (Hour 3)

Empty water bottles sit on my nightstand,
having chugged them last night to hit my gallon-a-day mark.
A vine of purple flowers, ten years old, finally hangs above my bedroom door,
a thin canopy of color against the white walls.
A salt lamp and moon vase diffuser inactive on the table beside my bed,
surrounded by reminders of my life in New York City.
I can still smell the lavender that always travels with me.
Sitting on my bed, a cloud in my room,
the first bed I’ve ever owned.
Rolled it out of a box and watched it rise.
Purple, grey, and green fill my space,
the only space I have.
But it is not home.

Posted By afeathers

Women with strollers

Women with strollers pause languidly
in front of my front windows— panes
like chromatic stained glass, panes
that love light like an invisible oil spill.
The heat slows them. There is never a cry
from the covered strollers. There is never a cry
from them.

Women with strollers stalk the sidewalks
of my one-street neighborhood, elongated
cul-de-sac lined with brick townhouses
and dormer windows and polyester flags
that read ‘Welcome’ in the same font,
patterns that change with the seasons.
Their eyes are marbles, heads lean
to the left, black wheels crunch the concrete.

Women with strollers are quiet, keep
to their kind. There are no words or looks
exchanged, not even to cross the street to continue
their path or when they break ranks
for the evening. There are no friendly
nods to neighbors, no “Nice day, isn’t it?”s,
no smiles at leashed Golden Retrievers
or smirks at middle aged men wearing socks
with their sandals.

Women with strollers circle like sharks, pass
my windows on the hour. Keeping time.
I peeked into a flat stroller once, a perambulator lying flat, designed for infants,
pushed by a woman with airily sculpted hair,
thin and bright. The stroller was empty.
I peek as often as I can. It is always empty.

Posted By anonymousme

A beautiful heart

Hurt and broken

A dazzling piece of art

Savage yet pained

I am a lover

Far in the corner

Head bent low

A heartbreaking murmur

Blocking everything else

I am an outcast

Shining in the centre

A star in the sky

Lighting up the faces

Spreading smiles

I am a helper

Alone I am no one

I am capable of little

But together we are stronger

We are conquerors

In search of peace

Posted By julieonoh

LESSONS FROM EGUSI SOUP

My mother is a great cook
You can tell from the tantalizing aroma that wafts through the kitchen doors
Swinging between sweet and savoury
My taste buds ache with lingering torture
pulling me to the source and the end
Egusi soup made of vegetable, sweat and determination
Teach me to trust in the work of my hands
I won’t have to tell
Good results will do the shouting

Posted By cristywatson

Prompt 3

a borrowed view
________________

today the wind –
eclipsing bird speak as each claims space
along cedar bough or fence post

against the greying sky –
wing beats of a fly like a
bow-tied helicopter

a hailstorm of chestnut –
husks knocking against the
deck and my head

who eats your leaves –
weaves a trace of light
trickling down

startling shock of pink –
inks your petals now bursting
forth fuschia

wafting sea-salt –
seaweed scented
air

and stalks of rhubarb –
harbouring memories of brown sugar
afternoons

in a time gone by

Posted By Laurie McKay

Into the Garden I Go

Well, I wish it were that easy.
To be fully prepared.
I spent a good chunk of time 
Showering and getting ready
To go out in the garden.

It’s beautiful, this first day of summer.
Only the smallest white clouds 
Reveal exactly how blue the sky can be.

I breathe and force myself to slow down
Never prepared means always rushing
Or giving up.
I take my time and feel 
The summer garden envelops me.

It is quiet in the garden,
but only for a short time, 
when yet another neighbor 
Uses his Saturday to drill the weeds 
As a dentist works a cavity, 
Or revs his engine so the smell 
Of freshly cut clover is replaced with exhaust.

Looking up at the sound of a plane, 
I see it pulling a shiny glider behind.
Soon the winds carry it toward us,
In a slow, lazy pattern of tacks.
Still high in the sky
And on the breeze.

I relish the quiet 
And breathe again.
Staying in the garden now
To watch creation unfold
On this summer’s day.