The Poetry Marathon

prompt #3 ~ something in the house

The net they caught her in is made of clay
White porcelain in liquid curves stands still
although she walks within the night (and sometimes day)
Exorcist of nightmares, her breath will
somehow infuse me in my anxious sleep:
a Buddhist dreamcatcher. Her slim hands hold
a stick of incense. The curling smoke seeps
into my nightly war, darkness controlled
and held at bay.
                Childlike, I reject reason
although I know she does not really breathe.
Her quiet strength a graceful talisman
knife blade secret within a porcelain sheath.
In plain sight she guards me hour by hour:
Guanyin, at ease within her gentle power ~

Caregiver’s Lament (prompts 3 and 4, Hour 3)

My old mother sits waiting to die.
I walk around the house sleep deprived
Not knowing when her end will come.
On constant call.
Ready at any moment
to be there to witness her passing.

But wait! I am old, too.

Life is punctuated with death.
This house is too full of clocks.

All the Untitled Ones

The words that don’t come together
Smell like the freshly-baked buns
That you can’t eat
Because the scale glares back at you;
The bread sits in the oven
Like the Instagram coquette in the red skimpy boots,
Her shiny skin on the golden sand,
Captioning a tiny moment,
No me acuerdo.
She artfully rolls,
Giving you a glimpse of her light bosom
That must smell
Like the freshly-baked buns in your oven.
No me acuerdo,
But you remember.

Hour 3: Post 3: Burgundy Lips

Burgundy lips and rose petal hips

That’s what she liked to say about me

Oh what a lovely depiction of who I am

If only she knew my lips burned with rage to get their color

While my hips flew me into storm after storm

Of unapologetic lies and deceit

All while taking others prisoner of their charm

Oh how burgundy lips and roses petal hips sounds melancholy

Goldfinger

We look inside ourselves and see what’s still functioning. We constantly seek out these

inane obfuscations in the hopes that it will provide some sort of direction or guidance in an otherwise lost existence. We think it’s all lost and then we hear that soothing voice reminding us we still have time.

The whispers of the goldfinger warn us of the impending danger and remind us where we are.

“You’ve suffered sufficiently and won your unwinnable war. Stop pretending your failure is genuine”.

Rest up for the battle ahead. Many victories are won through passivity.

Treading Memory

what you had been
who you were
gone from me for
so long
the old you
dead forever like
you were never here
but you were
and you are
you still are. You are
in every corner of moving on
like a beast from the abyss
latched to my ankles, not
drowning me
just holding me back
from landfall, from docking
from being able to dry out
in the sun
get up
and walk away

Rainer Ep: 3

Rifles clanging to padded armor,

The screams of kidnapped people

The cries of burning victims,

The woman remembered how she lost her family

They were running in the streets of an unknown city,

Her mother was shot clean between the eyes

But she kept going as she held her brother’s hand

The soldiers picked him up like a plaything beating the woman in the process

And took her away in the blink of an eye

She didn’t know where they took her

But all she knew was that they intended to harm her,

The pulsating sounds of horns pierced her ear drums

And molested her cerebral

Everytime she cursed them, they sounded the horns again

They sounded the horns until her conscience seeped out of her mind

Until she couldn’t think anymore

Until she wasn’t herself no longer

 

Devil’s Advocate

What if…

What if you succeeded?

What if they mean it?

What if you’re capable?

What if you’ll feel better?

 

Remember the time you tried it anyway and succeeded?

Remember the time you trusted and learned?

Remember the time you went for it and surprised yourself?

Remember the time that was all you needed?

 

What if…

 

Mary Gabis

6/22/19

Poems (10am poem)

When I lay in bed at night,  I think of all the poems to write.

So many things swim around in my head,

And I know I’ll forget

I love poetry it is part of my life,

A thought,  a smile that is so bright.

Poems are what I think of at night,

I cannot sleep, I wonder why.

I lay there and think of so many things to write.

When it will stop I never know, someday when I grow old.

I no my poems will never die, or all my heart and soul that was put into words of my poems.

For that was all I ever had,  was to write my dreams good or bad…

C. Burgess (c)

 

 

Hour 3: The House Of Smoke

Our house sits upon the river

Which once was clear as glass

And brought life and wealth

But soon the woods started to burn

Ashes and flames fell breaking glass

The river becoming smoke

Still winding but dark and clouded

Bringing coughs and coal

Our house sits upon the smoke

 

I really like this one. I ended up not using this hours prompt because I didn’t care for it. I went onto Pinterest and search prompts and it was one of those month, first name, last name deals that changes the words based on each. And I had house river and smoke and this idea came to me.