The Poetry Marathon

Tiniest stones (Prompt 11)

It’s just an old quart Mason Jar
two-thirds filled with sand

sitting in the corner, small shelf
just above my desk

as nondescript as artifacts go
prominent display

typical jar, ordinary sand, hand
scooped by me –

my hand, from shallow bottom
Horseshoe Lake

grandparents home, my summer
oasis – though

over twenty years had passed
current owner

allowed beach access, I had a bag
and an impulse

My stop spontaneous, my actions
deliberate

In glancing at that jar so much comes
back to me

lapping waves on the beach, walking
barefoot on same

summer days have lasted a lifetime
amazing what sand

thousands of granular bits of rock
most common

element on earth, most uncommon
touchstones

Mine alone.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

hour 11 – to all the books who’ve gone before

You, who have given so much
and left my flesh alone.
You, whose love-well has become my own.
You, who bared your spine for
this dilettante pile of clumsy bones,
who paid my fees for Charon–
and called me back

to continue my quiet instruction
on how a person should be.

Magic Fan

She opened her fan
with a flair
and with a wave she
moved more than the air.

The fan had powers
imbued by a jinn.
A wave toward her brought
good fortune in.

A wave outward
could ward off bad luck.

So as she cooled off
she gave not one fuck.

Hour 11 – My Favorite

Beautiful

Coasting

Flowing

Gliding

Jumping

Looping

Pointing

Skimming

 

DAMN IT SOMEONE STOLE MY PEN

Hour 11 image prompt – into the woods

Into the woods

In search of the fae

To see if they

Can trick me

And thus I shall trick them

Into giving me

A place to stay

I think I’d like it there within

The deep woods of the fae

With nature twisted by magic

And maybe find myself a fae beast

With stripes and fangs and wings

And magic at the least

Making it my friend

And eating a fae feast

 

Hour 11 “Walking…”

Hour 11

9/2/2023

 

“Walking…”

 

Used to run

upwards of 8 miles a day overall

left the Corps – promised never again

kept it too!

 

This year has been rough –

way more than I knew…

hospital stays for doing what a doc said

and trusting what I was told…

but ya HAVE TO get done

each thing BEFORE you move on

– or ya WON’T move on.

So I have and will

…we deal as we must.

 

Is important to MOVE

when things hurt…

you can walk through it –

but not sit …not sit.

 

I use a walking stick

NOT A CANE!

Is a stick – for balance

and steadiness over rough,

uneven surfaces.

Ya don’t bend, lean,

or walk like an old crip.

Ya stand tall and sure

and move with authority –

and yes retaining a level of pride.

 

I wander the road…

share voices and hello’s

breath deep

step sure

and taste my strength

and will to be – to exist

to live

and I still care

about and for those …near.

 

I’ve neighbors

and we share words

and thoughts… and frustrations…

and needs.  We DO things,

necessary things – we help

as only we can

because we CAN and know

no other way.

 

Chris

(C) Chris Twyford 9/2/2023

It’s Coffee Time

I like coffee

I like tea

wait …

no, no I don’t like tea

but I like a bunch of stuff

and I like me.

 

Hi all from Sydney Australia!

This will be my 2nd half Marathon and this time, my friend from my writing group, the Macarthur branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers is joining me!

Hour 11–Pure Fiction

I can’t hear things she says because she just starts talking like my ears is all perked up already ready for input. Now that’s just not how it works. I may look like I haven’t had a thought in my head for hours at a time, but I assure you that I know the price of tea in China and it’s very likely that I’m cogitating on some such erudite subject with my mouth shut. So, she has to learn that she’s got to get my attention before she just jumps on with the talking. I’ll get some of it, but don’t expect me to get the beginning part if she hadn’t snapped her fingers like first. You just can’t break through thick thinking as easy as she thinks. It gets deep in there. Furthermore, she talks quieter than she knows sometimes and turns her head away from me as she does it. Is that a recipe for failure or what?

Wait. Is that what the hell he said about me? Turn up that tape so I can hear it. Like I don’t know about communicating?! I swear he doesn’t listen to a word I say. He makes up stuff, like thinking we had agreed who was going to do the driving. I’m not going to tell him, but my hearing is not as good as before. He just doesn’t respect me enough to be ready to hear what I say. I do have things to say. More than ever before, and I’m a busy woman ready to say them! Is he out there in the waiting room? Well, we’ll see if he can hear me today!

Pews

Church pews carry so much.
How many toddlers have rested their pudgy bodies on you?
What did they dream of as the angels whispered prophecy in their ears?
How many hot tears have spilled on you?
What stories did the tears tell?

You held us during the moments when we first believe
and all of the moments when we have doubted.
You kept us steady when we were overcome with the Holy Spirit and our feet got light.
Supported us when the weights we carried were simply too much.
You have always pointed us in the direction of the altar no matter who
occupied the pulpit.
In the back you offered us welcome and distance.
In the front you offered us access and heat.

Your existence is evidence of long-winded preachers
and the howling silence that sometimes follows prayers.
You help us wait on the Lord
and help us gird ourselves for battle.
You offer us rest,
and get us a little closer to the prostrate position of holy submission.