Marathon Lymerick

1.MARATHON LYMERICK

There was a poet who loved to write

so he joined the marathon,to get his delight

Inspired was he by his peers,

that he forgot all his fears

and wrote poetry all through the night.

One

Only twelve months ago, I was born

I don’t remember much, of course,

Nothing of the onesies and diapers I’d worn,

Nothing of my teddy or rocking horse.

 

All I know is what I was told,

Like my mother divorced my dad.

At the time, that was considered bold,

But I’m sure that it made me very sad.

 

We moved in with my grandparents then,

Because momma was only sixteen.

Her church insisted she’d committed a sin,

If she’d not left him, what might have been?

 

They made her finish school for her future, you see,

And her mother, my Mema, became mother to me.

 

 

 

 

I’m Really Not Twelve

I am a lover not a fighter

I am one who cannot boast of fame

I am a poet and a writer

I am one who the world tried to tame

 

I am not to be taken lightly

Nor am I one to be overlooked

I cling to words and hold them tightly

Read my stories, I hope you’ll be hooked!

2019 #1–Existence

#1

 

Existence

 

I don’t know who I was

Or who I am

Having laid waste to everything

Until right now

By doing nothing at all.

So here I am, a blank page

Like this was a blank page

Before even it came alive

Struggling to say I am your words.

So I am-this empty page

No preface and no conclusion

Unless–I am courageous enough

To put the life less taken to paper

And then turn that page.

If I am only a reflection of my past

Comfortably well-read but never lived

If that is who I am

I choose the pen

As my sword

To lay waste to the regret.

I am who I will be.

Poem 2: “A Farmer’s Childhood”

“A Farmer’s Childhood” by Mandy Austin Cook

I Am Nothing

Solitude closes in

clogging my throat

gasping for breath

that won’t come.

A mantra emerges

pulsating in rhythm

nothing

nothing

nothing

I feel nothing

therefore I am

nothing.

My skull vibrates

from the intensity

from this war cry

of the heart.

Perceptions

Do not think
I am nothing more
than the garbs
upon my shoulders.
Nor am I the hair that settles
against my painted cheeks.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholders
but trust that I am not my eyes
or the mouth that speaks.

I think I am the wind
or I want to be.
Yearning on windows ridden
by a cool summer night–begging to be let in
to embrace the sleepers and banish their heat.
Maybe I am the crosswalk countdown
or at the very least, I am the sound of children
scuffling their shoes on a busy sidewalk
in impatience to cross the street.

But regardless of what I am
it is certainly not up to you.

Hour One

I am one part pixels, one part change
I am neither mountains nor plains
I am not who I said I was
Nor who you say when you say my name
I am what I am
As for what I could be?
No one can change as quick as they can see the need.

Wear It

I am a rock, gently grounded
Always there, a necessity

I am fabricated elsewhere
My birthplace, tattooed on me

I am a sponge, soft and fibrous
Absorbing your tears and sweat

I am of colors, abound
The rainbow lives in envy

I am a glove, tight and fitted
Many sizes but for you, one

I am a humble t-shirt
Buy one at your local store

One

She took her hands off you. Someone told me it’s like Sophie’s Choice. I never saw that. Someone else told me not to. I won’t be able to hand…le it, get my heart over it. Don’t. So, I didn’t. I am good like that about warnings, when they come. But, this came warningless… blind… blindly… blindingly, this, her taking her hands off you. No one said don’t look. No one said don’t watch. So, I looked, and I watched, and now it’s like Sophie’s Choice, and I don’t completely know what that means (because I didn’t) but now I have to…

find a way to find out what they will name you.