The Poetry Marathon

Musiq

Poetry Marathon Anthology – Call for Submissions

Second Hour

 Musiq

Music is my sanctuary,
I make homage to this throne,
for healing my mind and my soul
when I’m troubled or alone.
Manifold melodies; ethereal  tones.

Lost in genres of classic, jazz, gospel
R&B then blues,
racing tempos and soft nuances
symphonies and fugues,
and no one around to upset the ambience,
or disturb the mood.

Hours upon hours changing
playlists and styles,
I get wrapped up in memories
and get lost for a while.

Reflections of people and places
marking major milestones…
Rights of passages
felt in the depth of my heart,
to the bone, to the bone!

Through blues and the gospel
the sound of suffering and victory
swells up in my soul,
from riveting shouts of glory,
to mournful cries,
being left out in the cold.

Music is my mainstay,
like eating struggle food
When you’re broke.
Oh!  The smells, the sensations
and the emotions it invokes!

R&B strikes memories of
Doo-wop groups competing
under the streetlights.
So hip… so cool-breeze;
such a teenager’s delight!

What soul-stirring joy I feel,
What torrent of tears
pours from my spirit,
from past misery and fears.
Soul music tells sad stories
while their images appear.

That song, this album,
those jazz grooves I’ve played,
helped write my Life-song,
and the history I’ve made.

Second Hour

Seventh Solstise
Compton, CA 90222
June 22, 2019 @9:46

Blessed I Am

Beautiful, misty morning, thank you! I am Blessed!

I am glad for last night’s peaceful rest!

When wispy clouds disappear,

I am sure the hazy skies will clear!

I am starting out a bit slow,

But I am sure I’ll get better as I go!

I am pleased for this opportunity to let my words flow!

Prompt 1: I am…

I am here,

writing as my mind skips like a scratched disc.

I delete words and start over.

Fragmented poems have disappeared

and I haven’t waved goodbye.

 

I am burying shame in its grave,

a deep frown on my face.

Let it go, I pray.

 

I am planting words in the ground,

watering them everyday,

waiting for poems to bloom.

I watch out my window,

my hands clasped under my chin.

 

I am checking the mail,

waiting for a letter from my dad.

The ghost of shame comes instead.

You scared him away.

 

I am not falling in the darkness today.

 

I am picking poems from their stems,

reading them out loud

and falling in love.

I am pasting them on the walls in my home

and in my memory.

I am not letting go

of hope.

Ta-da!

I am alive

I woke up this morning

I am happy

For nothing can stand in my way

I am loved

Because I love so many

I am alone

But I am never lonely

I am finished with my first poem

With 17 minutes left and counting!

Go, go, go

The old saying goes

“Dont bite off more

than you can swallow”

or chew or

something like that,

I don’t remember.

 

All I’m sure of is

I’ve done exactly that

On An Ordinary Day

I get up and fight
for autonomy,
for a quiet space that’s mine,
where nothing but words and ideas
can visit.

No television.
No demands.
Not going to happen.

So, I fight daily battles
for moments of my own,
include thinking time on my too-long to-do list,
shut myself in the room of my mind
where the door never quit latches,
where the outside world always sneaks in
and waits at my feet.

In those precious snatches,
I lay my sword on the table,
breathe in the almost silence,
gather my skittish thoughts in a pen
or a Word file.

Some days I win, knowing
tomorrow I’ll get up
and do battle again.

“I Was A Young Man Once”

They journeyed back

Across continents, an ocean.

Through time and long-buried

Memories.

To stand in an emerald-green field

Neatly punctuated with white

Crosses, Stars of David.

They were supported by

Walkers, canes, wheelchairs,

Each other.

Their memories rushing forward

Like the waves of Normandy

As they set the world free

From tyranny

And became

Prisoners of war

In their own minds

Carrying men to safety

Through the tide of courage.

For long moments

They were not betrayed

By their aging bodies,

Foggy minds.

Once again, they carried

The world to freedom

On their shoulders,

In their arms,

On their honor,

In their hearts.

“I was a young man once.”

Eve Remillard

6/22/19

 

Just Stop Yelling

Two rooms away

Enough to muffle, never enough to silence

The tone carries through; Frost’s sound of sense

But snarled, sharpened, and lacerating

 

Frustration meeting rage, puberty facing age

Mother versus father, father versus son

Never me, though. I only listen

I can’t drown out that rhythm of venom, that cadence of wrath

 

Slammed door, sarcastic greeting, drunken retort,

nasty reply, escalating insult, menacing pause,

and before ten minutes are out they’ve found eachother’s throats,

my hands have found my ears and my tears, my eyes.

Nobody knows you like your family.

 

I get it.  I understand the sides, the reasons, the tactics,

And the agonizing, fundamental, waste of it.

There’s no point to this battle; no growth, no change.

No speeches or screeches or infuriating “SO”

Can mend what’s broken in them, in us.

 

Tonight could be different.  I could march in there.

I could tell them where they’re wrong and right and wrong-est.

But they’d see it as another army on the field.

So why join a war with no winners?

How do you pick a side when you love both and hate the fucking fight?

 

And so I listen to the people I love most in this world rip into one another,

Their barbs and shouts and pronouncements muddled and blurred by wood and drywall.

Biting back tears and words both

Two rooms away.

Hour 1

I am the warm air rising from the ground

in the city, I am the burning asphalt.

I am the sigh of passing cars

on the freeway, I am the rainbow in the puddles.

I am memory and thought wheeling

like twin ravens of old.

The traveler at the crossroads, but also the crossroads

The man in the tent, the dog on the highway

The wolf, the crow, the burning eye

The spear, the gun, the echo of laughter

I am the feet that walk the road

ever turning

The hat pulled low to hide

a cragged face.

Hour 1: Lost, Looking In

Lost, Looking In

I am lost, looking in

Wandering the circle of a cup and saucer

I am lost, looking in

Pacing the perimeter of a brick house

I am lost, looking in

Fading in the mirror every morning

I am lost, looking in

The portal of a photograph for old truths

I am lost, looking in

The house full of people is empty

I am lost, looking in

Flickering in the windows of a train