The Poetry Marathon

Inconceivable

I am a friend, I care too deeply
and that isn’t the crime
the world likes us to believe it is.
I love fully and invest in my pack,
a pack full of lovers like me.

I am a worker, not a worker bee.
Not mindless, but devoted to
the job I do and the people I do it for.
I live a fast-paced, hectic life,
which is worth it – for them.

I am a student, but soon I will teach,
I shove past obstacles and panic over tests
so that one day I can be the one assigning them.
The routine, the structure, reassures me
and those assignments begin to give me purpose.

I am a volunteer, our work is never done.
Always one more thing, a load of laundry,
a trap to set, a dog to walk, an injury to tend to,
sadness is replaced by joy, only when our
animals heal and find the love they deserve.

I am depressed, usually for no reason
I battle with my own mind, it plays tricks, it lies.
I try to remember that no one hurt me,
I breathe through the episode,                      
desperate to think about living again.

I am a human, inconceivable,
I can’t be described in just a poem.
But my spirit can speak through one.
My perspective and my intuition can be shared
and my soul can shine through, the words capturing me.

Am I, Though?

An iamb is inherently a paradox of poetry
Transparently trochaic, it cannot contain itself. Poor thing, it is
Its own antithesis, and as such might be my spiritual synthesis
As I am, also, set against myself; depicting what I am not
Form fascinates me, yet I am myself most formlessly
Chaotic; cramming weeks of work, after delays, into mere days
I am the iamb, so much smaller than my ambition. Amen.

 

Form: Complex Alliterisen

Prompt: Write a poem that contains the refrain “I am” at least six times.

I am —

I am the beginning,
the quiet one,
the reader,
the nature-child

I am the middle,
the striver,
the journalist,
the professional

I am the end,
the mystic,
the poet,
the crone

I am here,
the desert,
the mountains,
the sky

I am there,
the boat,
the castle,
the cobbled lane

I am forever.
the meadow,
the forest,
the sea

I am.

poem #1 ~ I am

I am

 

the best of the times        I am the worst of times

I am the morning light caught in the mist above the grass

I am wounded darkness bleeding into the horizon

I am water, pooling in a muddy hollow, where a small bird sips

I may be the cat that will leap, breaking the bird’s fragile bones

I am the flight of crows climbing and the vulture in their wake

I am what I know and what I have forgotten, as my mother did

Whatever I am, it is all of this

the hard and the heart-filled

the hungry and the replete. All that I am brims from emptiness

whispering this too I am. This that you seek, this that you fear.

Prompt 1/I Am a Working Conscience

At the end of every news cycle,
I sweep my mind
of the day’s detritus –
children in cages, election machines calibrated to confirm
our escalating doom, icebergs melting one broken treaty
at a time –
for a chance to scream out
all my responses
at once.

I am sorry.
I am angry.
I am spent.
I am frustrated.
I am alone.
I am nothing.

Every morning, I wake up to
a song
called
“Bird of Paradise”,
reminding me in its notes
that the exotic and curious
can reside in the middle
of everything.

I am hesitant.
I am hopeful.
I am engaged.
I am resolute.
I am not alone.
I am part of a collective pulse.

I

I am
a poet
I am not
a poet
depending on the day
a poet
emerges
meanders
becomes
a poet
I am satisfied
I am a poet
I am fearful
I am not
a poet
I am and will
leave it up to you
if i am
a poet

(c) Diane Morinich

Almost Missed It

I also missed, missed this

I was sleeping soundly with my children on me

I didn’t turn on an alarm because I trusted my body

Just yesterday I was talking about the brothers, Sleep and Death, with my daughter

Saying, how I wanna do better

About not dying and sleeping my life away

When I wanna be living

I got so much to live for

That I don’t want miss it

Don’t wanna sacrifice myself anymore

Missing me because I am time

And it’s time for me to live

Live right for me

But I can’t do that if I’m sleeping

Or if I’m dead

So grateful I got up in

The time that was designated to write this

Because I almost missed it

I almost missed me

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who am I?

 

In the wash of surrounding beauty I am but a frivolous stroke of the brush in the absent minded flick of the hand that holds it

or am I?

For in the wake of who you were is the truth of who I am

Left holding a heavy weight, while I am strong I can’t lift it alone

I couldn’t be who I am without you and all who came long before who I am and who they were

Who am I and who I am are different in that all that I am is not always the answer to the question who am I?

So who am I?

That’s not a question You or I could answer with conviction…

So why am I asking it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour 1 (2019)

I am a torn canvas,
A drunk, throwing up on the steps of the Capitol Building
I am the masses,
Yawning at pleading politicians
I am the rule to the exception
Marking my ballot while my unborn children hold me at gunpoint
I am the one on the candidates’ right shoulder
Injecting needle after needle till the stench of hubris clothes them
I am proud to suffer and to triumph
To kill and to be killed
I am Germania and Uncle Sam
Enemy and Friend
Running into the unknown

I am

I am displaced

I am finding my way

I am feeling my power

I am lifted above the chaos

I am shining through

I am returning the love