The Poetry Marathon

The Kiss (Hour 21)

he carved my lips

with a rusted spoon

one that Gulliver might use.

the rust a crusty blood stain on the stainless steel.

the spoon dull from overuse, the Lilliputians moving it

           in and out of the mouth

as I lay bound.

he scooped out my flesh

with a forefinger and middle,

probed at the corners

with fatted W tips,

flaying me open like a pregnant catfish,

exposing me

to the metronome click

a beat of rightness.

there is one way to kiss

to satisfy the lust of correctness.

smoke belches from your lips – a Mount Saint Helen’s –

nose,

ears,

eyes,

substituting words.

Poem 19

Here I am running down the road
just a top notch girl
taking a morning stroll
words have just a little note
twitching all around my throat
oh how do I sing a song
when all I hear is a rumbling song
spinning round and round my head
is a long but empty wind.

All rights reserved copyrighted(c)Roxann A Harvey

Poem 18

Many moods of life
they seem to tick
so bright
left alone in the rain
shadows hoover
beneath the pain.

All rights reserved copyrighted(c) 2017 Roxann A Harvey

Macedonia – Prompt 24

The streets are chilly
I can tell from the steam coming from Lake Ohrid
Still, as I get out of bed, I can pictures its teal depths
and its silvery rocks underneath,
I decide to wear shorts and walk to lake’s edge
with breakfast apple and hearty coffee in hand.

Poem 17

Need not a visibility check
things seem so our of check
Look no further
here I am said reality
I am just a steer away.

Fountains flow
Rivers flow not just
sit back relax and
enjoy the glow

All rights reserved copyrighted(c)2017 Roxann A Harvey

Around the way

I driving round my old street in West Philly

Got my dizzy feeling sick

Nothing left but a trash filled lot

What happened to the millions Obama sent this way, to fix the streets and make places for children to play

What’s up with pop up beer lots artificial trees

What happened to the families still poor as poor can be.

Bandit

You’re the first dog I ever
loved deeply, that I ever
clung to. Long thick fur
the color of coffee with cream,
tail curled and fanning out
behind you– your plumage–
dark chocolate mask, faded
muzzle. I don’t remember who
named you. My last memory
of you alive: I raked the half-acre
October leaves into a mound,
jumped in. You followed, pulled
my hair, my feet, my pants, stood
with one paw on each shoulder,
pinning me. You won before curling
under one arm, almost the size of my
eleven year old body. You slept.
I read my book. My last memory of you:
Halloween. You’d been gone three days,
but that wasn’t unusual. On the bus to
school, we crossed the highway. The
breeze caught your tail, lying in the
middle of the north bound lane, made
you look alive, wagging. I screamed,
face pressed against bus glass. Every
dog since, I’ve wanted to be you.

#19 Guitarman

Sneaking around them bars
Playing women like your guitar
That smile doesn’t sway me
Those rockin sounds won’t change a thing

Guitarman let it loose
Play so silky smooth
Burnin them strings
Givin it hell on that stage

What happens there, null and void
Ain’t that what you said
Those eyes aren’t piercing enough
That rhythm wont get you anywhere

Guitarman let it loose
Play so silky smooth
Burnin them strings
Givin it hell on that stage

Sit your ass down guitarman
Always playing that’s what you do

The Ring (Hour 22)

Don’t stand that way – disgusted.

You are not a jilted lover or a poor peasant.

You are not quite ready, yet. Your jewelry waits

on the bedstand. But I, my Love, cannot wait. I dream

of releasing your hair clip and catching your locks in my hands,

inhaling you in one deep, lengthy breath. My lips quiver as I imagine

them on our naked neck. That look on your face, as you lean into me won’t change,

and your hand with the ring will travel to my back, under my shirt. But that ring, it doesn’t belong to me.

Poem 16

Flames are beautiful
Red, blue and yellow
Just and awesome sight to see
why not come and play
with me.

All rights reserved copyrighted(c)2017 Roxann A Harvey