The Poetry Marathon

THE DIARIES

Once we were slaves in the land of Egypt.

It hurts my eyes to look through a telescope as His reflection joins me in the mirror.

I feel sentimental over champagne, whispering until

1, 2, 3

In the morning.

The prison lets me keep my notes, my personal effects feel nostalgic.

Watching the guards I see how it is called madness.

I see how I have secured myself within my own nothingness same as walls.

We began painting the loft as you stated your reasons for not wanting to see the doctor.

I am patient as his sorrow feels the troubles he was served at breakfast.

Majesty but never madness,

mother,

your paint covers the smell of my sins…

My Cassidy 23

Golden fur and chocolate eyes,

She loved being pet,

and barked at flies.

Not the brightest pup

but she was mine

She didn’t know a ball from a rock

but that was fine

I remember ten fond years

of play-time, fetch, and catch.

Just talking about it brings up tears

and sorrow weighs heavily on my chest.

And if you’re wondering why I still cry,

it’s because I never got to say goodbye.

Almost there

Come away with me.
We have finished our duty here,
And you must be so tired.
We can shed these forms,
And surrender to oblivion.

A Friendship lost

 

 

Lack in friendship whom I deemed so much respect

Knowing every element of entirety aspect

Consuming immensely my soul and spirit

Entertaining immensely to given aspiration

 

 

Nothing much is given

Entering in a given silence

To thresh out the inner sanctum

As silence communicate sanity

 

Providentially caring and solidifying boundaries

Gaining ground but space back out in lustier

Inflaming capacities reaching new horizons

Making it to myself to its mastery

 

Engaging to life without him always moving forward

Reaching much in the emulation within the inward

 

 

 

© Roy Mark Azanza Corrales 06082017 7:05   PM PST

HOUR13

 

No money law

 

What if we had no costs?

Indeed, what if money disappeared?

Wouldn’t we be happier?

Wouldn’t we have less obstacles?

 

What if presents costed nothing and

if we could offer them all the time

without paying a thing?

Wouldn’t it be just great?

Miles Apart

Many miles separate me
From my family, they’re my pride.
A country border, many states I’d have to cross
To be by their side.
My two sons make me laugh
As we stumble through the days
My daughter in law makes me smile
As we talk in the sun’s rays.
My two granddaughters are so loved
By their Nana, that is me.
My parents, my aunt and cousins
Complete my family.
In our hearts we are together
The miles they melt away
When I go to see them
They wish that I could stay.

> a thousand words

A Place

Home

is where

I

grew up

but not

where

I

grew.

HAND-GRENADE OF SEXUALITY (hour 22, PM 2017)

Poor Madame X – her indolence all exposed:

one never does a lick of work

in a little black dress with jeweled straps like this

 

Poor Madame Pierre Gatreau

her soul’s bare shoulders exposed –

her identity speedily reviled by haute society.

 

Poor John Singer Sargent disparaged by Paris’s best –

his second version made matters worse —

where there was two now only a single shoulder strap.

 

NOTE: “Hand-grenade of sexuality” is Jonathan Jones phrase from his article in the Guardian UK about the painting:

Wine Berries

Wine Berries
VCS
Cordial crushed berries
Fresh off the vine
bright bits of summer
tang like pure wine
your leaves blow in the wind
revealing bounty under each bough
startling glimpses of red
faded to pink
through to
unripe
white
the future harvest that’s waiting
for its day in the sunlight
but for now their are plenty of ripe
handfuls of wine berries
my fingers stain red
thistles sting over eager
grasps
as the plants protect themselves
from the ravages of grazers like myself
gathering leaves to dry
for the panacea of summer health
they will bring to cold winter months
a praise for the berry
an early friend to humanity
and lifelong companion to one and all