The Poetry Marathon

Waste Not, Want Not

Act 1: Farmers Market

Sniff sniff smile, vine ripened tomatoes

Scratch scratch squeeze, hand-picked  lemons

Act 2: Urban Kitchen

Wash and prep, peel  and dice

Stir and season, into the salad bowl you go

Save the seeds for the rest of the show

Act 3: Concrete Jungle

City house, no yard, sketchy soil not meant for edible gardens

Salvaged seeds, rinsed and buried in pretty planters

Sleeping soundly, bathing in sunshine

Peeking slowly, stretching for support

Act 4: DIY Kitchen Scrap Garden

Weeks and weeks of scorching sun

Battling with hummingbird moths and green monster worms

Wishing for bees or breezes, hand pollinating instead

From seeds they sprouted, growing tall, bearing fruit

Ready for the next food adventure

17. Bunny Money

Burning money  by both ends is so much fun until there’s none left and it’s time to wake up with a  hangover and go to work to earn money to burning it by both ends is so much fun

A Lady in Waiting – Hour Twenty Two

Her gaze fixed on this aphrodisiacal male,

Taking a tour outside – just outside this frame,

Her hem rising with the edges of her mouth

Skirts caught in a lascivious grasp

Lips now clasped

To erase a gasp.

With her free hand she relies on the table for stability,

Overcome with a burning fragility,

A quickness of breath,

A lust not suppressed,

Her eyes narrow in on her desire,

Her opal skin scorched white by fire,

And a delicate sweat

Dampens the curls on her neck,

As she waits for him

To come in.

 

Olé Flamenco Dancer (22nd hour)

Carmen waits for the guitarist to strum and pluck

While the other dancers sit

Clap

Stomp in unison

The singer wails *con tanto pasion

Egging Carmen on

To slam her feet on the platform

As she raises her left hand in the air with her fan in her right hand

She struts her fan open and waves her arms about to the singer’s moans

Carmen thrusts her body to and fro

Spins from one corner to the other

Contorts her body into a modelesque stance

Her dress seems to be made of wind and flames

Twirling her skirt open like a rose

Whirling her hand and fan wildly around the air above her head

And in one final pitched cry

In one final strum

One final pluck

Final stomp

She gently but forcibly moves her arms back to her sides

Closing the rose to rest

And back up again

Beautifully frozen

 

 

*is spanish for “with lots of passion”

 

Who Comes

Who is it she sees

Coming for thee?

Is that concern in your eyes

Or just your distain?

Might it be your husband’s approach to go to the play

Or is your lover coming to take you away

 

Will you soon smile as he arrives or turn away

And strive to leave.

 

I cannot tell what is in your mind

And you will not tell me you are not so inclined

Soon the answers will be known

When you no longer stand alone.

Hour 22: Artwork Haiku

Artwork Haiku

Looking for her beau
She completely fails to see
He is watching her

 

Prompt #22 A profile of a curvy lady’s stance

Curves sit well on you

on your knobby fingers with sweet meat and pink fat,

a writer you must be weilding a feather for a pen

 

curves of flesh on arms intersect with shoulders

did you sit meditating squarely or kneading dough plenty gained

dimples inside elbows and in collars like small caves

 

curve of your nose pouts, curve of chin juts out

pinna of your ears neat strain neck

into cheeky tilt to look at something captive

 

That black eveing gown sits

darker on curve of breasts. its curvy cuts dipping into its cleaved groove

your paleness offset by stark darkness of a high round butt

 

you turn to watch something leftwards

your arms define the conflict

the right stands on tip-toes on table-top, yearning to steady the fate

 

while the left folds the gown slightly and drops down

in slight pause of the familiar being let behind

eyes fullstops of pitch black under comma of equal shade

 

22 – the portrait –

I stand alone, in an empty room, my gaze missing,

my hunger hidden, he paints my curves with delicate

lines, my nose demanding attention, the dress dark

and wanting against my pale skin waiting to be touched by

the maid has she peels me  from this velvet concoction.

this portrait for the wall, will watch as l grow old.

 

-s.j.duncan-

22~17

languid longing

above shoulders bare

grasping ornate table

to keep herself there

sparkle straps chill pale skin

clutching dress velvet~hot

toes lost in dark shadow

fire~red updo hair

stares across the abyss

i wonder what’s there

THE PSYCHEDELIC BOOK OF THE DEAD

All individuals, if remembered, will enter instantaneously into illumination.

Traverse the various worlds of existence.

The dreamer dies consciously as the guru gives instructions.

Hallucinate orgies, experience desire and disgust, float gently with the stream.

Plan a session to ask four Classically Hinduism possibilities-

the setting is your preparation for a psychedelic séance…

Remember my friend the three Bardos.

Remember three states of ego and their loss.

Remember clear lights of reality.

Remember hallucinations.

Remember on re-entry a new ego.

NOW WE WILL MEDITATE ON THE VOID:

all consciousness is part of my substance

which is

unceasing vacuous unborn

meditate

rest your mind in an uncreated state

pouring water unto water

assume the mental posture

clearly vibrantly unmodified

maintain

rebirth into routine

meditate

until you are free