The Poetry Marathon

Alabaster

 

Alabaster cinched in ebony velvet
A golden comb glitters, worked to match jeweled straps
Ever patient unruffled she waits
Delicate carmine nostrils and lips
Never flare or curl
But she’s been holding that fan for hours and she
Leans on her free hand, fingers stretched over the hidden edge
Wrist slightly twisted

Leave your friends a moment
Trace your fingers lightly through her silken velvet as you
Pass your hand across her bodice
Encircle her waist
She wears your ring after all and this little
Pleasure from you brings
Rose petals and porcelain together upon her
Cheek and precious breast

Leave your friends a moment
She’s tired
Alabaster can grow so cold

This is Halloween

my face is

lit up like

a jack-o-

lantern smiling but

hollow the

insomnia eats

my brain my

bones creak

with every

step we

 

have all the

parts we

need to

make

monsters

of

ourselves

HOUR10

 

Red

 

Red, much red in the green forest.

It wasn’t a painter’s watercolour, it was

fire, real fire devouring nature.

 

Animals were fleeing,

trees were crying for help

and birds sang their last song.

 

But humans finally appeared

and the red was dispelled.

And so, the fresh green was saved!

Rhonda

Rhonda, my love.

This dress does you honor.

Revealing your soft, alabaster skin

The velvet is the perfect foil

To you auburn hair.

Rhonda, my dear

It gives me great pleasure

To take you to supper with me

Afterwards as we stroll past the shops

We will have a bit of ice cream to eat.

Poem 22-

The clock moves slowly now

Almost standing still

The comments, the posts, the poems

Make little to no sense

My hand cramps from video games and typing

Cat left confused, not understanding his people at all

The snacks have been desecrated

The coffee has been weaned down in preparation for sleep

Yawns take the place of interest

Hour 22,

Inhibitions are gone

Taking common sense with it

They just packed their bags and left the building

All that remains are red eyes

Held open by will alone

Another poem published

Another struggle for words

A fist fight with perseverance

No giving up this close to the end

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting in a Painting

Kind of drab, the color of the wall.
The woman with the updo looks off
in the distance to her left, unsmiling.
She’s probably wondering why
the bouquet hasn’t been brought
to the table yet. She must be an early
bird. There’s no tablecloth, no candles.
Not even a doily. Just a strong white
woman in a long black dress standing
beside the unadorned table.

Or perhaps the woman waits,
impatient for someone to bring
the jewels she intended to wear.
The pearls for her neck and ears.
Where are they, and what of her shoes?
Oh, dear. This is turning tragic
before our eyes. Those uncomfortable
straps. The dreary wall!

16. By the way

By the way

I find a big bag of money

Falling from the sky

By the way

I look up to the clouds

In the sky

And I say

“give me more”

and I see a big smile

Suddenly, it’s raining

Moola and schillings

By the way

I am smiling

By the way

#16

How strange
Memories linger
For years
So real it seems
You could touch
But dare not
Memories touch back

Melancholy Objects (poem 22)

We are melancholy objects
mementos of lives long gone
our bodies remember what we forget

22

Every poet is a little closer to
God than a surgeon but
only one of us makes our readers believe
Worship the scalpel or the scale?

He digs out the bullet,
Pumps an empty stomach of pills,
And I wrote the truth
That put them there.