The Poetry Marathon

hour sixteen

and here i sit on my throne and will they get what i wanted them to see,
thwe saw and looked at each other
and i saw fear and i saw anger,
some admiration but mostly
from the dreamers and the artists
they were impressed
but the people,
again i couldnt reach them.

and here i sit on my throne
and i can hear them building new altars
for new gods to help them,
to defend them from the colours in the sky.
They are already turning away from me and
here i was hoping that for once we could start
on a footing they would understand
and agree
but they are already looking away.

Hour 20 Eaters

20 2017
Eaters
by Paul Robert Sanford

Tortoise eats cactus
Cactus shelters bird from snake
Ant eats them all.

The ‘Diva’ of My Soul

 

I am a kind word ‘Diva’ uttered  and repeated,

By the voice of people and nature around.

 

I am an enigmatic star dropped from the blue tent

Upon the Earth for red carpet treatment.

 

I am the daughter of the elements

With whom winter coincide;

To whom Spring gave inception;

I was reared in the lap of Summer and

I respite in the realm of Autumn.

 

At dawn this ‘Diva’ communions with the breeze,

To herald the coming of light.

 

At dusk I club with the chirruping birds,

In bidding goodbye to the fading light.

 

The plains are ornated with

My vibrant colours, and the gushing air

Is scented with my fragrance.

 

As I embrace deep slumber,

The dark Night keeps a vigil over me,

And as I rise and shine, the sun

Be with me as the only eye of the day.

 

I ‘Diva’ is the Elixir’s gift.

I ‘Diva’ is the reminiscence of moment of eternal bliss.

I ‘Diva’ is the last gift of the ‘Inspired Soul’.

I ‘Diva’ is and will be the eternal jubilance for ‘Thee’.

 

And I invariably glance up high,

To visualize only the gleaming light,

And never look back to glance at my shadow.

This wisdom, the ‘Diva’ of my Soul transpires in ‘Thee’.

21. i hate it (i love to hate it)

If words were
as they should be
LITERALLY would no
longer be used to exaggerate

fake news

We have a pussy.  You can usually find her in the barn.   She hunts mice, bothers raccoons, but leaves the chickens alone.

 

We have a cock.  He also lives in the barn.   He’s our only one.  He struts his stuff.   We’ve noticed he has a favorite hen, but he’s really not that particular.

 

Lately on the news, it seems, they’ll talk about our pussy, but not our cock.  Have you noticed?   What’s up with that?

Hour 20: Reclaimed Wreckage

Racing for the sunlight quicker
Growing thicker
Saplings reaching
Send roots leeching

Strangling the clockwork functions
Green expunctions
Cogs have rusted
Engines busted

Forest once a metal garden
Nature’s pardon
Oxidizing
Fertilizing

(In response to Prompt #20… though it was no deviation from my usual themes)

Exploratory Surgery

It’s like you dissected me, exposed me, beginning with the heart
and slowly working backward through the ribs, the dermis
Your idea of love is a poem you’ll never write.
then outward leaving notes in my skin with your scalpel
and delete line after line until you find one that strikes
You stand at the door, texting while I’m at work
leaving directions for the next woman to search for
a treasure you say they’ll never find.

Prompt 7, write a poem from inside out

hour fifteen

When the first rainbow lit the sky,
the colour were so vibrant,
strong and
the sound they made in the wind was reverberating into people’s life.

When the first rainbow lit the sky,
the people heard the promise and they saw
the colours together lighting up the daylight hours
and quietly in their hearts they took fright,
they started to whisper

have you see the colours in the sky
the bow accross the blue sky
remember all the rain we had before,
the rain that destroyed some of our homes,
some of our gardens
pulled up trees
and now

when the first rainbow lit the sky
people listened but only heard what they wanted,
understood what they had seen,
knew that in the coming winter,
food would be scarces and now
this scary bunch of colours was lighting the sky.

While the first rainbow was still high in the sky,
the first stones were erected,
and new gods were invented,
new prayers were composed.
for the coming winter
when empty bellies would need the consolation of some form of almighty.

 

and here i sit on my throne
have spoken to my people,
have traced a bow of colour in the sky,
as an agreement to our friendship,
trust and closeness,
and i see them
have i overdone it again.

Salty Tea

Bold dark deep brew fueled mornings wake the warrior for battle
Sourcing hidden energy, intellect, stamina
A sight to behold, generating tales to be told and followed

Sometimes, the wind shifts, lightning strikes and scorches earth
Breaking walls and infecting all that is healthy and strong in your psyche
Your temples pound and plead for mercy,
from the vicious viral onslaught of germs and fatigue.

Seeking relief, reprieve, a moment to rest and recover
Your bleary eyes and shaking hands reach for a remedy.
Steeped in Jasmine, cardamom, and wildflower honey

This vessel holds salvation for your weary tears.

A COLLECTIVE CREATION OF PARADISE

The actors rise in pairs. An executioner stands with his back to the victim. The audience participates in The Rite of Universal Intercourse.

I am not allowed.

I am not allowed!

I am not allowed?

(to- smoke marijuana, take my clothes off, travel without a passport, stop wars, live without money)

The actors gather. Sitting in the center. Forming a spiral to meditate upon. Listen,

The Rite of Study.

To be free.

To be free!

To be free?

(of- love, food, property, violence, jails, money, revolution, system, lies, prejudice, law, state, classes)

The community develops a relationship to the individual. The individual supports the community. A voyager abandons himself to the trance. Take the trip,

The Rite of The Mysterious Voyage.

Return to dark, to the dark, to emerge fresh, clean, recharged, reinforced, purified…

As the spaceship moves we see our fiery bodies appear before death.

Blazing!

The atoms rush in to the flesh of living as our native tongue torches our poverty.

Blow your life mind!

Blow out to pluto, mars, the eighth kindling. Another galaxy stretching over a large theatre

and

As the last words are spoken the inner space disperse into outer space…