The Poetry Marathon

3am Reprieve (19th hour)

Full breakfast at three in the morning

To counterattack the sleepiness and yawning

When my stomachs is empty

That is when i get sleepy

Sizzling bacon, breaking the silence of the whole apartment complex

Makes me feel like I am doing something I should not have been

Noise ordinance for crackling pork?

That’ll be the first

The fried eggs will soon follow

Along with some dark roasted espresso

My brain waves are already swimming with energy

As my stomach rejoices with ecstasy

Delicious burnt bacon all just for me

 

Life’s Flow

The rhythm of the drum pounding against the concrete
The peace of being in love while war rages in the street
The immaculate canvas displayed across the evening sky
The hands of forgiveness extended to the irrational mind
The smiles of children with ice cream dripping from their chins
The quiet of the night when the world is at rest and God’s miracles begin
The laughter of my ancestors sound like a sweet lullaby to my ears
This is the beginning of life and the end of all of my fears.

#7 in another life

space, maybe’s a dumping ground for all the people we could be, a tunnel with hard liquor and cheeseballs. if you give me a moment, i may conjure my third eye, to pray that metaphysical taut gods from the New Age show me a parallel universe into the life of alternatives that we didn’t have courage for

and maybe those choices found their destiny and are gluten-free. but that’s a cowards tale of longing and stringing along a fiddle to possibilities that we fumble for in our guts. when all that’s there if you scrape the spiritual, membrane lining is rose confetti from 2010 and all them green jelly beans that festered into yarn.

yet, i’d like to believe that our helios found a way to blossom up there, even if gods down here tell us to be scared, and fidget with bibles on productivity and you-can-do-attitude and bless me, but let’s call a pleated, multi-sensory, like me, spirit and She/He/Them, and my concubines agreed, it’s a happier life as an alien.

 

 

The Hatter’s Chatter – Hour Sixteen

I’m the hatter, hatter, hatter, hatter, hatter,

Listen to that catter, catter, catter, catter,

He doesn’t know whose madder –

Me or the March hare.

What nonsense he will chatter, chatter, chatter, chatter,

Pay no mind – I don’t know who put him there,

Really and truly he ought to adorn a chair

And act as a cushion like Mallymkum there,

A chair? A dresser? A table? A desk?

Oh – wait one moment for I have a test –

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

You don’t know the answer?

Oh, you must be a chancer, evasion romancer

How will I ever learn

With so much tea in the earn?

Come, come, let’s drain it at once,

Let’s throw in some cakes and iced buns!

No girl, don’t eat them – you see

I meant throw them in the earn

To flavour the tea!

Mallymkum come here – do something for me!

We must lower you into the pot

So you can tell us how delicious it got…

No need for dread – we just need your head,

It’s full up with treacle – try this tea instead!

 

Hour Nineteen, a poem in space

Man in the Moon

He:

They left me behind,
the mining and exploration crew,
assuming my death in a cave-in
and taking their projected
window of opportunity
to get home again.
I found my way through
tunnels to the site of another
group, and another lost soul.

She:

I, too, was left behind
my mission of scientific exploration
cut short in choking black dust.
I groped my way through
the deepest dark I’ve ever known
until I saw a light, and a face
a man, alive like me.

They:

The two missions combined
in the face of their deaths
to return and collect their bodies,
finding two that had somehow
found one another, hand in hand
beneath the surface, bound
for eternity within the moon.

Hour 19: Cosmic Ruin

(an etheree)

Cold
darkness
unending
pinpricks of light
beam across the black
streaking through dimensions
alien to human space
crossing barriers of physics
and entering the abstract realms of
fantasy and science fiction fables
unexplored corners of furthest time-space
await the arrival of matter
molecules to shape a new world
intelligence to force it
from chaos to order
speeding entropy
to stop its growth
an ending
frozen
Cold

(In response to the Hour 19 prompt; “Write a poem set in space.”)

Hour 19 – Prompt 19 – Wings to fly

I may be content within the boundaries
of responsibilities I have taken upon me
But my words, they have their own dreams
and I find myself nurturing and encouraging

them — I give them wings to fly, fly
first to conquer the sky, then rain down
as droplets that enter each home and
heart. Now, they are all set to venture

into space. Beyond the realms of imagination,
they seek to discover the unknown. Will they
find the souls that are wandering — trying
to find their identity? Will they understand

why climate control and heat radiation is
fast becoming an issue? Will they stumble upon
negative forces that seek to destroy mankind?
Will they unearth the secret to step into Mars

and conquer the other planetary elements?
Just like future remains a mystery and life
is all about fitting pieces of the puzzle
Let my words find their own space, in their own time

(c) Vijaya Gowrisankar

Scabs

Scabs

 

I have scabs on my knees,

on my elbows, on my chin.

 

I fall, and catch myself

on the ground, not realizing

 

that it will be hard

to get up and walk away

 

unscathed. I carry my

scabs as badges, a map

 

of where I’ve been

and where I’ll go.

16. From the three witches in Macbeth (Shakespeare)

They say we are wicked witches
They say we make people do things they wouldn’t normally do
But really loves, if it’s not in your head already
We CAN’T make you do shit!
Hehehe!

It’s What You Want

Never enough of it because the throngs crash into me
When all I want to do is get to the other side of the street.
And the rare time I sit down to watch a movie or t.v.,
There’s the dog’s head or tail blocking the screen.
So I call her over to me, and in 90 degree heat, she,
Whose heredity traces back to Alaska, lies against me.

Relationships, the worst for the coveted thing since
no matter how hard you try, you can’t get him off,
To let go and do something on his own, without me.
I have a friend who’s a close talker, another who pokes,
And yet another who slaps me every time she laughs.
My mother was a hugger but even she could sense.

What is this prized possession we never have,
Well, not enough of, but we all need and want?
What’s her name? You thought she was beauty,
And you were wrong. Not money, nor fame, either.
Yes, family, marriage, children, some of us crave that,
But others could care less. No the thing is Ah, yes.