The Poetry Marathon

My Magical Path by Ingrid Prompt 11 Picture

My path bathed in Moonlight and,

Serenaded in Song

by Crickets and Treefrogs

as I

continue along.

Hour 10 – What is love that does not manifest

Shared sunsets that brilliantly illuminate 
contours of the horizon with plateaus and spires
and low hanging puffs of clouds
and empty words of desire

Songs written about your love lost
an aching heart longing for closure
hope disappearing into deep valleys
shared for effect, but not inspired

Moments like these do not true love make
empty places where words could relate
lost opportunity for the one who wants
someone like me, instead of one who haunts

post 11

extraordinary in ordinary

we have worlds within, and history recapitulated from prehistory and mimicked in our selves

how the single-cell precursor was attacked by some bacterium, swallowed it and kept the best bits for itself, played reassembly and brought out the mitochondria, worlds smallest batteries, infinitely (or just about) rechargeable, rebootable, refoldable,

how in the end it unspindles and we die

Prompt 11

One cent travels

Hour 11- Ode to My Coffee Cup

I have a special coffee cup

I hold it in my hands

Others might not think it much

But I sure do think it’s grand.

It holds a fragrant, dark elixir

That keeps me going through the day

This little coffee cup

Helps me have a lot to say.

If something were to happen to

My precious coffee cup

I’d never make it through another day

I would just have to give up.

So in this ode to a splendid vessel

That assists me to lift off from zero

I salute you my sweet and warm mug

You are definitely my hero.

Hour 11: A humble paperclip

In the realm of the mundane and plain,
behold the humble paperclip.

So small but mighty,
a saviour of papers.

Bending and twisting,
an emblem of order in a chaotic space.

A humble paperclip,
uniting pages, dreams and thoughts

Soupy mix

And I bring the sauce
The salt
And the spice
To the soupy mix you call life
Heck! your life would be meaningless
Without me

Hour #11, Charges

Hour #11 Changes

 

The glooming arrives earlier

now, dropping like a curtain

along the path of the rising moon.

 

This is when we most expect silence

but the city isn’t quiet, nor

are the woods. And tonight, weirdly,

 

the full moon begins to wail. My heart

drops at the sound, as I know I’m complicit.

I’ve remained silent to a crime being

 

perpetuated for eons. There is no

separating blame. The wound is too old.

It’s time to tell the moon our stories.

 

 

 

Hour 11 – Ribbons

Ribbons

Ribbons of light hung in the air
Swooping from pole to pole
Stretching high across the sky
Drawing the eye upward

The power lines above the construction site
Reflect the golden rays from the setting sun
I tell myself it has no right to be beautiful
But it is

Hour 11-Magic

There is nothing ordinary

about the beginning of a poem.

Somewhere magic is released.

A small glow of a word or concept,

a flicker of truth.

Magic.

Words descend into ideas,

not fully formed yet.

Birthed anyway.

An enchanted beingness,

from a glimmer of the mysterious.