The Poetry Marathon

Hour Eleven: My Favorite Pokemon, Mew

Author’s Note: Yeah…I’m too addicted to the music I’m listening to do the Hour Eleven Prompt, so I’m going to do something that’s similar to one of the later prompts, except I’m not going to talk in the point of view of a well known character. I’m going to talk about a well known character, and that is Mew from Pokémon. She is my favorite character. In case you want to know about the music I’m listening to, that goes along with the theme, it’s In The Water by GAWVI and Closer by GAWVI. 🙂

Mew,

from the moment I saw you,

I smiled.

Your beauty,

from the inside out,

makes all the other Pokémon pale in comparison

to you,

even that popular Pikachu.

 

But Pikachu has soulless eyes

whereas yours have soul to them.

There’s a reason why you are so rare,

and that is why.

 

Despite your short appearance in Pokémon,

you have left a special place in my heart.

In you,

there is eternal joy.

 

From the bottom of my heart,

I thank you for being a part of my life.

You are forever missed.

17~17

Seventeen, My Seventeen

How I Miss My Lover

 

He said to me

That he must go

Where his ashes are

I do not know

 

Seventeen, My Seventeen

How I Want My Lover

 

He said he did not want to leave

I knew not then

How deep I’d grieve

 

Seventeen, My Seventeen

How I Need My Lover

 

I look for you

But you aren’t there

I turn around

You’re everywhere

 

Seventeen, My Seven Teen

We met when we were 17

 

A Poem About Loss

Who would have thought that we’d have this day (after all the time we’ve squandered and lost)

as stage 4 slowly takes you away

in each of your belongings that i rummage through, its that one thing that seems brand new

photo albums long come unglued, me – sharing, you; I loose in this battle too, pathetic but true.

Posters of us from way back then still stick to you wall bearing witness to all.  love and passion of drummer and dancer easily did blend

 

i give my heart anew to make this transition so burdensome for you

So strike up the band and wave your hand (El Maestro!)

As we dance away upon our cloud. never again to be without you

 

 

Unexpected Loss (another prompt 17)

I wanted to try a Golden Shovel poem from an earlier prompt tonight. I happened to do this one, also on loss.

From W.B. Yeats – When You Are Old
“But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you”

 

 

The weather was always too hot for you, but

that didn’t stop us from taking joy from the one

thing we loved most–togetherness. You were such a man.

Afternoons were the times we talked and loved

best. Joy sparkled in our blissful oneness. The

trust in your soft eyes encouraged my pilgrim

spirit, your nurturing fed love into my soul.

No doubt crept between us, yet we parted in

disarray. My heart still beats with a hole in the shape of you.

Palette

My neighbour irons nights at her first floor window

keeping one eye for Love Island, the other on me,

After 6 months she asked if I’d be buying curtains

with such conviction it sounded like

she’d witnessed something still to happen.

 

These unemployed years

she contents herself with the amusement of

someone gratefully retelling a witnessed car-crash,

logging my late night hours, remarking that

my tv still glows between pole & frame

and how, each time she gets up to relieve herself,

she thinks I must be a vampire.

Doubtless all the black doesn’t help.

 

Yet, yesterday I saw a girl so white

she blazed from the distance

a planning notice resonates,

cheek flesh the hardboiled hue of Cool Hand’s bet,

neck a counter slick of skimmed milk

butting two unsheathed reams of clavicles,

with a sternum of tripe pinned so tight

her cleavage shone like lid-clinging

home-brand, Greek yogurt,

limbs tapering into the sun,

ankles, wrists as Tippex bright

as her High Top toecaps.

 

But

 

no matter how much breath her

floating step, dancing hem

filleted from me,

I could not say a word,

for in the instant of eye-shift behind lens,

of lip-rise and drop again

I knew

that every kiss would leave her mauled

like a drowned girl in the morgue

been mapped for bruises.

Hour 17–KSR

I don’t have the polite eulogy

in my memory bank

others seem to expect

I could remember the good times

if I could remember the good times

I can’t think of him without judgement

without his skulking exit

from an island long dead

I simply don’t know

how much of him was real

ambiguity sits quietly like a Buddha

and the truth is

I don’t need to know

 

 

Perfection

 

Poem 3

Perfection

Toes curl away from the cold
Away from the rushing waves
Sand, such tiny particles
Collect in clumps at my feet.

Course and vile
Yet playfully soothing
I wiggle painted toes and laugh
from a depth not often sought

And I’m lighter than before
Seeking nothing more

Than to be perfection which was here from the start.

17

I had beginner’s luck,
awestruck,
conjecture.

All for fun house mirrors
and a little bit of fog.

Death Resists Metaphor

and proverb too,
its walls unblemished
by strikes that snuff
the brightest stars.

Pick one,
toss it to the grieving.
Study their faces
for gratitude.

Now picture this:
You cradle your
breathless child,
kiss his face,
surrender her to
men in masks
and gowns.

Imagine the
sound of an
empty glass,
that metaphor
unfurled to
comfort you.

Prompt 17

Joy Division, 1 a.m. – Prompt 17

The first boyfriend I lived with
had a CD single
of “Love Will Tear Us Apart Again.”

For two years, he and I had a pattern.

He wrote at his computer, a bag of grapes nearby.
I came home and made our dinner salads,
and, later, wrote through the night.

We never talked about marriage.
We talked about names we would give to children
we never had.

The other day,
I saw a picture he posted of his son,
named for Dashiell Hammett.

My new boyfriend and I agreed on no kids.
He’s a Journey fan.

I love him despite this.