The Poetry Marathon

16 AN ODE TO MY 2/3

He’s an spitfire

LITERALLY, figuratively.

He could double the 360 degree

For half of your effort.

He’s an inquisitor

He could make you groping for words

to come up

With plausible replies to his questions.

He’s a thinker

But you would not dare to know

what he’s up to

He’s a lovable tyke

He’s the one who would not hesitate to say

“I love you too” without proddings.

He would not hurt a fly (hmm..)

But could make his contemporaries

catching for dear breath with one

of his “playful” punch

He loves dogs, specifically, or animals in general

He would cuddle a canine,

anytime you give him the go

or even a No.

He’s sweet, caring

That every time he sees you with his Mom’s things,

he’ll not let you forget it.

He’s a child of 7

But a mind of a 37.

Be sure to be armed with high-fallutin’ words (conio style)

Or he would beat you into it, effortlessly

He could out-discoursed you in any given time/subject

Provided, you “peaked” his interest, and

he’ll get something out of the situation.

He’s a big bro to his younger sibling,

if he CHOOSES to

But most of the time…. well, next subject please.

He could make you laugh, or even cry

Or just plain exasperated

Altho’ he’s an all -out pleaser.

Jonathan Nepomuceno II, a.k.a. ‘Kuya’ Nate,

You’re all those and more

And given another go to being your ‘Loli Moms’ to you

hands down, arm outstretched,

A hundredfold YES!

You’ll be always my 2/3 Love

And don’t you forget it!

A Loss of Heart (Hour 17)

Regret’s lingering hand still clasped to the remnants of atrial cities,
Ruinous tombs suppressed beneath the corridors of vena cava catacombs,
Halls of hollowed entrails are a tangled labyrinth of intersecting lava tubes,
Where feeding worms devoured their own escape routes.

They eat the wilting decay at the edge of ventricle petals,
Leaving disfigured chambers to swell with vitiated blood
Pumping thinned oxygen to struggling organs with an unaccented cadence.

I have gained an emptiness that aerates the paralysis of grief.
I have gained a tolerance to pain I can no longer feel burying its wound inside me.
I have gained a new resistance to the misleading folly of intuition,
I have gained an immunity to love.

So it begins

Let the darkness penetrate your body
Don’t be fooled by the frauds and charlatans
By this time tomorrow, society will have moved on without you
At least you burned through the night

Don’t be fooled by the frauds and charlatans
When everyone else presumed you dead
At least you burned through the night
You rose steadily and exonerated mankind

When everyone else presumed you dead
Another journey around the sun
You rose steadily and exonerated mankind
And not much had changed

Another journey around the sun
Let the darkness penetrate your body
And not much had changed
By this time tomorrow, society will have moved on without you

Hour 17-Loss

Life, death, love, loss

It’s all cliche

It’s been done

Overdone

That broken heart

That dead loved one

That big hole left in the soul

We all live it, survive it

Poet’s write about it

Musicians sing about it

It makes our ” I can’t” Into ” I can”

 

This time I refuse

I can’t come to some grand acceptance

Fuck loss

Fuck death and it’s dirty tricks and games

There is nothing glorious or manageable

About a heart being ripped apart

Friends gone

Family dead

Another loss, another funeral

Another sad goodbye no one wants to do

No it doesn’t make us stronger

There is no God plan to rescue us

There is no brighter tomorrow

Just more of the same

 

Do you hear me?

Poem hour 1

Do you hear me?

I hear the sounds between raindrops
the words you do not say, the thoughts you drop my way
But do you hear me?

The answers tucked away in warm blankets of sarcasm
The laughter that rings out to hide my fear
A subtle pause placed here and there

My silence

Do you hear?

We interrupt your program to bring you this important message

Ads add up

Slows down Internet

Leaves one wondering

What happened after the alien burst out of the guy’s chest?

America Lost

Thee America

where is your heart?

look at yourself

what have we become?

hate has prevailed

caring has fled

perhaps there’s no heart

let history reflect on that part.

 

 

 

 

Weary is the Dove

Stepping from mourning into the light of morning, the soft, gray dove perches high upon a crest.

Mr. Owl, kind, eyes wide with wonder, asks, “Whatcha doin’ up so late, pretty, little lady?”

The dove coos, realizes what she took for the sun was only a street lamp, and wearily heads off, back to bed.

Late Night Movies

The deepest conversations

I’ve had while watching late night movies

Couple beers in

Truths start flowing

Words are said

In between action scenes

And dramatic lines

And poking fun at the movie

We say things we should say

The last of us

This is what it’s come to.

Being the last line of defense in a

World that struggles to keep from crumbling in on itself.

Whatever the case, I will always be prepared to ward off the forces of darkness.

It’s tough work but somebody has to be out there doing it

Lest the universe descend into anarchy.

Not on my watch.