The Poetry Marathon

14 A VERSER, A POETESS?

I am a verser, a rhymer

I believed I am

I considered myself one heck of a verser

But to be one

You have to be a word-miller

At any given instance, situation.

I am not that, I mean, dictionary-wizard, apparently

I could create several poems, verses, rhymes

IF I AM EMOTIONALLY CHARGED.

I could do, at the least, 3 poems simultaneously

If-I-am-emotionally-charged.

Sad, yes. Melancholic, more so

A heartbreak, oh me oh my, a hundred?

Kidding….

Joyous? Wow, what a beautiful world!

Elated? Incredibly eloquent!

And Ecstatic? Simply unbelievable…

So, disembarking from the high horse of

recent events

I am humbly re-introducing myself

trying to be a verser, a poetess

With or without the drama

I am trying to be one hell of a verser, a poetess, a rhymer

I am now you know..in the midst of a tearjerker..

getting there…

Hour 9

Hyperventilating.

A flash of memory distilled to a thought-

A lie, recognized

And needed to be relived

So it could be replaced

With truth

I hate this.

Hyperventilating and deep breathing

They are extremes

Of desperately trying to find homeostasis

One just feels better and is more apt to succeed

Homeostasis is hiding at the end of the brown paper bag

And underneath the yoga mat

That’s the real lie

The truth is those lies

The flash of memory

Never belonged to me in the first place

It was borrowed

From someone else’s hyperventilating

And deep breathing

Homeostasis is a very old place

The return of address

Would never reach me

I’m far too gone now

Replaced someone else’s fear

With Someone else’s strength

Replaced someone else’s sin

With Someone else’s embrace

Not borrowed, freely given

Makes the waves of anguish

Flashes of memory shorter lived

And the replacement with hope and rivers of water living

Just as natural as breathing

15~17

Would I Could

Like Pegasus Fly

Filled With Such Joy

Like Light In The Sky

 

Would I Could

Like Minotaur Roar

Finding My Way

Like Never Before

 

Would I Could

Like Medusa Stare

Turn You To Stone

Like I Don’t Even Care

 

Hour 15-Myth

What is a myth?

A story we tell our selves

To give someone else the blame

To hand them the control

To beg them to save us

Or venge us

Or fix our broken soul

 

We wish we had the mighty powers

Ruled from Olympus

Or protected the oceans

with a magic Trident

We imagine ourselves as the hero

in the belly of the whale

Willing to sacrifice

Everything so god would favor us

Give us all we need and desire

Because we remained faithful

Because we are worthy

Our myths feed our cynicism

our bigotry

Our self loathing

Rescue us from death

Somehow Jesus will save us

Vishnu will rescue us

Zeus will appease the volcano

and we will be free

We will load the animals on the ark

We will wander the desert for forty days

We will complete the tasks

And we will be the favored one

The Hero

The great master

God will call us to his side

Grant us ever lasting harps and forty virgins

But it’s just a story

A myth

A hero’s journey

A lie

Just a carrot we dangle

To keep ourselves blameless

Powerless and amused

 

 

 

Hour Fifteen

some kind of ancient myth. The myth can be from any cultural background or origin, but I am not interested in modern myths. The older the better.

The poem can go into the details of the myth and be a retelling of sorts, or it can just borrow a mythic element and place it the modern world. The details are entirely up to you.

Banished

By Patricia Harris

 

Forgotten Beauty

Warrior strong,

Because of parentage

Not allowed to belong.

 

Half in darkness

Death at her side,

Half in light,

Not allowed to have pride.

Forced into exile to hide.

 

Royal twice,

Strong and  quasi sane,

Watch the dead

Her occupation became.

As her own kin

Could not stand

Her to be a warrior

In any more than name.

Untitled

You don’t understand.
I’m not worried
that you are going to break up with me.
You are holding me while I cry,
as we talk about our future.
You tell me nothing has been decided.
You tell me that it’s going to be okay.
But you just don’t understand.

This was all I ever wanted –
you and I back together.
But now that I have it,
I’m not sure I want it.
It’s not making me happy.
So, you just don’t understand.
I’m not worried
that you might break up with me,
I’m worried that I might break up with you.

Myth

Under the silver waters, she waited for his return from Avalon.
Excalibur shone eternal, hanging
from her side as she danced
in the seaweed
when the mermaids would visit.

He has slept.
His time would again come when England needed him most and she would be by his side.
His slumber, keeping her waiting

Though

Time meant nothing to her
Means nothing to her

The sword, now heavy, weighs her steps down
the mermaids keep away
England is leaving the EU.

He still sleeps

She still waits

Excalibur rusts

Nobody Talks To

There are people that nobody talks to.

People like Allison, Greta, and Stan.

Allison lost both her arms in a car wreck. Losing arms isn’t like losing a leg. Wheelchair-bound is a common disability. Not easy to live with but regularly seen. Armless girls, well, nobody talks to these.

Having outgrown her girlish figure, skin’s luster gone, replaced with wrinkling. Greta doesn’t know how to exist in her body anymore. The fears run deep, who will I be when nobody talks to me?

Stan’s heard voices his whole life. They come to him whispered, but not from another world. The thoughts are from those around him, anyone he touches, who then thinks a word. Nobody touches Stan.

There are people that nobody talks to.

Like Allison, Greta, and Stan.

* Poem promoted by randomly drawn Storymatic cards.

Retired #8

Retired

After a bad night of bowling

His Brunswick rolled out the door

To be thrown off the Winooski Bridge

Into the Lamoille River

 

There’s a lot of balls in that river

He muttered still wearing the

Red and tan triple X shirt

Boasting Iggy’s Piggy’s

 

Wednesday nights now precarious

Offering blue light danger

Weaving from drink

He knew it was time

 

Leaving risk to younger men

He stayed home watching the game

Knowing he was done

Being anyone’s teammate

Goddess

8/5/17 8:26pm
Goddess

Sweet Gaia
Rustling through effervescent decades
She is the spiraling serpent that plucked the apple from the tree
She is the root of the tree.
She is Persephone
Licking pomegranate seeds, her fruit of the dead.
She is unafraid of the dead, unafraid of the underworld.
She is what made Orpheus look back.
It was she
That drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek.
And then reborn as
Venus spawning from the sea.
She is in the waves of every mouth
a god has ever kissed.
She is in the frail wrist of the fading,
Wading in the tides of dried flowers
and humble offerings.

What of psyche?
What of the personification of soul?
Wraps you up in satin sheets
and eats you whole.
Pours into every vein
Vain like Narcissus,
held in every echo.
Just like Echo, speaking only mirrors of her love.
Gaia, my love.
Pull you into the river to quiver along the valleys,
Gripping talons into the earth.
She is rebirth.
Infinite.