The Poetry Marathon

No Man’s Land (Hour 10)

NO MAN’S LAND

Somewhere between sinner and saint,
I reject the black and white brainwashing of religion.
There’s too much grey to ignore, too much love withheld,
and too much judgement cast.

I live between the fine line of being lost and found,
stumbling closer to the fence of hate with every right turn that was wrong,
every wise decision that fell apart.
In a fallen world, with infinite interpretations, a black and white world kills.

Reaching towards the impossibility of love,
between knowing and seeing the unknown,
beauty the biggest lie, and sealed with rejection’s kiss,
that is where I exist.
In a no man’s land of grey,
where I accept all people, though they do not accept me.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 10

Hour 8

Pools of blue

The color of the sky

When it is over cast but not cloudy

Depth perception

A little deceptive that high

We know how deep the sea, we float gradually

But always rocket into space

Pools of blue

Gravity pulls

Effort is equally distributed

In breaking from the weight

We would never rocket into the sea

 

Why then, do we push so deeply

Breaking and entering

Trying to leave the gravity of our own weight

Pushing into the eyes

Pools of blue

We should be sinking

Exploring the depths

And shining lights on mysteries

Instead of launching rockets at children’s eyes

15 – serpant –

it roamed the earth searching for a dream, its tongue flickered deep into the soil

flicking it into piles, growing hills, its body swam through the land

leaving crevices and gullies, to be filled with the endless tears cried by the night. its

lost scales forming mountain ranges that spaned the southern land.

 

-s.j.duncan-

 

 

 

 

 

The Unicorn

A symbol of purity and grace
A noble legend was born
I speak of none other
Than the graceful unicorn.
He had a coat so snowy white
And a preference for maidens fair
The brave would thus assemble
Only if they dared.
With nets flung wide, the hunters
Would taunt the kingly beast
With the help of a pure virgin
In their grasp the beast would cease.
As time went on the numbers curtailed
Of the creature strong and true
Until the day the unicorn
Vanished from their view.
So people can you listen
And learn from the unicorns plight
Never hunt the majestic likes
Of the unicorn for spite.

#15 Myth Revisited

We shall search until we find,

all the cities left behind.

Floods of water,

floods of sand,

erased the people, hid the land.

The tales are told of near perfection,

yet their presence defies detection.

From the tales that you have heard,

do you believe a single word?

Perhaps simply a teaching tale,

a reminder that life and things are frail.

The myth allows us all to feel,

that something dreamed of can be real.

Yet one thing is true for us on earth,

we’ll all experience death and birth.

So cities come and cities go,

as we will too.

When?

We don’t know.

No regrets

Close to a century ago

Seems shorter though

Eyes wide and ambitions high

Adrenaline on over drive

Toes & Fingers #7

Toes & Fingers

Aging appendages becoming

Independent leaning in

All sorts of directions

 

Flexing the right foot

Is a knobby enterprise

With casual cracking

 

Amusing though painful

Joints are becoming round

As youth disappears

Inside Out, Back to Front

Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Be right up your street!

            Hey, It’s not my idea –

            but it is you know, kinda cute.

I’m onto you, little miss Smart Arse,

with your Johansson skin & your ‘Come here’ giggle,

and those perfect eyes all Helloooey & smiley,

that chin so proud & cuppable!

With that face always there, as though you mean it!

              I do! I do – though I’m not entirely sure

             what I do mean or in fact

             what I’ve done to make you act like this?

No? Yeah? ‘Not entirely sure’?

Like you don’t know,

with your niceness and instant wake-up positivity,

your weekend hips

and those, those

undefeatable things, all, just, all…

              What, these? Breasts? Mammaries?

               Boobs? Tits? Bazonkas? Fresh, wet, puppies?

Ah, I see what you’re doing now!

I see what’s going on!

Distracting me with an ambush grin!

Next you’ll be telling me that

you actually like me being around?

Start employing your  feminine gills

              Guiles?

Gills! Ills! Wiles! And that girl power thing –

where you make me question if I should defend you

so if you got picked on

you’d do some of your special Kung Fu

and try not to laugh when I end up in casualty!

              You want to protect me?

              Bless! That’s sooo nice!

              But you don’t need to, honestly.

              I just…

What? What now ? ‘I just’ what?

You waiting for me to confess?

Bare my soul? Tell you something

you prob’ly already know?

Tell you how I can’t live without you?

How my life’s got so much better

since you’ve put the rugs straight and

thrown the blown tins so I don’t get

another dose of food poisoning?

That I hate it when you go away

and when you do a big shop you take so long

I feel like my lungs’ve turned inside out?

That I only stop feeling sick when

I can hear you breathin’?

That I fucking Love You?

Is that it?

That what you wanna hear?

           Don’t be daft, honey –

           I know that already.

          You show me every day.

I do?

           You do.

Well, what are we talking about, then?

I really, really don’t know.                                                        

A Garden Walk in August

On a Friday evening in August

we walked to the garden in Grandma’s back yard.

The children were treated to fresh tomatoes,

wrapped in waxed paper, salted by the shaker from the kitchen.

Looking forward to walking to the near-by creek

where they caught frogs, put them in Mason jars,

covered the jars with lids, punched holes on top.

What is the family mystery beloved because it takes

place at Grandma’s house, and happens on a steam filled evening.

Fruit, vegetables, jars of tomatoes, children using elbows to

get closer to frogs from the creek.

Is this memory a true one or a wish made when we are too old for mystery

involving the field, sunshine, Mason jars, laughter without cares?

The edge of this mystery is a darker recollection of loss, the hidden

story unrevealed that blocks the mystery we use poetry to disguise.

 

Old Air # 6

Old Air

Painted shut for decades

The old farmhouse windows

Hold wavy glass perhaps

One hundred years old

 

Remaining closed in spring

The bedroom stuffs up

With air that has been

Sitting since winter

 

Fans are placed to keep

The idea of fresh new air

But it is a ruse for

Those who know

 

Years of complaints

Matter little now as

They have grown old

With the air in the room