The Poetry Marathon

Pivotal

She decorated the butterfly net
Like one would expect her to:
Pink ribbons tied on the handle.
They fluttered in the gentle breeze
As she reached out a tiny hand,
And scooped up the small snake.
The science teacher said, “That is a great specimen”
The English teacher said, “Though she be but tiny, she is fierce”
She donned her graduation gown
Like the other girls did, too,
Over her dress and high heels.
And those who remember the pink ribbons
Smile, and watch to see what happens next.

Hour twelve

Mother Tongue

 

I never forgot this language—

the way my tongue should roll

when I pronounce the words

 

The accent

and expressions

grab the phrases strongly

 

The sentences

slip out of my mouth

with an ease

 

The pen doesn’t fumble

when I try to form curves

of the alphabets

 

The words are

the warm blanket

in the frost

 

The prose is

the lost home

which I found too late

 

The songs

have a tune which

resonates with my breath

 

I might have left my

mother tongue

but its existence never ceased

within me.

GOT Wannabe

This silly thought once came to me, in Game of Thrones I want to be
A friend of Arya Stark is “oh” or even wife of hot Jon Snow
Could also be tough Cersie’s friend I might make her a lot of thrones
Wise young lady I could be, a friend of the Mother of dragons

Or maybe I’ll be the one to write of all the scripts and story lines
I could direct the entire show and choose which one of them will go
By then I’ll be the show’s star, a wannabe, one whose a fan
Became the story’s heroine.

Hour Twelve, 90 to 100 words

Softened

When I’m far too connected,
too aware of world news,
when the blue computer screen
and the phone, the iPad,
the television, the everything
of everywhere overwhelm
my solitary soul, I search
for the soft, the disconnected,
the backward, the slow.

Reading by candlelight,
baking bread from scratch,
writing by a wood fire with
my feet propped on an open
window, a cup of fragrant tea
in the moonlight, or a nap
under a tree in dappled sunlight,
and I come back to myself,
back to life, awake and aware,
disconnected to connect once more.

Marathon Anniversary

What would I need to do
to make you stay?
Make a commitment
to another twelve…
I look back upon
our experiences together.
They say time makes you forget
the bad, remember
only the good.
I say – it’s still all too fresh.
I’ll finish us now.
Downsize. Compartmentalize.
Reconsider a year from now
whether or not
it was worth it.
Whether or not
I want to give it another go.
We made it through twice
so chances are pretty good
the theory is correct.
I will remember
what will make me
do it again next year.
With you.

Toy boy

Tin toy drummer high on a ledge

Tin toy drummer boy you’re an antique,

Little boys in your day would play without end

Using their imagination fun had no end

I wonder,how much I could get on on eBay, inbox me!

Biking Up the Driveway and Back

It’s not that the mailbox is too far
to walk to everyday, but that it’s just far enough
to make riding a bicycle meaningful.
Jim walks the dog every morning and evening,
but rides his bike to the box. On the way back,
he pedals while steering one-handed.

He takes joy in the idea of getting the mail.
He once checked three boxes daily, each one met
with the eagerness of unwrapping a birthday present.

Opening the mailbox is as satisfying as a meal.
When the flag broke off, he replaced it
with a serving spoon painted red.

hour 12: 1.5 generation

I’m a 90’s baby but I don’t know 90’s music
so if you say anything about Destiny’s Child I’ll just smile and nod.
Back then my mom was bumping Cho Yong Pil, and no—
you’re the one who’s missing out.

I still haven’t been given the sex talk by my immigrant mother
and I probably never will. I’m 22.
Public school health ed failed me too.
Friends and the Internet came to my rescue.

Only years after enduring stale cheese sticks
and pizza squares in the school cafeteria did I learn to appreciate
the dishes my mom can whip up with the humblest of ingredients—
get you some soy sauce, chili powder, and garlic—you’re set—
and anything lying around the house becomes
your next orgasm.

I spent as much time as my mother spent
making me write and rewrite the English alphabet and
spell out all the numbers up to forty
and reading books aloud
interpreting for her
at the grocery store
the bank
the school
even to the police.

But I always refused to step in
when the pizza guy couldn’t understand her accented “black olives”
because what on earth else
could she be talking about, pizza dude?

My mom never asked to read my writing
even when it was published,
and I never asked her to read it.
The unspoken agreement is that it’s the English
that is the barrier,
but I don’t think either of us
want to face the moment when she reads
about herself through my eyes.

As for me, I had to relearn the language that was
my birthright.

Prompt #12

Waking wet dreams 
passion drenched 
dancing bodies
souls uniting
spirits unfurling
bare skinned
stark naked
abandoned clothing 
lies all over the floor
tip toeing around
mischievous smile brimming
dry mouths
breathing heavy
panting
barely containing desires
bosoms aching
rib cages breaking open
hearts freed
running wild
deep dark forests
swaying hips
trembling lips
messy hair
grab a handful
pleasure or pain
you groan anyway
merging into one
orgasms take over
overpowering every nerve
commanding surrender
succumb to its way
attaining all.
Piercing gaze
now softened
quivering, uncontrollably
fingertips trace lightly
 a quake beneath the surface
I am awake
I am alive.
j.r.m©

.

Brotherhood

Who will fight with me?

Who will ride into battle with me?

Who will turn the tide of the war with me?

Only these boys

These brothers

These knights of our round table

Racing against the sunset

Taking action when no one else will

And swearing oaths that last a lifetime