The Poetry Marathon

word limited poem – #12

Well, it’s just happened; the happy half-marathon
has come to an end. How could this be?
No 12 hours ever before flew so swiftly by.
yet now I must bid you all good-bye
holding gratitude for your challenging guidance –
not to mention inspirational variety.

Perhaps new friends will emerge
along with helpful feedback offered.
In any case, expect me back next time around
bells a-jingling for 24 full rounds. Helpful Hint:
short gardening stints work wonders
between stanzas and lines. Some dirt
beneath these nails, but clear-headed
and stalwart the brain. Thanks again everyone 🙂

swb

INFP

For the introvert, the harvest

of spoken syllables is

meager.

Go on, ask a friend

for her spare

words.  Ask your husband;

he doesn’t know how to be

quiet.

Ask yourself “Is this garden really

worth it?”

I assure you, it is.  Dig down.

Friends and husbands are fine,

but your garden of thoughts can feed

the hungering world.

 

J. Pratt-Walter, © 8/5/2017

 

Po Boy 40 (11)

I always wanted

to ride into town,

point my Colt .44

down the street,

fire off some rounds over the heads

of strangers and friends.

 

Bulbs burn bright red,

inviting patrons

up the steep steps where

the red-haired girl waves

from the top stair,

saying good-bye to the dreams

she could never quite imagine.

 

The bullet hole in the mirror

would like to tell a story,

but reflects only the misery

in his gray eyes, as I wheel

my Strawberry Roan

around on his heels,

Dodge gunfire

and ride out of town.

two gardens

the cucumbers in the garden have a lot of room
to roam, to run
but instead they try to climb the tomatillo plant
or the sunflowers
no matter how many times we tell them, “no”

the teenagers in the house have a lot of time
to roam, to run
but instead they try to stretch the boundaries of curfews
or chores
no matter how many times we tell them, “no”

we pick the cucumbers and bring them in the house
to pickle
or eat in sandwiches

we watch the teenagers grow up and leave
to blossom
and eventually bloom

Just Barely Short Enough (Hour 12)

An emptiness within an emptiness,
ever consuming the only means of escape,
with passionate desolation.

The darkness is but a pierced blanket
adorned with a brilliant multitude of stars.
At no edge is it ever thick enough
to deny the light of inspiration.

Time brings bright smiles and young laughter,
new love and a sense of belonging.
Desire grows to fight against the swelling apathy,
to take life back from the clutches
of disillusionment and abandon.

Choking upon an untrue breath
using love as a means to cheat death.
It is a lie that erases,
the difficulty of struggling.

Prompt twelve

 

I took a long walk

Down this old road

The one that curves left

Then right

And ultimately disappears

If only for a moment

But in that moment

Was it despair or delight?

Feeling lost

No boundaries

Exhilarating

Terrifying

My breath escaping me

Yet my eyes entranced

Partly wanting direction

Mostly needing adventure

Walking slower the further I travel

Enjoying this moment

Time was released

Dusk was coming quick

But I had no worry

My hands explored the new-found foliage

As my heart grew in bounds

My breath returned to me ten-fold

I was never really lost

My heart now found

No map was needed

To find this moment

Just a long walk

An old road

And eyes that could see

What an old soul

Desperately needs

Hour Twelve

Write a poem that contains no more than 100 words and no less than 90 words. If you repeatedly use the same word it only counts once. For example if the word umbrella was used 10 times in your poem you would only count it once.

The word count feature (bottom left of this text box) is your friend!

Books

By Patricia Harris

 

Musty old tomes

In plies overgrown

Falling from every corner

Of my home.

 

Reading each with reference,

Feeling though each is a member

Of my own beloved family.

Words written down,

Read quite often in the passing time.

 

Well worn spines

On covers handled too many times,

Pages smeared with fingerprints

Still read just fine.

 

Beloved stories

Standing the test of time,

Reminding me of less complicated

Periods in my mind.

 

Dreams dripping ink,

In ancient yellowed pages.

Telling childhoods oldest thoughts

For the world to see

The love that remains.

over

over and over things repeat
palindrome, square, cube, overlap,
spirals on a snail’s back, edges in the sand

over and over things repeat
radar, murmur, shshsh, alfalfa,
circles in an old tree trunk, aerial photos of coastland

over and over things repeat
|-*-|, |-*|-*, |*|*|*, |-*|-*|
habits of your parents that you picked up secondhand

Fingerprints

“I want to be bruised by god”- a line of poetry tattooed on my shoulder

 

There but for the grace of God go I

Restless, wandering, assaulted by want

Cornered by the very comforts we cling to

 

We can howl. Demand. Stomp our feet. But we cannot cease to be.

Like fruit, Rotting in the bottom of the crate, bruised

By

The fingerprints of God

Prompt 12

I don’t know what to write about. I’m just gonna go with it to see where it leads me spewing out random words hoping they unite hand in fist like paper, rock, scissors. I’m possibly giving this too much thought or maybe even a pinch, sprinkled with every possibility that any word can fit. Even colors of the rainbow can join this poem aka the word game. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet. Who ever came up with Roy G Biv anyway? 16 more words to go. I’m on a role now. Or so I think. I should be safe within ninety and 100..