The Poetry Marathon

Black Swan Lake

The black swan lake in a misty night, waddled, longingly to find a lost love,

Her lady swan, left him in the dark, when a great flood washed them out from the Lake Eerie.

The storm quiet down and the seagulls are coming back the shores.

When the early morning has broken, a white beautiful swan lake waddled gently in the lake as if someone has been missed.

But a strong cool breeze swept the perfume of every petals to set an enchanting  night of romance.

The black swan lake finally met her beautiful swan.

 

 

 

 

 

Flown

The Bird of Plenty

has flown from this house.

Nowhere can you hear

her orange song like syrup

in your ears.

Tomorrow, say the right prayers

and call her back, prayers being

selfless deeds you give

the world

from the ache in

your hinterland heart.

J. Pratt-Walter (c) 2017

Hour 12.

certain endings

beginnings

steadfast continuation

on

till the final breath

intermediate slumber

and then forwards

new horizons await

 

Red Hat

Blonde woman with gamin haircut

and a bright red hat

does not wish to be overlooked.

At the step before the top step

everyone looks at her,

yet all we noticed was her yellow

feather attached to the hat’s brim,

and all we recalled was broad brimmed

bright red hat.

 

Acrostic Writing

When I’m writing, I get lost in myself, lost in the moment, lost in the story, lost in passionate imagination.

Right-hand controls the wielded weapon, while the left hangs on for dear life, keeping sanity intact for us all.

Infinite are the possible stories, characters, settings, and images, to set them all free at once, is how I fill my pages.

Tender are the moments when a protagonist dies or the heroine meets the man of her dreams, during his birth.

Infectious is the drug of spirited discovery, when the muse plays her music, in my mind, and I dance to the rhythm.

Never can I go back from this life I’ve established, created, molded, and now relish more than I ever thought I would.

Grateful is the emotion that springs forth every day that I wake up to a blank page and declare, “I am a writer.”

on the other side

10. There is no difference

There is no difference

Between you and your money

Your face is like a bank

Note that you never smile

On there, in god we trust

But where is the church

In the stock

Market me now

To buy me love

And believe in yesterday

Don’t beat me twice

Or I call my mum

And she will tell you off

Off the beaten track

There is no difference

Between you and a monkey

Monkey business

You’re high

On your tracks

You’re flat on

Your feet

Go down the aisle

Search for favorite cream

The new ham

And the crafty sauce

Your mum loves

There is no difference

Between a till and you

You both count on no one

But your wallet

To count your money

In change and notes

Nothing in your journal

About the death of

Your dad

Only numbers

And greed

Only fluffers

And deeds

There is no difference

Between you and your account

No balance to balance

Your life and your wallet

Which is the heaviest

You don’t know

And don’t even consider

That thing to be true

There is no difference

You look honest

But it’s only a look

And you don’t look

At what is not seen

What a mistake

There is no difference

Between a clown

In a circus

And you

Oh yes there is one

He is smiling

And people laugh

At least

There is no difference

Homage

 

 

Interplaying homages of every poet’s tales unleashing

Wording valuable like gold tidings as well as his legacy

Creative juices earmarking every steps of the way

Liquidity and solidity of every crisp verses in its interval

Clarity and cohesiveness like a pudding on a small plate

Dessert of every moment cascading times refreshing

Pleasing times emulating in every corner enriching anew

Trials and joyous experiences always reminding

Classic tales of varying nomenclatures reaching its hype

Launching in every moment as inspiring stories

Lucidity in nature of our humanity

Giving off meaning and depth

A true being in the universe

 

 

 

 

© Roy Mark Azanza Corrales 06082017  8:05   AM PST

 

 

Red

My eyes are blurred with tears, the only color I see is red.

Thoughts of anger and vengeance are spinning in my head.

I trusted you with my heart, but you carelessly threw it away.

You entangled me in your lies and the sick games that you play.

After I’ve been scorned and the tears have all been cried.

I will find a way to make you pay, and you’ll wish that you had died.

The jig was always up

Fiddle music
someone playing a jig
or dancing one
I think of my grandfather

immigrant Gramps,
Norwegian as they came
would dance a jig
of celebration;
in front of the TV following
a home team victory
in the aisles of the ballpark
after a home run
upon winning a game of
whist, or cribbage

when bowling a strike

always sans music,
though he would
sometimes whistle
Gramps would simply jig
when the mood struck –
musicless, endearing,
gleeful, dance-of-one

arms, fists, elbows,
pumping by his side,
his feet shuffling, then
big finish –
running one hand over his
head, smoothing out
what remained of his
silver, Vitalis slicked hair

I have tried a little jig
from time to time with little
positive reaction
I lack the moves, the look –
the suave panache

But I got the DNA
so there is always hope

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
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