The Poetry Marathon

Autumn Mourn

The fourth quarter of the year

When the tropical wind stooped down

To give way to arctic cold wind

The wind is freezing cold while,

The autumn are bursting in colorful tapestry.

From red, orange, yellow, green, brown purple and pink.

But, when the fall season begin, the beauty of the leaves started fading

And begun crushing on the ground, in accordance with the law of

A natural death.

A life cycles of nature has to die and reborn and.

Its glorifying color slowly withered and die.

The October kaleidoscope show of colors symbolize joy and sadness.

October is the season of death and the reason why we celebrate Halloween.

And the Fall harvest has ended and why we celebrate thanksgiving,

For another bountiful harvest.

 

 

#10 Conundrum

I can’t relax

I am twenty-four hours a day of jittery

A short, walking, double shot of espresso

Feet to the pavement, in constant motion

Walk, walk, walk, walk

Down new and familiar streets

Mapping and remapping this city in my head

Cartography for my solitude

This is my quiet

Because stopping, taking a breather

Is cowardice, defeat, and

Would allow my brain to pause just long enough

To let the spastic ruminations, what ifs

Worst-case scenarios, and internal disaster planning

Stake their place.

Too many thoughts, too many worries

Not enough space to put them all

No way to keep them down

Hold them back

Block their escape

If I stop moving

Walking is my rock, thoughts are my paper

And yet

While rock holds down paper, paper covers rock.

color – #10

I love our annual Green-Up day
how we gather as a community
to clear winter’s debris, the white

styrofoam cups and black plastic
packs from take-out or -home,
the yellow banana peels turned black

from winter’s long cold, the amber
beer bottles with their red markings
and the occasional blue unmatched mitten

our own fingers turning black
from picking up trash and placing it
into those long green garbage bags

lettered to remind us that litter
is a shared affront to us and the land —
our entire state of being.

swb

Rescued

She looked up at me with big eyes, her head tilted to one side.

She sat at my gentle command and wagged her tail with pride.

I petted her, then walked away, but she came back for more.

When I ventured to bed that night, she slept by me on the floor.

This sweet little dog came into my life, needing to be saved.

But I wasn’t sure if I could give her the attention that she craved.

She gave me unconditional love until I knew it was meant to be.

I was asked to rescue her, but instead she rescued me.

Positron Emission Tomography (PET) Scan (Hour 10)

Bringing forth the vital colors of existence,
portrayed in bleeding masses spilling
over confining lines of shape.

Abstract illusions falling in and out of view,
where mystery dances a wild macabre
in the swirling plumes of purple and green.

Black absence, a deep, smoky emptiness
hollowing its way through the hearts of every color,
with the shades of ethereal eternity.

Culminating reds, highlights of silver growing denser than gray matter.
Striking metallic flames, like silent cosmic fire,
behold the burning colors of thought!

The blues and yellows of stabbing lightning, piercing,
burning pathways of streaking brilliance,
through thunderclaps of orange radiance
pulsating with a living heat.

The mind is alive.

Green Grass

Green is the color of grass

when do we see?

we hardly look down.

the world in a rush.

On a metal bench

nowhere to look

its gray lonely floor

I longed for green grass.

Its scent filled my nostrils

I missed it so much

I wasn’t there long

but I now always notice green grass.

Prompt 10

If we could agree on a nice shade of grey,

The world would be a much better place.

“Ten – Nonsense on the Farm. A Sonnet. Sort Of.”

 

Ten little cabbages. Ten little pink pigs.
Ten times the whistle-man, whittled whistle twigs.
Whistle for the pigs, boy, whistle for the pigs.
Whistle till the cows come home, wearing piggy wigs.

Ten great big cabbages. Ten chickens lay eggs.
Everything time a chicken lays, the whistle-man begs.
Begs for an omelet. Begs for dancing eggs.
Begs for the cows to come, dancing on two legs.

Why not a rooster? Why not a hen?
Why not a rabbit-pirate, shooting up the pen?
Why does the whistle-man whistle piggies in?
Where has the rooster gone? How high? And when?

Ten little dancing piggies, et up all the omelets.
I wish they’d et up all these words, then they’d make sense.

Poem 8

Silence not without sound,
Space is not empty
And darkness has light to be found

Seeing darkness,
I know light.
Hearing silence,
I know music.
Touching emptiness,
I let go
of myself.

Pot o’ Gold

Raging, rumbling waters
Over the cliff I will descend
Yonder, to the rocky bottom
Green pastures surround the shallow pool
Beneath the water I float like a ghost
Into my lungs the water seeps
Violins are playing for my demise