The Poetry Marathon

Hour Six

J 2

 

If you were here

turn around three times and wish

A hundred ways I’d let you know:

I would make your favorite dinner

and watch your favorite show

If you were here

 

If you were here

put the penny in my pocket and wish

I would strip you down and take you

stand you up, unmake you

I would cry out your name and slake you

to hear you cry out mine

if you were here

 

If you were here

blow out the candle and wish

I would hold you close and let you sleep

in my arms, while I keep

the vigil for your monsters

dispatch your demons and tormentors

and never let you fear

I would fight all my days and nights for you

Keep on all the lights for you

If only you were here, my love

If only you were here.

Prompt#6 Still editing on

Prompt #6
Stanza-one, Timer on
Run along pen
My mind the ticking bomb
What clock wears it out then
Powerhouse of my own workhorse
Catatonia is its pet alarm
Warns of mortal danger or bad harm

Math of clocks or my mental horns
Battle each other in high altitude
Where nonsense creeps into benumbed mind
Making it lose cold blooded aptitude
For the dark insane hunt of the ticking bomb

I run around with it in my mind
I am in flow of emotions, not temptations
I don’t want to manipulate my muse
Into submission beyond its grace and kind
Time and tide both clock their own countings
Time has hands, tide its crests and troughs
One framed by wood, metal etc
The other rocking between surf and shore
One puts human feet to trod
The other engages muses and me in trance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour six: Prattle

By willjxn

What is there in all of this,

That I want to write amiss?

Why do I find joy in verse?

Could my thinkings make things worse?

 

Poetry is my defence

To put face to arrogance,

Yes I know it isn’t much

But it gives me hope as such.

Not to mention— lovely touch.

 

Looking out onto the day,

I would love to share my way.

I would gladly give you sight,

Of the world as I see right.

Hope you think I’m not a bore,

That I share my thoughts some more.

If I had my way you’d see,

I might be like you could be.

 

In defence of all of this,

I would hope that you would miss,

All my prattling about,

And the thoughts I do without,

Put to words that make a rhyme.

Love to  hear your thoughts some time.

Hope you’ll share them here with me.

You might change eternity.

Write your words for all to see,

I’ll keep in mind what you— I’ll be.

Poet, interrupted

As I write my poem,
As I probe my consciousness for its buried longings,
As I meditate on words and phrases,
As I prepare to compose,
And set my fingers to the keys,
The power goes out.
Such is life.
—
We relocate to the library;
Enter to a scented breeze of pine wood and paper.
Adorned with maple leaves and festive décor.
My shoes scuff the carpet as I reminisce on the days of my youth,
Rummaging through shelves holding gems with worn covers and stained, wrinkled pages.
It is here, among the wood smell and the carpet burn and the promise of infinite universes,
That I first fell in love with writing.
I inhale the nostalgic smells
And resume.

Graffiti

HOUR SIX

An artist- a graffiti for appraisal
a solicitous effort to mend a chaos
White noise- a concoction of idiosyncrasies and vulnerabilities.

How to break this inertia?
Graffiti languishing in a loop- not a loop of Henle but maybe a loop of Karma?

You need a better word for it…
Break this inertia!

Our appetites feeds on raven-
Flushed out in Marshland.
Puncture wounds in the left-hand swallow the whole reality
Thoughts outpours seeped deep into the pink veins

Graffiti injected with the gigantic dope
Truth or chaos?
Can’t an artist fathom such things in delusion or a fugue state?

Graffiti {{Liberty}} {{freedom}} {{peace}} in a crowded LA street.
Where does the inspiration come from?
-the moldy scriptures, lethargies or oxidized ruminations
scribbled on the museum’s walls- “legacy and cultural renaissance.”

A dissonance is heard
a placid shriek
sound coming from the instrument resembling Taonga pūoro
Echo words {{{breathe}}}

Graffiti cemented in the pile of concrete walls
and landscapes
the city skyline and horizon looks dimmer than before.

The last night frazzled me out; the blushing Victorian street lamps merging dots of lights;

as I closed my eyes to end my fugue state.

The next morning, I wake up in the cozy bed of my elegant LA surroundings;

while half-asleep paintings gawked at me.

3-D Cubes in my mojito and everything goes back to monochrome again.

graffiti spotted in the LA city.
Ricochet {{{inertia}}} {{{three olives Vodka}}}

Copyrighted by Ruchi Chopra, 2017.

Prompt #6 (Corn Fields j.r.m©)

 

NOT ONE OF MY FINEST

The trees danced
with the mischievous winds
as the sun came out
from hiding.
Oh what a beauty to behold!

Out in the fields 
in the scorching heat
birds took shelter,
singing from tree tops.
The women began to hum
a tune in unison
to make time go by faster. 
Wiping away their brows
from time to time
squinting at the sun.

I remember a specific
memory back in time
when we were just kids 
running through corn fields
playing hide and go seek.
Stealing corn cobs
to roast on the fire.
Years later it was the same 
corn field where we shared
our first kiss and made love.
 

j.r.m©

 

60 90 120 Go!

Rain poured yet never asked me
Oblivious to my plans
My hopes
My outfits matched with shoes
and
My plans for fun.

I sit in the morning shadows
Waiting for the clouds to fly away
or at least 
Turn gray to cream white to toasted gold
With the sun coming
Through bronze chinks

Passing over, casting shadows, cooling this street patch of
bungalows, remodeled driveways, grassy yards turning back to green
Clouds drift then circle then hang
A tempting practice


* * * * * * * * 
Rain pours yet never seeks permission
Oblivious to my hopes set for summer regeneration, no longer the teacher working summers who 
Instead laughs like a coed through summer.
Still, it washes down, failing to admire
My outfits matched with shoes, all purchased at my favorite thrift store.
A $40 limit for a season of action --
Flowing, wearing down with miles upon miles, dancing, skipping, tearing when climbing walls.
Set against me, the water continues, swamping 
My plans for fun with 
The lively Silver Sneakers crowd, retirees who are active, sassy, happily opinionated 
After years of following the rules and being good.


I sit in the morning shadows 
Waiting for the clouds to fly away or at least 
Turn gray to cream white to toasted gold 
With the sun coming 
Through bronze chinks.
Cello music fills my home as
I wander through my rooms in casual summer glory,
My dark hair scooped up in a colorful scarf.
Surely looking like I should be out on a Vespa while
Sipping iced drinks,
and 
I sigh as the last sonorous note fades.
 


Passing over, the clouds cast shadows,
Cooling this neighborhood's patch of bungalows, grassy yards turning back to green,
Independent shops, community schools, dog parks, and community gardens.
My polka-dotted umbrella at the ready,
I peek out. 
Clouds drift then circle then hang 
A tempting practice
For the eclipse to come
When I will be like a starlet of old
Walking through the clouded, rain-soaked streets
or this
Darkened, mysterious, changing world
Knowing my moment in history
Though no one else, not even the clouds, realize.  

Hour Six: Swill

I have cracked elbows and tattered toes

my mind is warped and frayed

my doctor says I overdose

I laugh but should have prayed

 

My daughter says “No midnight snack!”

The wine I drink is swill

I’m waiting for a heart attack

I’m sure I have no will

#6 Yesterday

Yesterday was

my last chance

to back out

of this undescribable competition

 

I didn’t

I will endure

til the lst hour

twenty hours from now

maybe?

 

I’m not sure

I’m in til it’s over

sometime tomorrow

when words will slur

and sentences sleep

Hour 6: Untitled Naani

the black beady eye of midnight
blinks a thousand times over
gaping in wonderment at this
the day