The Poetry Marathon

To Do

I am going to clean the whole house
And scrub every floor, and dust every corner and trinket
And fold all the laundry and actually put it away
And bathe the dogs and walk them
And buy groceries and make sure they’re organic
And make a good home cooked meal
And wash the dishes right after
With all the food groups
And read the classics
And finish my novel
And get a raise at work because of all the initiative that I’m going to take
And weed the garden,
And finally install that new light switch
And start meditating
And learn piano
And save for a trip to China,
And see the great wall, and be cultured,
And be a good wife and take care of my partner,
And be all things to all people
And I cannot fail

Spitballs and Evergreens

Spitballs and Evergreens
VCS

Wrapped in torn remnants
Of papers
With names and places
Most of which mean nothing to me
They have stuck to me
Like spitballs
Cast by naughty children
Sitting bored
At the back of math class
Immobilizing me
Pumping me full of immortal resin
My soul pushed and pulled
In a stream of paperwork
I didn’t start
With a zip code written
On my DNA that branded me
Before I was made to order
Like a homunculus with no purpose of my own
Full of amber sap dripping from evergreen trees
Buried under the earth
I ring my bell
I’m still not dead
I’m still not dead
I ring my bell
From my tomb
Encased in my mummy suit
made from ancient scrolls
I never read
I’m still not dead
I ring my bell
My soul is my own
I did not choose to speak
Yet I must
I will not be an Immortal Buddha
And once more I rip off these
scabs of paper and emerge newborn
from the grave you’ve already dug for me
Because I’m still not dead
I walk the earth
I ring my bell
I sing my song
I will not drink the poison
The evergreen is ever dead
But I am not
I’m still not dead
I’m still only just a new born
Ringing my bell
As my cry to the universe.

Just Die Already  

 

 

So sorry. He passed.

Passed by?  Passed over?  Passed through?  Passed out?

 

He passed on.

Passed on the promotion?  Passed on the second helping?

I’m sorry. I need more than a preposition.

Passed on to what?

A new job?  Another life?

Passed on to where?

A new town?  Another dimension?

 

No. He passed away.

Away from what? Away from whom?

 

He passed away from life.

Finally, a complete sentence.

So sorry. I understand now.

Life if hard.

 

 

428 Muench Street

Shortly after

Christmas in 1952

She had a little broom

To sweep a little room

But found it held surprises

Held high enough from it to hang

Stretching she could swing

With great ease that she did

Till sweaty tiny hands did slip

Down she went to

The floor with a crash

And in her chin a gash

Laughs and giggles

Disappeared amongst

The tears and

Stitches saved that

Winter day on

MuenchStreet in old

Harrisburg, PA

By Kathleen J Kidder at 12:59 PM on 8/5/2017

Let The Paint Dry

Sometimes it’s the smallest little realizations that make the biggest splashes,

 

I’m honored to hear natures voice sing in my heart, cause what’s worse than painting over wet paint?

 

You know? Bruce Lee couldn’t hear this and his legs stopped walking, this is what it took.

 

“You will never walk again.” Said the doctor. And Bruce sat in deep thought.

 

Months and months went by as he further defined his theories. Did he really lose his legs?

 

Or was nature forcing him to let the paint dry?

 

See, I draw with pencils and well, they’re already dry.

 

I started panting cars and that first layer looked like shit, I couldn’t tell why.

 

Later the next day I began again and it hit me, “You gotta let the paint dry!” I screamed.

 

I ran into the house and I stared.

 

I stared at my drawing, over 2,000 hours already invested into it.

 

I haven’t worked on it for about a month and I realized that I was just letting the paint dry.

 

Suddenly the drawing opened up to me. What do I do? How do I finish?

 

All of these things, I suddenly knew. And I finished that drawing in my mind.

 

I’m still letting the paint dry a little bit. It’s okay to take a break.

 

Natures voice is soft, easily missed. But when you’re as strong willed and dedicated as I am,

 

Nature just might take your legs for a short time while the paint drys.

 

You see, my friend, sometimes it’s the smallest realizations that make the biggest splashes.

 

Hour Two- Yearnings

When silence was the only word, 

Emotions knew no downpour, 

I knew not who I was. 

 

Now, the silence knows its way, 

Emotions are building its pace 

Led by new wings to fly. 

 

Copyright © Snigdha 

 

Hour 6 – Thoughtless

It started without thinking,

No plans were made

Or broken.

No outlines drawn

Or ideas hewn.

It started without thinking.

 

Without thought what do we create?

The value of inspiration

The priceless muse

To drive us.

Without planning do we ever

Get where we want to be?

 

Whatever we do we end up

making plans, even for the moment.

You can’t live tomorrow today.

You can’t live yesterday tomorrow.

All there is, is now.

But now still needs thought.

Now is every day.

Hour 6

The timed prompt was actually more fun than I thought it was going to be! 😀

 

Cafe Writer

Words flowing from pens

Stories hidden within our minds

Breaking free through quickly written words

 

My stories always half finished

My mind never sure of what’s next

My pen stops in the middle of action

My mind not giving the hero’s next step

My pen stills story lost

 

I look around the cafe again

People living their own stories

Maybe some are writing imagined ones

Maybe a couple only getting half a story out as well

Never able to finish what happens

Maybe the ending is too sad

Or too cliche to finish the story

Or maybe I am the only one lost here

in on the joke

(more…)

jasmine moon, a paradelle

When the moon is full and dark,

when the moon is full and dark,

will you find me drifting, slowly dancing?

will you find me drifting, slowly dancing?

Slowly dancing, when drifting, find

me the full and dark moon.

 

No spell can bring this old love back,

no spell can bring this old love back,

but try we will, try you might,

but try we will, try you might,

This old love, try, back but try

you might we will, but no spell.

 

See it there under the jasmine vine waiting?

See it there under the jasmine vine waiting?

Perfumed melancholia of memories washed away, with time,

perfumed melancholia of memories washed away, in time,

With time, waiting, memories washed away, see it

under the jasmine vine, perfumed melancholia.

 

The full moon, dark, but no spell

find me this old love, we will see it

slowly dancing, you might with time

try, back but try perfumed melancholia

under the jasmine vine, waiting,

memories washed away.