The Poetry Marathon

bounty

on the 4th of July
after the parade
all of the children
gathered in the field on the north side of the fairgrounds
together

this ground was safe,
for children to run and reach and scramble
chosen for its safety
surrounded by a fence
keeping all the children inside
together

a bulls eye for one
this field of children
looking up
anticipating
together

a perimeter of parents
cameras
beer in plastic cups
waiting and watching
these children
together

the distant hum
of a small plane
a crop duster
swinging low
with a cargo of 1000 ping pong balls
dropped over the field
together

falling like feathers
that bounce
or are caught in small hands
children like mother hens sheltering eggs
fill their make shift t-shirt basket nests
together

treasures,
not only ping pong balls
but ping pong balls stamped with fair prizes
a hot dog
a slushy
or perhaps a five-dollar bill
and all the children leave the field with bounty
on cloud nine
together

5 OH SO, SO SAD

Why there’s no room to dream on

And no time for wishful thinking

Why there’s not a chance for life ever after

And no glimpse into the future

Rare will be a breath of cold wind

There will never be another peek at a happy face

Why?

Not even a taste of the afternoon drizzle

Not even a touch of the glorious sun rays

Why?

Taboo at gazing into each other’s eyes

Intense craving, but no more intimate touches, body contacts

No more trysts in the morn, noon or night

No more, nada, zilch

Still at it? Keep asking Why?

The House On Catamaran -Prompt 5

There is a House on Catamaran

Where I used to go in the summer

Or the winter or the fall depending

It was usually my mother’s call

When we’d visit the House on Catamaran

 

It was a beautiful House on Catamaran

With a white picket-fence and wisteria overhang

And a cobble-stone path all the way to the door

I’ve never seen anything like it since or before.

That beautiful House on Catamaran.

 

I remember so much about the House on Catamaran

Like the three willow trees in the front yard,

The river that never ran, next to the jasmine bushes

I remember how the jasmine bushes grew over the porch sometimes

Entangling the House on Catamaran.

 

There was a playHouse on Catamaran

That my grandfather and dad built

It was made for the grandkids to play in

With a kitchen and dollhouse it gave pretend a new spin

As if we had our own House on Catamaran.

 

I miss the House on Catamaran

With its wide porch and wider yard

I miss the times with Cassie our golden

And the times we’d play dress up and cards.

I’ll always sorely miss the House on Catamaran.

 

We no longer visit the House on Catamaran

My grandparents no longer live there.

The ownership changed and new housing was arranged.

In the same city but not the same space.

I’ll never again visit the House on Catamaran

A Stone Path

A stone path
Shining with fallen leaves
Leads to a peaceful
Lake in forgotten woods
The home to my verses

There is beauty in

mediocrity
describes something almost good
at least it happened

THE BOOK OF LIVING PEOPLE

Tell me what you need?

More-

sisters, brothers, raving mad, dope, pills, sex, dropping, words, streets, broken barriers, dressed up ladies, sticky juices, flowing, jumping, hysterical, broken, existence

And…

The king can rule where woman and man lived.

The worker can profit where six million Vietnamese & Jews were held guilty for their own destruction.

The systems of government can become a race of super elite killing theories.

France/Germany/America/England/China/Russia/Bolivia/Nigeria/Algeria/Spain/Italy

Are you interested in cocks with guns?

Of free stores with free food?

Paradise now?

Manifested gatherings giving birth to exhibited ends of destruction.

The atomic death tests a new world without bureaucracy. Without technology. Without a profit motive.

Long live the living. The people existing without violence. Providing their own desires. Destructively delirious with the exchange of information…

And-

at the full moon we bathed in voltaire’s garden

at the full moon we ate with frankenstein in brooklyn

at the full moon we smoked a joint in amsterdam

at the full moon we flew to marrakech

at the full moon we lifted the police up to sing and dance

We learned to breathe again. We learned to touch again. We learned to feel again…

The book of the living people was written and as its inscription we cried out-

THIS IS THE DAWNING OF TOTAL ANARCHY!

America the beautiful

My country tis of thee,

you birds of a feather that flock together

leaving our poor in need.  

 

The sin becomes sacred: in God’s name we bleed,

but we need religion to make us better

as our leaders are born baptized in greed.

 

Divide us up by color and creed!

Crime makes a profit, so turn up the pressure

leaving our poor forever in need.  

 

If war is good for our economy

then why are veterans homeless in winter

as our leaders are born baptized in greed?

 

Don’t dare say the word “democracy”

when our voting system is bent to your pleasure

leaving our poor forever in need.  

 

Arrest the protesters storming your street

so you can pretend our problems are lesser

and our leaders can stay baptized in greed.

 

It never stops– the inequality breeds

as you birds of a feather flock together,

and our leaders are born baptized in greed,

leaving our poor forever in need.  

(a tanka)

horse and dog books
have their own special shelf
in the children’s library
learning about love and loss
on the accelerated track

Floors

Floor beneath my feet

Tiny feet

Vast floors.

 

I remember floors

Beneath my little feet.

Desert sands and picnics.

Bare floors and kitchen sets.

Stairs and tiny rooms.

Staring down and groped.

 

I remember floors

Bricked floor

And badminton games.

Grassy garden

And catching balls.

That vast space behind the home

Empty expanse of earth.

 

Floors under construction

Smelling of a new life

Rushing room to room

Yellow pink graphite floors

Playing home

Skipping ropes.

I remember the floors

Of my mother’s home.

_narinder.

Terror in America – 9/11

Terror in America – 9/11

Time exploded, yet again

In the face of hapless humankind

Desecrating the edifice of democracy

Another country, another place

They cry “blood – another world!”

Is it love, a bomb, a knife…

Is this war?

The spirit of Nostradamus runs amok

To capture the brave hearts

Issuing Fatwas against themselves

They come, they’re here

“Jihad” – they cry

Is it love, a hijack, four airplanes…

Is this war?

Days of mourning, and sleepless nights

Terrorized nations, terrorized people

And stunned the world over

They advance in soundless possession

“More” – they’re insatiable

Is it love, an explosion, two buildings…

Is this war?

Dead people alive in the rubble

Kicking concrete, eating steel

And families lost forever

Hundred Thousand human frailties

“Enough” – the rogues, we warn

Is it love, a citizen, a nation…

Is this war?

 

Hour 5

@varenyas