The Poetry Marathon

22 The Other She

Patiently scraping for borrowed time, elusive time

Fleeting happy moments out of the 365

A Pariah, a social butterfly nonetheless

Guilt, uncoursed, unparalleled

Restless nights, cold and solitary

Tear-stained pillows; impeccably clean and soap-scented sheets

Love inadequacy; stirred from deep slumber but more flammable and waterproof

A first person, but playing second to the magnificent One, the Loved One

Delicately principled; wasted, forgotten, uncivilized

Fiercely strong, custom-built; a jelly-kneed, spineless, yes-woman nowadays

Shamelessly boastful; but nothing to show, proof-less

Independent, mind-set; clingy and and reluctant to let go

Immeasurable joy, for a minute, an hour, a day?

Hopeful, anticipation, expectation, all in vain

But courage, self-love

Trying to accept the absence of her heart’s centerpiece,

the hugs, the kisses, the intense feelings

Dreading the looming emptiness, the dwindling intimacies,

the things not meant for her

Maybe…someday with still the presence of immeasurable Love,

another bout of the same? Or of delicadeza?

Heartbreaking realization, and heart-wrenching acceptance…

the Second She, the Other She…

Poem no.22: January Joy

Poem no. 22: January Joy

A tumbling beauty of a day – sun spilling out on scarce-budded hedges, blue sky soft as that of a day in spring.

It should not be, it could not be – and yet it is.

It is a day that calls to the heart to sing – or brings words bubbling up under the skin.

It is a day when the heart lifts in the newly minted light – grown fresh and harvested in the dark days of winter – when we watched the lowering skies and hungered for the now. Hungered for days like this; days when light touches the skin with delicate promise and whispers that more is to come.

Since I saw the light this morning – shivering in the palest silver blue along the water and echoed in the morning sky, I have wanted to be home.

This light is where you go home to: it’s where you return. It is the very origin of things; it is where we begin.

And as the words stir under my skin and ripple through my mind, so the earth begins to murmur and shift as a sleeper does before they wake.

There will be other days of darkness – days when colour and hope are leached from the hours given to us – but today the world is full of light and promise and, in it, I am glad – heart glad – to be alive.

© Anne McMaster 2016

Self reliance

Be true to your self
and your being
for if you can not rely
on yourself, who else
will you rely on?

HOG KILLIN’

he had a name –
Arnold, from the TV show, Green Acres;
he was a black and white pig that just came
walkin’ on our place when I was about
nine years old;
my Grandparents built him a pen and
fed him every day,
things that smelled bad but that pig
would gobble up that slop that
made me want to puke.

He grew. He matured. We were poor.
Hog killin’ day came and I remember
going to Arnold’s pen early the morning
of his death –
I talked to him like he was my best friend…
the next thing I remember is the red puddle
left where he used to live and my family
processing this sow into winter provisions.
I couldn’t eat pork for two years, fearing I may
consume some part of Arnold.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2016

(Hour 22) 19.30pm-20.30pm. PROMPT, game: “title”

Prompt 22. Choose a title from the five offered. Write a poem. I have. & it may be the best poem of my career. Either that or I am incredibly tired. But let’s go with the former.

Möbius’ Strip

she sure wasn’t
the greatest dancer
in the world
or even the club

but she had this
amazing way
of bending minds
so you never knew

if she was taking clothes off
or putting them back on

Childish Things

When I became an adult

 

Well, scratch that

I don’t think I ever became an adult

But when I got older

I was told to put away childish things

 

But I never got a clear definition

On what childish was

 

I keep toys on my bookcase

One the mantelpiece

In my purse

 

I read kids books

And laugh

I read books for teenagers

And am amazed by the stories

 

I watch kid movies

Because sometimes you need some sanity

 

I talk to little kids

Because sometimes only a little chis

Can make the world seem right again

Dreams Escape Me

S
Is for the stars I long to see
L
Is for the longing I have for dreams
E
Is for the east that beckons so beguilingl-
E and
P is for the people who forwent sleep but soon must crumple
Oh
Sleep is something we love to do
Sleep is where such rest is opportune
Sleep we need to take it for without sleep
We can’t reawaken yes sleep we surely love to do

Hour 19: Sex and Cosmos

doom in the terrible room,
fucked so much, he went to sleep before we saw the world come together.
he had his palms out, sun was radiating against the temple he created,
he wanted everything to be in its proper order.
I have become a casualty of the new age,
against your flesh,
I have seen the universe in the rhythm from your body.

Horizons bellow #11

I would love to call even a dilapidated house my home

but I’m simply a vagrant

(though I do prefer “wanderer” more).

I lack roots, and I cherish nowhere, so I tend to merely roam.

 

It’s not as pitiful as the picture paints

since, I tend to see what many miss.

I can boast about seeing new-born red speckled crabs

scrambling for the shore line, scuttling like little saints.

 

Along my journeys countless chubby children (tiny in size),

have ogled in wonder at my tattered overalls

and seashell strewn chain that hangs delicately on my neck.

Their eyes widening with astonishment and envy at the glee hidden in my eyes.

 

It’s a life like no other- wearisome yet bewitching.

They miss out on fiery skies blazing with salmon pink and orange

and the devious secrets, frigid winds sometimes whisper.

Textbooks don’t teach languages, like the ones rustling palm trees speak.

 

People don’t know the feel of a hard canvas tent

whose motherly comfort protects you, from the cruel elements.

While they dine on “instant meals”, I eat zesty tropical fruits,

a bite so divine and saccharine. A present.

 

I use red cherries for lipstick and roasted almond butter for cream.

My perfumes, hand crafted from chestnuts and Plumerias

I have caught and cooked sardines over wooden fires,

Every bite so scrumptious and tender. A daydream.

 

It’s not so grueling as one makes it to be.

After all, I have seen an iridescent butterfly emerging from a cocoon

and have touched a baby giraffe’s nose.

I can tell apart a Golden-headed Manakin’s lullaby. Indeed, a beauty.

 

And when the night settles in,

the clouds that float aimlessly like deflated balloons,

act like soft pillows for my heavy head to rest.

The stars shining light as if I were an angel- a Bedouin

The Night Is For Sleeping

Dearest Poets,

The Night Is For Sleeping.

Not writing, or dreaming, or thinking.

The night is not for wild-eyed dreamers whose thoughts wreck havoc.

The Night is For

Star-crossed lovers who take their lives or for those who are faint of heart

The Night is

Not for those with racing daydreamers

Or Neverland and Peterpan

The Night

welcomes the misfits, the poets, the outsiders

The…