The Poetry Marathon

(Hour 17) 14.30pm-15.30pm. PROMPT, theme: “first broken heart”

maxwell

only together   a few weeks
found fluffball   treeblown
stormshaken   unable to fly
fed you mince  so you grew
cheeky & raucous   clutched
my finger   sat  on my shoulder
beaktangled  my hair
till the devastating day
i didn’t shut   the door
& you flew   straight
passed me   into blue

first time   i recall my heart
emptying of blood   just
for a heartbeat   yet you
never went   too far off
grew up   around the house
around me   raised numerous
broods   countless chicks
& i know you always
had a soft spot for me
just as i   always recalled
your language  of wings

The Asphalt Road #9

Most don’t know,

I walk on an asphalt road,

but I’d like to belong in a sunflower meadow.

 

My asphalt road is paved for me,

my cold, cold asphalt road,

and numbs my toes to my feet.

 

Most don’t know,

this asphalt road is out of place,

I’d like a path with a view and a window.

 

My asphalt road is paved for me,

and stretches over the earth’s curve,

as far as my eyes can see.

 

This asphalt road,

is not wanted by me,

but it will be known as-

my asphalt road;

for eternity.

Love Learned

Too young
Infatuated
Not loved
Physically attracted
Not giving in
He cheated
Older woman been
No relationship
No base
Hurt emotionally
Young love
Broken but good
Lesson learned
Growth given
He wasn’t the one for me to be worth living
Time heals
Minds grow
Age teaches
So love can overflow

SCRO 8 to 10 pm

Bulk post here. Conserving energy. Eight hours to go.

Three for yehs. Panel 15:

Panel 16:

And panel 17:

Hour 17

Love Limerick

I met a jazz drummer one day.
We kissed and ate tofu satay.
I thought that he knew
my feelings were true,
but Simon just threw me away.

Good Dick

Every lesbian has been told they need “good dick.”

It is just as universal as the offer of mustache rides,

And just as irritating and pointless.

Both are just a version of dipping the girl’s pigtails in the inkwell.

The answer, of course, is that most Lesbians have had plenty of “good dick.”

“I’ve had great dick, much better dick than you could ever give me

There was always just one problem with this famouz “good dick”

There was always A MAN attached.”

And the answer to that is silence.

Blessed silence.

 

Miss Low

Oh Miss Low,
I know it’s been a while, but I still recall your silly grin
Still smell the smokey herbal fragrance of your hair and taste of your freckled skin

Still remember that blizzard car ride
When we almost crashed and died
Still remember that same night when your eyes rolled back so far I thought you did

I was just a kid then,
I guess we both were, but you were more mature
You knew how to drive me utterly insane while you remained demure
You played me like a piccolo, Miss Low
And although I don’t regret it
I look back at my ignorance and still feel so pathetic

But what did I expect?
I was high school, you were college
I had brains but you had carnal knowledge
And I get you needed more NOW
But I just wished you’d have acknowledged everything I said to you,
All the times I read in bed to you
That time that I even shed blood for you,
When I got my ass kicked by that that meathead dude

So rude, the way you just pushed me aside
Told me you needed space,
Then I see you a week later with some bourgeois guy in his fancy ride
And I felt a little piece of myself die

But I’m done crying

Good bye

Hour 12 – A Drowning Car

Prompt for Hour Twelve

Transformers in the dark of the moon
Hang over Lake Placid
Looking to go out in a blaze of glory

Jeepers creepers, fleeters floaters
Chromium breastbones, buffed grills
Spare parts aplenty

A canopy of red, no dark in sight
A panic room with no walls
Happy fear

tables

tables
after Lisa Wamsley

piled documents and unused candles
on the table between us. can
we adjust our eyesight towards each other
like we do in the dark. father
leans eyes to his goulash, one hand
patient on napkin. my mother on
the phone three hours. Davey,
from the basement. i eat dinner in
my room to avoid hearing the names
of anyone that aren’t fictional or my own.
i don’t feel any closer to people at tables
anymore.
we break up over text & i eat my spaghetti
without choking on worry.

17

Recipe For—

How many spiders can you fit on a pin? The tsunami
took the angels out ages ago and now we have them,
wasps, coquis and us. There are two spots of light, bright
spiders, smaller than dust on the tomato plant grown
from seed, each red fruit bottom-rot, no matter
how I water it. Now there are four, no five, they rise
on the wave of a breeze, their webs new and quivering.
They cross and lift, flying the invisible line of themselves.
How are there enough insects to share? The wasps hump
our dinner meat like it’s the best lay of their life. The coquis
scream at night in their densely populated cities: yelling
for pleasure or loneliness, not understanding that the space
is shared. But the spiders are everywhere, in every space
until we, the humans, covered in bright welts die off,
and everything else survives.