The Poetry Marathon

Mistook occupation

A child rode her bike ambitiously. She cannot sleep last night, thinking how fun it would be, to be with her grandmother. A closed gate welcomed her wholeheartedly. She didn’t mind the gate, for she knows, her grandmother is an old woman with parched back. The old woman opened the kitchen door, letting her grandchild in, and shut the door. The air inside was gloomy and though its sunny and breezy outside, it felt like someone’s died in the house. The child sat down in an awkward manner, her eyes darted around, and her fingers were fiddling with a ribbon, which she found in her backpack. Probably, its her father’s. Hours went by, when its time to go home, suddenly her grandmother took a note, gave it to her and the child took it with a puzzled look. The old woman said, “Its your allowance.”

innocence and naivety

portrayed by

unnerving and loveless

Poem 17 — You Broke My Heart

I never wanted it to be “us”,
You couldn’t let it rest.
You wanted to prove to me
You were my man I guess.
For a few good months,
You introduced me to this caring, loving man,
That he was qualified to spoil me in hugs and kisses, cuddle and hold my hand.
He was a sweetheart, well at least that’s what I thought,
I couldn’t share my secrets with you,
You were unhappy and you acted like it was my fault.
I couldn’t be WHO I was,
It was too much for you,
You felt out of context if I shared my deepest experiences I went through.
You didn’t know how to make me smile even when I was down,
Our business spreader to everyone but me, it was all over town.
I tried to explain to you
I was private, I didn’t like people feeling the need to discuss you and I.
You acted like I was mean,
Like we weren’t grown enough for us,
And you had the audacity to feel embarrassed if I was upset and would cuss.
I don’t remember how we ended,
I just know you lied,
You showed no remorse with your new woman,
Inside I crumbled, broke down and cried.
As time passes I realize I am in greater shape with myself, I portray a new part,
I’m not the woman you once knew,
I became courageous and stronger since you broke my heart.

Prompt Hour Seventeen–first broken heart

Broken

The long, sustained dream of my happy childhood was snapped,
before and after pieces felt and mourned at far too young an age.
A broken heart, the unseen inner portion of a secretly broken body,
brutalized by a teen boy who really should have known better.

He lured my six year old self to a garage roof hideaway, sheltered
by surrounding trees and vines, with the heady promise of friendship,
unseen. When he’d finished with me blood was cleaned from my legs,
and away I was sent, on my little banana seated bicycle back home.

My solitary soul squeezed itself down into an inner oblivion, to forget,
to move on, to determine to myself to live, my loving family in no way
to blame for my brokenness, yet all the while I knew at far too tender
an age that evil really does exist, and can look handsome to the eye.

Tracy Plath

First Cut

Perhaps my father was the first,

with his absence,

except for the rare storms from his daytime slumber

to terrorize us into quiet so he could sleep.

I once got caught in the cross fire of his flying hands.

I was not yet 3.

My older sisters squealed and screamed him awake.

But I was too naive to run.

Before that, he was the myth my mother made us believe

about fatherhood and tender love.

 

But the one I can summons from memory caves

was the gorgeous boy

with the ass long shiny silk brown hair

and tan flawless skin sunk into Italian brown eyes.

I was 13 and he 15.

He paid me attention, walked with me at night

on a quiet moon-lit road named Candlewood as we

murmured our intentions, our future married selves

–or I did.

I couldn’t believe he was interested in me, a brainy

average-looking girl with the wrong kind of hair–

refusing to hang long from a middle combed part.

 

And a week after that walk under the old gibbous moon,

when I told him I wanted to marry a bodily lover,

he failed to appear, non-responsive, ghosted–

and I cried the cliché with a painful heart, torn

and scorned, never to be stabbed the same again,

my pillows my week-long companions in sob-town.

 

Though others made Caesar of my heart, dagger

hurlers and stabbers, I remember them vaguely.

Not like that first cut, the baptismal soul’s sarcophagus.

 

#12 Differences Matter

Never be afraid to be different

We all have flaws and accomplishments

You can run, I can’t.

I can write, you can’t.

I’m not good with computers,

you are.

Technology hates me,

not you.

There are pluses and minuses everywhere

not only in math.

 

RHUBARB

bitter is what I remember,
growing stoutly against the leaning barn,
broad green leaves with
familiar red stalks,
a row of healthy fruit
that Grandma would sweeten
and make pies for Sunday dinner.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

Poem no.17: Perspective (on breaking my own heart with unfulfilled dreams)

Standing in the playground,
Eyes closed to the sun,
Dreaming I’m a superhero;
Believing I’m The One.

Later, in the mirror,
Appalled at what I see;
Clumpy, tousled, earth-bound.
No one there but me.

© Anne McMaster

Hurt

Dont worry

It wasnt your fault

You were just the first

In the generalsation of my life

There were many after you

But you inaugurated the slaughter house

You were as innocent as me

Silly little kids

Why didn’t you share your eraser with me

In nursery class

You broke my heart

You know

 

Peter Cook’s Post-It Notes

Would you believe it –
I have an intervention with myself
and it was cancelled?

How about this –
How about we fax a picture of Dudley’s bare ass –
yes, one exists – to all the movie studios?

We could expect a return phone call, then.

Did I mention? I met a punk singer
in Kingsbridge the other day.
She asked me to sign her chest with a red marker.

Something inside me winced,
but I’m agreeable if the lass is buxom enough…

Something still unfunny is curdling beneath my right kidney.
Why don’t you pour us a round and I’ll tell you what
the rainbow doctor played while I was under the knife.

I keep forgetting that handsome man to my left
isn’t my reflection, but my biographer.
“Is it true you dreamed Dudley was turning you on a spit?”
Oh, dear, that was the hangover talking.

HOUR 17 BROKEN

BROKEN

I wanted to figure, out

why I hated to cook,

so I went back a few years

and took a look.

 

 

I was young, barely four, but

an independent streak, had I.

I reveled in a house of

love, music, and song.

 

No foul words,

from my parent’s lips

did ever pass. Only

love, hugs, and kisses,

ya  know.

 

In my happy home, my

favorite toy was a stove.

I was told to play with

either Mom or Dad.

Why, I didn’t know.

 

Well, being who I am

and always was;

I plugged in my stove

while they slept.

 

I wanted to make

a surprise breakfast

with milk.

 

So I filled the pot

and felt so secure

as I boiled the milk

for cocoa.

 

I stirred and I stirred as

the smoke swirled around

then Daddy came in, in a rush.

 

I gushed, Daddy I’m cooking,

it is a surprise, is Mommy up yet?

 

My Father, with a crazed

look in his eyes, pulled the plug,

and yelled for my Mom.

Mother arrived, with a

that same look on her face.

 

Dad left for a moment and

when he returned

he cut the plug on my stove.

 

I looked at them

with a broken heart

and said, “Now it won’t work!

I’ll never cook again!”

 

I abandoned the toy,

that had no plug.

And to this day, I won’t

cook or play with a stove!