The Poetry Marathon

Prompt nine

Bedtime

 

Hour 9: “Mental Crop Circles/If Loops Could Kill”

There is a dull distaste for the world
that begins with myself. The anger with inefficiency
begins with my own lack of discipline.

How sorely I tread through the day ahead,
wounded and ready to attack. Behind all the sharp words
I save in my head, beneath the images of faces
I want to shout down, there is a disappointment with who I am,
with my inability to meet the expectations
I set for myself, that I expect of others.

An underlying fear of living a poor life.
Not experiencing the levels I want to reach,
to not be authentically myself,
when it’s the idea of myself that makes me its prisoner.

All my efforts, that I so desperately worry are in vain,
are, in fact, vainly attested to the narrative that upholds my self-importance.
Whose approval do I seek more than my own?
Yet the standards for that approval are conditioned by comparisons to others.

How do I surrender the idea of myself,
to the freedom to be whatever I already am in each moment?
To arrive as is, open to the experience, not resistant,
without preconceived desires working towards an ideal outcome,
just okay to discover the process as it comes,
to self-discover, as if stepping into a river,
when base instinct screams not to drown,
and intentions long to swim for the far shore.

Somewhere between instinct and intention is the river,
is the world, and amongst its folding waters is myself
holding onto the idea of myself that keeps me afloat, or so I think.
To let go, to let drown, to choose to ride the current,
and trust that authenticity will arise as the body learns to swim inside the moment.

No matter how great the swell may pull,
the gravity that anchors all to the lowest recesses,
the plum will drop, the center will hold
as the entire planet shifts.
I too am an anchor of myself, unmoved in the wake,
so still I almost forgot it was there.

 

Leaves

Falling

Colorful

Fleeting

Warmth

Hour 9 —Patience With The Cocoon

Mail order caterpillar specks arrive

like black pepper on a yellow disc

to place in the netted butterfly chamber

we watch as time transforms specks of black pepper
to spring green caterpillars about a quarter inch long

there’s four of them

clinging to the netting

feasting on a sugar saturated paper towel

then one morning we see four cocoons

curiosity abounds

eager impatient hands wanting to

unravel the silken cotton pods

to “help” the butterflies transformation

to speed nature along

curious eyes and daily guesses

at what type of butterfly’s will emerge

we hope it’s the Monarchs

one morning we see wings clinging to the netting

they have hatched!

“can we keep them?

we could feed them sugar cubes since they’re bigger”

no sweetie, I’m afraid not

”maybe they will stay in the yard

and we can keep them as pets

and feed them sugar cubes!”

“well, let’s see how long they stay around

maybe they will stay in the garden”

zips open the butterfly netting

out darts black and yellow butterflies

not the Monarchs nonetheless

the air current swoops them

away to never give a chance

to dwell in the gardens

all those weeks

all that time to nurture

and bring along life

secretly wanting to keep them forever

now released with joy to

share with the World

 

 

 

 

 

Prompt 3

A voice so feeble

Mine resisted closeness

My father’s shifts

and deflects

blaming absences on flat mountains

and green grass

I could smell his words, toxic to my taste buds

acidic to my soul

fumbling excuses blown around like dandelion petals

I could hear his eyes search for more of them

proving to me

you didn’t need mountains to build a mountain town

Wherever he lived he

invited in strangers to love

and beat those who longed to sit at his table

suggesting the grass on our lawn was only yellow

Chaser

Speeding

Hiding

Laughter

Oh fun

Game over finally

Called Up To The Big League

HOUR 8

(using my own prompt.  This one is for you Lori.  We sure miss you!)

 

CALLED UP TO THE BIG LEAGUE

She knew how the game was played

And the role she would play in it.

She was a competitor not to be overlooked

Even on the days when her fiercest opponent

Would beat her down.

Her strength and confidence were soothing

To those of us questioning what we knew to be.

She would be called up to the big league.

For they had scouted her since 2021.

Her journeys with the team took her away from home.

But she would always return with stories of winning hits

Great times with teammates, even a broken nose.

Her last game here would not disappoint

As she hit the game winning RBI

Clinching the National Championship.

But with all the cheers and “way-to-go’s”

Came the realization

The big league wanted her, it was her time.

And she left us.

It’s been over five months.

We have our memories of games and gatherings,

The warmth in our hearts for knowing her,

And calling her our friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Nine – Word Prompts [Half, 2023]

Pick 5 words & use them in a poem…

 

I feel you;
your cinnamon skin
livened by a tremor
under my jacket,
As we huddle close to the bayou,
My heart flutters,
too –

Stirring on the lightbulb;
fresh tenderness –
Admitting that I fell for you.

Hour 5 – Revivified

The years have passed
We meet again
Along our favorite river
Wind blows softly, I can hear

My face is weathered
My hands are gnarled
But you haven’t aged a day
since last you kissed me

We embrace with outstretched arms
Hearts beat in unison
Be I feel you not
A hoax has fallen upon us

Then visions of you,
in Funerary urn
Mourners bending knee
Cradling precious memories

I remember then the wails
the tears as darkness fell
And in your eyes I can see
The beautiful maiden that once was me

Cherries

Tarty

Sweet

Pie

Plain

Beautiful

Perfect