The Poetry Marathon

Poem 17

“I always believed that I would recognise her when I saw her again” *

Would I know her if I saw her walk past me

in her light blue sweater and her feathered hair?

She would look past me, seeing nothing more than an older woman.

But she might be wearing the navy sweater and the jeans and clogs,

laughing with her small circle of friends,

the ever-present book tucked under her arm

to escape the reality of her life.

Would I recognize her if I saw her walk past me,

looking down at the ground if she were alone?

Would I stop her today and tell her to look up

and see where she is going, to smile at strangers,

to share her smile or a kind word with them?

Would I recognize my younger self if I passed her on the street today?

“I always believed that I would recognise her when I saw her again” *

 

*From Abduction, by Gillian Jackson

 

Eve Remillard

8/14/2016

 

Sexton’s Register #17

Sexton’s Register

 

The old ledger, corners frayed,

bides time until ground thaws

when steel-toed boots again kick

shiny broad shovels, scraping stones.

 

Passed soldiers rest decades

beneath grey shadowed granite,

brothers and lovers and children,

frozen, waiting for company.

 

This green spring morning welcomes

fractured hearts for their goodbyes,

folded Stars and Stripes, corners true,

as tendered gift must be enough.

 

Sorrow gathers, words retreat, fertile

moist earth, tossed to a son,

knocks on coffin’s door,

as distant bugle keens farewell.

 

Pages are turned to find a place in line.

Black ink scribes his last poem.

Worn cover closes, paper settles

To hold the boy and weep.

#7 Garden Visitors

Garden visitors

chipmunks

snakes

and toads.

Monarch butterflies

and swallowtails

Dragonflies

red, blue and green

Child of Mine

You left that child broken

Hearted

You touched, and threatened

So, I lied

You never should have

Been welcomed to my room

 

With responses, so confusing

A little girls love

Twisted, mortified

 

You paid dearly, for your sin

They found the car, but never him

 

Its taken decades

For me

To find her

 

Hand in hand now

We walk assured

 

©2016 Amanda Potter

Morning

It is morning now so I need not be afraid

The demons can no longer play with my dread

Longing will have to wait out the day light

Loneliness may still strike

But because it is light now, so bright

I may have the strength to fight

The shadows menacingly cheerful

It is morning now so I need not be fearful.

17 She

She was a human being and still is, so I’ve heard

Although she is a sorry personification, rest assured, She is one

She shuns politics, a non-conformist

A different peg to a whole

There’s no gray areas for her

It’s either black or white

She dresses as She pleases

From the mini skirt to the miniest

And the maxi to the maxiest

She’s not into pants but favored shorts

She wears socks of different colors

and when told of such, her usual reply

“I have another set of these colors.”

Make her mad, and ah…face damnation

Make her laugh, and She’s yours for good.

Friends She has aplenty

Foes so much more

She prays like a nun, but swear like no one

She’s made up of funny bones

But She’s a cry-baby too.

Her convictions strong as a rock

Steadfastness is one of her virtues,

But give her the most reasonable quip

Her resiliency is all over the place.

Yes, She could be you

Probably me

But for all intents and purposes

She’s a She.

Heartbreak

Words shocked me

Thoughtless blades thrown needlessly

Suddenly I’m torn assunder

I begin to wonder

Did you mean a word of kindness?

All I asked was how are you?

Prompt 16 – Carousel

The Carousel turns to a Melody
Horses rear up against their reins,
Frozen in a gallop that never ends
As their prison turns and bends
And twists their expressions
While children and couples
Ride on their backs as
The Carousel turns to a Melody.

Hour 17

Through the toil
My heart was tired
From all the spoil
A torment of hate
Was what he made my fate

Ripping into the emotions
Of his lover
Never seem to bother him at all
His torture was like silk to him
Yet her eyes throbbed with pain

See the tears as they run down her face like the dew running down leaves
Scattered in distress
She cling to the one thing she
Felt was love , her poetry

Gasping for fresh air from emotional pain
She took to pen and paper
Creating an atmosphere of pleasure
Which kept her through the displeasure.
Hope in words keep her sanity.

copyright 2016 Roxann A Harvey

Honoring Fat Women

Honoring Fat Women

Frannie Z

 

As a descriptor, fat honors.

Lush, full, plus, zaftig

are okay.

But fat is a good, short word.

We are a body type,

not a disease.

And the worst thing

people can do

is hide us

in language.

 

We exist. We breathe.

Sometimes we dance.

Often, if you grant us the right,

we exercise

and can even

be seen eating

vegetables.

 

So, toss the baggage.

Smile.

We’re not starving or

cutting our insides

away.

 

Full fat.

Like cream,

We taste better.