The Poetry Marathon

Paralyzed of the Flame

Darkness capture my soul their was no place to go their was just.

Darkness that had my body.

Flame on my body was so strong it was in  my soul the flame.

Capture my soul ‘I couldn’t move ;I was paralyzed from the flame.

 

That covered my body with the worst pain my soul could feel.

Anything .’I went numb ‘It was just capture by the darkness.

The flame capture my body ‘I couldn’t fight to get away ‘I just.

Had to let the darkness over come my body.

 

I couldn’t get away from the flame that was surrounded  my body.

That over powered my soul.

The flame of hell had capture my body ‘I couldn’t get away ‘I had.

To let the darkness wanted  to do.

 

My soul scream their wasn’t know one their.

I can’t

I look into the faces
Of those that pass me by
Brokenness and anguish
That cannot be disguised

Behind their painted faces,
The Masks they dare not shed
Are the windows to their souls
In which the Faint of heart won’t tread

One whose heart is small
In comparison to the Maker
Will try to look beneath
A mask that does not waver

A heart naught for this world
That loves in truest form
The rarest of all treasures
To few, this heart is born

This heart must understand
Though it tries to be so brave
That there are just some people
That this heart just can’t save

This heart must be protected
Even more so than the rest
And wait for God to give it
To one that He deems best

Yellow Roses Remained

The aftermath was devastating
Twisted metal, fractured wires
Bricks tossed all around
The house largely a total loss
Once a family home, a two story safe-haven
The force of the hurricane too much for it to bear
When the family first saw it, tears and horror followed
Their lives forever changed
In those brief moments, it was easy to believe they’d lost everything
Even if they were alive to pick up the pieces
This was their home; the place where their memories dwelled
No insurance payment could ever replace it all
“Give me some sign that everything will be fine” she shouted
Then as the family made their way to the backyard, they noticed
The yellow roses – their Grandmother’s yellow roses, to be exact
Still bloomed brightly, rising from fractured fence boards
Twas in that moment, they knew that some way, somehow
Everything would be alright

Bros

The day you left was the day life stopped.

But now that you’re back, time goes on.

We need to be strong as life.

That’s the only way we’ll

make it in this world.

You’re my brother.

And that will

never

change

 

Trading Places

July Tenth Nineteen Hundred and Sixty Three

The day the Gina came to be

The day Alexander joined obscurity

Before that day he was a family man

After that day he was never heard of again

Fifty three years later he has never been found

The family’s heart silence as justice never makes a sound

 

Hour 14

Trees growing in the Forest
Budding sprouts all about
Out in woods the insects quake
Running around like a pedal

Crocking comes from the shurb
Nearby i see them flying
It was just a picture perfect
Little dessert sage
Coming to life.

Butterflied fly high
Leaping into the sky
Finding peace beneath
Leaves under the bough.

Prompt for Hour Fifteen

Write a poem about the heart. But don’t focus on the heart as a metaphor, focus on it as a reality. For example the function the heart serves in the body, or heart monitors, etc.

Poem no. 14: Animal Matter

An early summer’s day,
Heavy with scent and golden with spilled light.
Lush foliage gleams dew-wet.

In the bright silence, a twig snaps.
Into the clearing,
A small nervous doe,
Ears alert, nose raised to the air,
Guards her fawn.

She watches it step delicately between branches,
Pulling, as it goes, on thickly clustered leaves.
Its wide eyes bright,
Tiny nose damp with dew.

Behind them, a long-neglected path
And at its edge a rusted, crumbling sign
Now slick with moss,
Forgotten, overgrown
Reads: ‘Warning: Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.”

© Anne McMaster 2016

(xiii) phantom itch

her memories, the shiver of a breeze
on placid lakes where moonshine leaves
imprints, ever lambent, always coruscating.

her thoughts, the auburn in her hair,
silken, satin, downy-soft and sanguine;

smooth as wine one in her eye is prospecting

Le Artiste (12)

Le Artiste

for Donald

At the age of five
I ceased to be afraid of monsters under my bed

At the old house
My Uncle Donald, an artist,
Chased my brother and I for hours
It was a game
Laughter bubbled from our throats and
Bounced off the walls of our room and
Made a home under our beds

We fought with pillows
And hid
And sought

That weekend, you left us
And because I was five
I remember precious little

The deliciousness of not-real fear
Your shiny brown skin
Your wide and toothy smile
You seemed so tall
So invincible at seventeen

Your paintings still hang in the dining room

My mom, your heartbroken sister,
Remembers much more than I
I wish now that you and I could talk about art and
Bond over the capricious nature of the creative process
We would understand each other

I am grateful, Uncle

Because of you
I still believe that Laughter,
Not Monsters,
Lives under my bed

And I am brave

 

(c) Davita Joie 2016