The Poetry Marathon

13 Please Don’t

Stop me, to tell you what’s inside my heart

Deter me, to let you know what you are to me

Hinder me, to let you be aware how much it’s costing me,

bottling this feeling inside of me

Prevent me, to think of you every minutest of a second

of my waking hours and subconsciousness

Block me, to say sweet-nothings that my mind conjured up

for my voice to replicate

Suppress me, to taste the bittersweet nectar of your lips

Let me, hold back to envelope you in my so-eager arms

Restrain me, to cavort to the fullest during those fleeting moments with you

Yes, please don’t, I beg of you

Just please don’t stop me.

A cold case

A cold case

Part of society doing a share

Making a share for others

Undeniable truth

Something is missing

Without a thought at hand

Meeting in the highway of living

Still be alive or not

A sad reality

Poor souls where are they now?

Springtime or no well spring

Undeniable reality

Something is missing

 

 

 

9:07 am PST 14/08/2016

© ROY MARK AZANZA CORRALES

Poem #12- Final Poem Half Marathon 2016 by Ingrid Exner-“ My Canoe Companion and I”

The first time that I saw moonlight

by canoe

I was awe-

struck!

Spread out before me

on a black watery cloth,

lay jewels of sparkling Light.!

 

I was amazed

by the bright light

cast by the climbing moon

and mesmerized by the watery Lake,

turned molten black.

Absolute silence

created a void

full

Of Beauty

And Peace!

 

My Canoe Companion

carried a spare flashlight in hand,

While I wore my headlamp attached to

The brim of my cap.

We paddled in silence-

Enjoying our companionship and

the silence of the lake-

silence only broken by

the occasional cry of a nearby loon-

a true symbol of summertime on a northern lake!

 

We continued to paddle in silence-

highlighted by the glow of the moon

Surrounded and swaddled

by the nearby canopy

Of birch and cedar tress,

My canoe companion and I.

 

Ingrid Exner, 2016

 

Only for Him

Life changing
Turning around
Forever free
No longer bound
He’s the only
Who is worthy of Praises
For Him and for Him only
tears of heartfelt thanks
to the One above
Everyday I admire
From Him
He gives me love
My children He gave
His Spirit most Holy
His Love unconditional
And we all give Him praise and glory
w
What a beautiful life
given my family
I Praise Him daily
I wake up in adoration
He makes me smile
and not just for a little while
I show my love
and my appreciation every day.
For this beautiful life
He gave.

Lucky

Luck is just probability.
It’s math and statistics.
Nothing more.

And yet, when I look at you,
Lucky is the only thing,
I can possibly be.

ALICE

she was a tractor,
and Alice Chalmers,
a restored red/orange piece of history
that Grandpa poured sweat into,
bringing us an easier way to break the ground;

Ol’ Alice was a beloved family member,
parked near the lonely cherry tree my
Grandmother planted before Alice
became part of the family;
we loved her,
she turned the black soil
and made perfect furrows for
rows of sweet corn to be planted;
we patted her chassis,
as if she could waggle her tail and bark.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

so poem – two

so my grandmother did not wear moccasins.

but if she did i can imagine her dragging her toes each step
grinding stride
toe to heel, destroying them emery board style and slow as she walked from the bus stop home
(but definitely more toe
like vowels sung in an opera
holding place for the pain)
that sneaky pain
wearing out her history
tiny holes in bigger holes
wearing in a path made a million times before

buses ain’t no place for squaws.
even in penny loafers.

Today

Today

 

Three guys and three women from Potlatch asked permission before using the community lawn in front of our cabin on Lake Coeur d’Alene. Bud light and laughs. They were loud last night till after midnight while I slept under the stars, excited to see the Perseid shower from a sky that defines the word dark.

 

The green jeep next door has a dent in the side and just over fifty thousand miles. They got it from a retired guy for a song. Sits parked under a canopy of cottonwoods that sprouted up on both sides of a longhouse.

 

Old Glory flies from our cabin, which stirs some feelings of bygone days when the reflection of the moon on the lake lights it up some nights. But it also reminds me of the coming election and how most of these folks vote.

 

Justin says he’s 27, worked in a mine in Nevada for a while. Now he’s an appraiser in his small town and it took him a while to figure out that he might be a little unpopular for raising people’s taxes.

 

Jet skis and boats, tonight’s first glass of wine. I had to think about it before jumping in today, water’s maybe 62. And all day I have been the scribe, writing a poem an hour and trying to take it all in.

The Late One

The hour that slipped away

The disconnect in the brain

The forgotten task

This is the poem that was late by five minutes

(#7/12): “Let’s Dump This Dreadful Drumpf”

This puffed up orange-bouffanted buffoon.

Whose narcissism knows no bounds.

With a hide as thin,

As his ego is “‘uge”.

Possessing such limited words, and intellect.

And whose tiny hands.

Measure the length of his attention span.

His racist, misogynistic and detestable behaviour.

Offending one and all

Seemingly without consequence.

Agitating incendiary prejudices.

And creating chaos.

 

Who will rid us of this troublesome rabble-rouser?

 

© 2016 SP