The Poetry Marathon

Hour 8: Tracking Shadows

( from music prompt at YT: Max Richter “On the Nature of Daylight” https://youtu.be/rVN1B-tUpgs?si=xsBUL8uLRS2Yi8gR )

 

:Repeat:

I watch the way light flows

-over flagstones

-over walls

-over water

Catches my attention at odd times

And when it does

I sit, remembering.

And think, and recall.

And sit, and wait, and wait, and wait.

And I breathe and remind myself that I am.

I AM

I am this, this – this here, now.

Here and now. And I am still.

I remain, and recall, and waiting for the moment the memories wash out again

-and I can breathe-

Breathe deep and true.

I am here. As this. As me.

Others are here, yet still – but not in shapes I knew and held and loved

There is a sorrow in that, regret, grief but also joy and love in memory

Breathing – I am. I know I am.

Finding ways, I muddle onward, muddle upward.

Light tracks

-over flagstones

-over walls

-over water

Catching my attention

And I repeat this refrain of loss and love

It is as the seasons

It is as the tides

Grief

growth

love

loss

endurance

growth

sadness

Again –

I watch the shadows track through the day and think

This action,

This time

This process

-is me

-and us

-and is all of us

Breathe in

Breathe out

Find a way forward

-each way

-each day

I watch the way light flows

:Repeat:

The ladder with 24 steps, he tried to do his best, working hard so he can rest, you won’t believe what’s next. He made it to the top, a 300 inch drop, intense heat made him stop, and so he fell off. What goes up must come down, we’re all just waiting for 5 o’clock to come around, and so he hits the ground, yet the heart will still pound. Two streams are entangled, his legs slowly dangled, see it from all the angles, ascension can be a danger. You’ll never walk again, though this feels like the end, try to pretend, you’re flying again.

Prison of words ( Hour 2)

Ive tried building poems like they were walls, that would withstand through the test of time.

But all ive done was constructed walls, that have trapped me inside.

 

Ive tried sewing and stitching words together that could shelter you from the wind,

but all i did was make padded walls, and straight jackets that tie me in.

 

Ive tried mixing and breaking down words and thoughts that could ease your pain,

But instead i made you feel worse, and made all that i speak in vain.

 

Ive tried cooking you food for thought, and word soup that will make you heal,

but you spat and you threw it up, Feeling empty and unfulfilled.

Ive attempted composing poems, that could break chains and set you free,

but they only confined you more, And imprisoned you with me.

Rachnoc lives Hour 8

Cave lakes floatation,
Eight legg-ed fixation, in death,
Night skies deliver.

Endarkening

High in the northen hemisphere
We’ve been, it’s true:
Since late in June
Embarking on endarkening.

Despite its annual pressence here
The shorter days,
(still summer-hazed)
Are yearly worth remarkening.

Of such delights is Earth supplied
That time still takes us by surprise

hour 8: as it pours

Roses and thorns
and roses again
Like the sun shines
as it always will
You show up in the
most perfect places
A scared breath
in a sacred moment
And if not yet,
then someday

High by the beach

There she was lying on the shore washed

up with the rest of the tide

& all I could do

was pound on

the

glass, trying

to save her from the

tsunami beating her down

waiting to pounce & take her away.

Hour 8: Corruption tearing our land apart

Mothers of African kids have learnt to cook empty pot as lullaby
to pet their hungry wards to bed,
they’ve done it, not once, not twice
it has become an addiction.

Fathers of African kids have rolled their father’s name
into their pant pockets
hunger doesn’t exist with pride on the same skin.
Their skins are burnt in everyday sun, they have
children, they have wives waiting for their breadwinner

like thirsty dogs await the rain in a desert

It’s so sad for Africa, a lion has allowed itself
to be tamed into a bottle of wine,

our politicians have served too much of our lion-ness to international allies to cover up
their corruptions,

local farmers are the ones feeling the heat,
ordinary men are the ones catching hope in the land like they
are catching air particles

civil servants are the ones shock absorbing all the damages
our leaders have caused the continent.

© Àdèlé

Hour 8 image prompt- Camping

The sky is dark

Just like my heart

When trapped within the city

So sometimes we seek refuge

Far from home

Some by choice but it can be seen

That not all are so lucky

Unhoused this is their day to day

So we take small refuge in the light

Retrieved from the sky and firelight

With the beauty of moon and stars

And warmth of friends within the light

Refuge from the city

Beneath the stars tonight

 

Young & beautiful

Those were different days

when all we ever wanted was

to feel wanted.

& somehow we were,

even if we couldn’t see it.

I still remember when it all

came crashing down.

 

It was the most painful thing but

soon the hands began moving.

Before long, it had dissipated into

oblivion & suddenly light began returning

in the oddest way.

 

That was the day I realized I was never lost;

I just had yet to be found.