The Poetry Marathon

Blessings of The Morning-Poem #10 from Prompt by Ingrid Exner

Sky breaks through the morning clouds

bestowing healing Light,

Bathing Lands in beams of heat

And energy just right,

To strengthen crops, all animals

And even you and me-

this Blessing of the morning

was meant for all to see.

 

At this time,

in early morn

I bend my head and pray

Thankful for the many gifts I have

From day-to-day!

From eyes that see the beautiful hills

To ears that hear the stream

I am blessed with these wonderful senses

That allow me to live my dream.

 

Capturing the natural Beauty

With camera in hand,

I venture far and wide

For pictures of this Land.

 

To celebrate its glory and,

Sing its praises too,

Today, I am writing this

especially for YOU!

 

 

Ingrid Exner, 2016

 

 

 

 

The Road

My home’s the road which leads me place to place
My car, my roof, I search for peace of mind
Exploring towns, each one a brand new case
A mystery I solve then leave behind
I hope to find a town I cannot solve
A place who’s mystery I can’t unwrap
A place, no matter how firm my resolve,
I cannot find a way to fully map
Yet each town seems so similar to last
Resemblances grow closer every time
I feel as though I’m circling my past
No mystery beyond this road of mine
Which stretches on horizons yet to be
I cannot stop my curiosity

9. Ekprhastic to first photo

So the path continues

So the path beckons

How can I slow

Or stop

When the road continues

Board by board beside a glassine pool

A Democratic Anthem

What is to become of this mad old world?
This madness driven by an ancient dream
Someone once had about a great country
Once known as America.

The myth of freedom.
The lie of bravery
Laid bare in propaganda news.

With nothing left to fight for
We fight for war.
And peace, the carrot.

The empty plastic carrot
Filled with mustard gas
Blanket of our aggression.

Not my aggression.
Not me. Not we, the people.
The crazy, lazy people.

We believe “My country ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,”
As our resources are siphoned
By warmonger thieves of Democracy.

Our hearts broken in acceptance
Of corruption and debauchery.
Our minds terrified of the inevitable
War on our own shores.

A war of retribution
Borne of indecency
Fed with fiscal lust.

This ill sent legacy
To our children
Carries no great pride.

It would appear
Democracy has died.

Hour 11

I’ve been standing here for an hour
The rain just started up
I walk past the line of cars stopped at the red light
Windshield wipers smudging the just wet dust
“Hey!” I hear
One last hand waves out a window
A buck in hand.
I approach the car, sounds like The Doors playing
The man’s face is clean-shaven
He’s got a crew-cut
This is a military town- Yut! Kill!

I could tell him a thing or two.

Poem 11

Chapter 11: Ordeal

 

Alone on smooth hard stone.

No smell of pine

No laughing moon

No shadowed trees

 

Where?

Nowhere.

Someplace like a mausoleum.

An altar’s edge.

Opaque dark.

No telling how far down

Down goes.

 

Wind like evil

Prying fingers,

Lifts and pulls

Pries and digs.

But, you must want to fall

To go over this edge.

You must give in.

 

II.

Forever or a day.

Pomegranate promise

Sitting on one corner

Of this altar.

 

No dice.

 

III.

There must be a place

Beyond.

There must be a way

Through.

There must be a next

Step.

 

No pomegranate promise.

No dice.

From the edge of this altar,

I leap.

Selfish

I remember when I left you.
Both of us, angry, frustrated.
Neither of us at fault.

I went away to college.
You stayed.
You stayed.

Four years with few words.
Then six more with fewer.
Still more years.

You understood why.
You were unselfish.
I was not.

One day I called you.
Your tone of voice: shattered.
I listened intently.

We reconnected.
Had lunch.
Laughed.

We traveled overseas together,
During winter.
Re-connected.

You returned home.
Fell ill — again.
Passed on.

Still on the road.

X. Childless Mother

My children come to me in the night.
I hear their thin, airy voices calling
my name, and it startles me awake.

Each one lost before the fourth month,
All ignored except by me, but know this:
They had names, futures, destinies,
but I never got to hold them.

It wasn’t spoken of
after the deadening
well-wishing comments
of you’ll have another and
there must have been something
wrong with the baby.

I didn’t have another,
and all these years I have mourned
alone, silently, and without comfort.
Still, I hear their voices,
I imagine their dimpled baby hands,
Their graduations and weddings.

And I wait for them to come to me
in the night when all is quiet,
as their angels gather around my bed,
and they call my name.

 

 

Art: Richmond, VA 2014 by Virginia Galfo

Prompt Hour Eleven–a homeless perspective

Dynasty

The feather of a heron,
the wings of a crow
stirred my wandering feet
beside the riverbanks of my youth,
my namesake. I am John Heron*,
a child of the Crow people,
born the year after a great war, 1812.
I fell in  love with a white woman
and she with me, her pioneering spirit
a match to my own.
Together we traveled the dusty paths,
and explored wilder terrain.
The birth of a tiny daughter caused us to remain
rooted in a village, where illness took me away
to the next life, the next world to roam,
leaving my only girl to one day found
a wandering, roaming, winged dynasty.

Tracy Plath

*John Heron was my Native American ancestor. He fathered one child, my great great grandmother, and from her sprang my entire paternal family. He died of pneumonia at the age of 21 in 1834.

Poem 11: Invisible Homeless

I look just like you.
If I never said, you’d never know.
I wear clean clothes,
Listen to pop music,
Color pictures on my cell phone,
Prefer Fuji apples to Opal,
Voted in the last election,
Wonder why the Kardashians still have a show.
I even attend school;
I’m a sophomore.

I have a mom,
A car,
A 3.2 GPA.
I have a name.
I don’t have a home.
Yeah. Gasp, right?
But, but you look so normal!
I am. I’m normal. A normal, 20-year-old girl.
I just don’t have a home.

No, I’m not transgender,
And my daddy didn’t sell me
Into sexual slavery.
But damn straight we should
Care about those folks
And help them out!
Nah, I’m a lot luckier.
I mean, yeah, I’m a lesbian, but my
Mom didn’t care too much.
When I turned eighteen, child support just stopped
And social services started docking her checks.
She cried when she asked me to leave.
My older sister took me in for a bit,
But when her boyfriend started beating her up,
I just… left.

I have a job, you know.
I use my sister’s address.
I wait tables.
I buy clothes and make-up at Walmart.
Sometimes, I save enough for a motel room.
Other times, I crash at friends’.
Occasionally, I’ll lay the seat down
In my car and snooze.

I bathe regularly. I smell fine. I eat okay.
The only cardboard sign
I’ve ever held
Advertised a middle school car wash.
I even dated a sweet girl for a few months.
I sneaked into her dorm room a few times,
Until her roommate ratted us out.

I probably sit right next to you in College Algebra
Or Psychology.
I’m your group partner,
Your fry-wielding server,
The person who passes you
On the freeway.

I’m the bogeywoman
Who keeps so many clutching their
Blankets and politics
As tightly as possible
To their chests.