The Poetry Marathon

Hour Two: Dear Me

Dear Me, how does it feel to drink and know that it is legal now?

To walk into a bar and not be asked for your ID?

I imagine that’s the way it goes (not because I think you’re old,

But there were wrinkles on my face 3 years ago at seventeen)

 

I hope you’re not a train wreck

I hope you got divorced

I hope you’re not still on

This self-destructive course

 

Dear Me, I hope that you believe

In getting help, in therapy

In happiness, in fighting back

In life, in love, in wearing black

 

In cutting ties, in laughter

In happy ever after

In all the things you never thought

Would ever even matter

 

Dear Me, I hope you’re happy now

Despite all of the odds,

The house that you grew up in,

The shocking lack of gods

 

Despite who you call “mother”

Despite who you call “love”

Despite the lack of answers

To your prayers, from above

 

Dear Me, tell me a secret

Did you do it?  Did you die?

Did you find out where the darkness is?

Did you ever even try?

 

Did you tell them that you love them?

Were you honest?  Were you brave?

Did you forgive the monsters

That you said that you forgave?

 

Dear Me, if you are reading this,

How are you alive?

How’d you make it out this far?

How did you survive?

Tell me how you’re anything

But rotting flesh and bone

Did you get amnesia?

Forget the things we know?

 

Dear Me, I’m begging you

Can you hear me?  Do you care?

I guess it was too much

To hope you’re really there

 

Just one more person passing by

Two strangers in the night

At least, I hope that’s what you are by now:

Someone that I don’t recognize

Hour 8 – The day has come

Sleep is calling,
time to go to bed.

The darkness of the sky,
whispers a melody to my ears.

I tuck into the clouds,
A soft breeze kisses me goodnight…..

A warm hand caresses my cheek,
wake up she says.

As I open my eyes, I see,
a pool of light made of orange and honey.

I dip my toes in the warm lake,
I am lifted by the melody of morning birds.

The day has come.

eight: The Alien Fux With Them

The Alien Fux With Them

Ignoring you for ages
Flying objectively and unidentified
Skipping across dimensions while you can barely skip a stone
Suddenly, you admit to your people
Than my people are more than a notion
As if WE are the unbelievable
The obtuse
The brilliant idiots
They realize
That it never walked, talked or…
“Zborblubtoggled”
Like an Earthling
And still have not decided whether to pet or eat you
So perhaps it is best of take your pictures and speculation over there, TMZ
We have tough and tasty decisions to make!

Blue (Hour 1)

Only close to death

We notice life.

Only in the dark

We miss the light.

Only when alone

I need you near.

Things you do not say

I seem to hear.

Only when I’m hurt

I seem to care

Only when I win

I think it’s fair.

Only when I’m down

You know it’s true.

It’s so sad to see you

When I’m blue.

 

 

 

Purplescent Garden hour 7

Purplescent Garden
Haiku Sequence

crocus, iris
hyacinth
early bulb bloomers

lilac
hardy plant, heady fragrance
plant in your dooryard

lavender
natural mosquito repellant
soothing fragrance

purple coneflower
pretty purple addition
that reseeds, reseeds

butterfly bush
attracts pollinators
yes, butterflies included

columbine and salvia
vibrant spring blooms
through June

stately delphiniums, larkspur
beware –
toxic to people and pets

morning glory
breathtaking blooms
prolific vines can strangle

verbena, petunias
perky pansies
dress up garden beds

heliotrope and lobelia
steadfast bloomers through
first frost

whatever the bud
whichever the season
bloom your garden purple

~ J R Turek Hour 7

He is Missed Forever and A Day 8/24

Solemnly

She steps onto the stage

Her eyes swollen shut

From crying tears of pain

This day

A day she wont soon forget

Her day of birth

A cause to celebrate

Quickly turned into

A day of somberness

She holds the memories close  instead

Life goes on

And we learn to cope

With the tragedies

That litter our happy place

She take the mic

Her broken voice

Indicative of her broken heart

She starts to sing

But the words get in the way

Fighting through the tears

That drench her face

She dedicated to him

A lovely piece that portrays

A tribute to his absence

For even though he missed a lot

His existence still lingers

The sound of his voice

The roughness in his hands

The goodness of his heart

Her father forever a piece of her heart.

~Rebeli

Ode to a Soldier, Hour Eight, Inspired by Max Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight

Ode to a Soldier

My love is a wondrous man,
devoted and kind,
bold in his love for us,
yet gentle in his approach,
as we were all as skittish deer
when he arrived in our lives.

His humor unlocked for us
the hilarity in our hearts,
laughter trickling first tentatively,
then permeating, saturating our home,
good feeling that will live on in its beams
to the next family it shelters.

He taught our sons to be men
that could love and be loved
both in strength and in wisdom,
our daughter to trust in good,
and her own steely determination
that could neither be bent nor broken.

He lives in constant pain,
pervasive exhaustion, and yet
not a word is spent in complaint.
A legacy of service in times of war
left its mark on his body,
but strengthened the resolve of his mind.

I am blessed to receive all
that his generous heart bestows.
My days are golden
because we have found each other,
pieces slotted into personal puzzles
we did not know before were incomplete.

Prompt 2 Soaring

We emerge in silence

Continuing to grow as we trail on foot

over dug graves by others

who say they loved us

this new version of life after death

has me pray over the bones of my ancestors

who guide me in darkness

to light.

In the middle of nowhere

I find settled ancestors

clinging to scraped images

of all the places we as in all my selves have lived.

Hour 8

The preacher for the graveside service was provided by the funeral home

called my father Jesse for the entire ceremony

but his name was Jess

Being laid to rest under a false name

on a cold and rainy November morning

is a sad way to exit this world

 

 

 

 

 

Magic Spell under the blues

 

In that dark night, without any fear factor
A woman sits before a dancing place of crackling fire,
She holds a glowing orb in a nighttime, quiet space.
The world, deeply silent, untold secrets,
Every star revealed under the starry curtains

Complex dark magic weaves the ebony sky,
The heavens were adorned with a fire flies
Her presence, ethereal and rare, adds a touch of poise,
In the heart of this silent night, she’s awaiting someone

No stolen prose marred or marked in this picture
An original lexicon, a poetic concept in all its beauty.
Amidst the astral cowl, our narrative elegantly unfurls,
on this serene cradle of night, the cosmos softly swirls

 

image prompt-8

8th hour