The Poetry Marathon

WATER NYMPH (HOUR 8) PAMS

Spirited away, your swamps’ moody ghost

somehow he returned to you.

Your newly found creature, nearly forgotten,

and then you remember somehow, he was your son.

 

He was a child, unable to speak, when he was

spirited away, your swamps’ moody ghost,

just as he came out of his shell hearing his mom’s

mixed up bedtime stories and

 

In the grip of her attending to business, he was

spirited away, your swamps moody ghost.

Yes he was spirited away by someone he once needed

who didn’t need him anymore.

 

Spirited away, your swamps moody ghost

by the only person

he ever needed who didn’t even say goodnight when he was

Spirited away, your swamps’ moody ghost.

 

 

Hour 8 Haiku

Fahrenheit lowers,

hoodies, gray sweatpants, sneakers,

Clear dark, starry nights,

 

Warm, smoky fires,

cuddled up, swatting nighttime bugs,

Sounds of nighttime bugs,

 

Smores by the fire,

Joyous times filled with laughter,

Fall – ing to Autumn.

Hour 8 – Daylight

Daylight beckons me
watching
running
spilling out of darkness
the day begins with
breezes of breath
tears of joy
crags of a life
well-lived
without regrets.
The birds are
playing and
humming their songs
sometimes screeching,
but always authentic.
Oh, to be like a bird
on the wing of this new day.

---

Inspired by Max Richter – “On the Nature of Daylight”

Hour 8 Prompt

Poem 8

Femininity is wonderful

It’s not afraid of spelling things wrong

The glitter pens and rounded swooping letters

The memory of someone calling your handwriting “nice” 

seared in your memory

 

Femininity is loud 

It’s the nights we watch our favorite movie musicals

And we treat it like our own personal concert

She laughs with me, jumping to the beat

 

Femininity is lovely

It’s the exclusive fashion shows

That take place on in cozy dorm rooms 

Littered with a trove of wonders

 

Femininity is problem-solving

Losing the key to my friends apartment because I

Was cat sitting and not being met with anger

But a, “let’s figure out what to do”

 

Femininity is self-love

In the softer and harder parts

And our love for one another

Instills a love for ourselves

 

Femininity is home

It’s the feeling of holding hands

Sunsets on a summer day

And the feeling of someone to hold

No matter how far away they are

10am Poem 8. Poem for Us (written while listening to Max Richter, On the Nature of Daylight)

10am hour 8 poem 8

Poem for Us (written while listening to Max Richter, On the Nature of Daylight)

You come to me slightly.
You are so broken
and she is so broken
and they are so broken.
We are all so broken.

Ancient china broken

You tippy toe in
not to shatter yourself
not to drop yourself to the floor
not to kick up any
blinding memory dust
not to knock anyone off
our shadow ledges.

You skippity hop talk softly
cautiously
needingly.
You are so broken.
We are all so broken.

Forgotten promises broken broken

You come to me
stemmed and leaking
and she is there.
We bandage with cool cloth talk
gluey safeties
soft, warm blanket gauzes
that soothe us
that soothe even them.

You are so broken
and she is so broken
and they are so broken.
We are all so broken

Pangaea broken

Pieces of our whole torn apart
but still fitting broken

separated only by space and time broken.

Crime seen (5 hour)

How a headless man arrived at a compound

of a palace was a puzzle the inspector had on its plate

associates pinned the headless figure on his shoulders.

He had an altercation with the dead ahead of the deed.

 

The police sealed the crime scene

to prevent another crime unseen.

A witness needs must come forth

with evidence of a crime seen.

 

The witness emerged

Suddenly without his head

two headless effigies

suspects at large

 

Who?

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Night Sky – Nature Personified

The Night Sky arrives ever so slowly

Bringing forth twinkling stars

Every twenty-four hours.

Each star formed from a mass of gas and dust.

He leaves only when his largest star needs to sleep.

HOUR NINE – STORY GESTATION

(oops – Sorry, I posted this one a little early)

 

The air fills with words and phrases,

metaphors and similes bounce off the walls

seeking their place in an awaiting paragraph,

as yet complete.

 

Writer’s mind whirls and swirls,

spinning notions, inspirations

clashing and merging, morphing

into tales to be told.

 

Keyboard clicks and clatters,

fingers fly across the keys,

letters court the virgin page;

its maiden head breaking.

 

From the writer’s loins

an idea is born,

a story – raw, filled with potential,

an intense, yet joyful delivery.

 

 

Hour 8 text prompt – on daylight

Inspired by this song here

People long for light in which they feel something warm

To some that’s a bright smile in which they find charm

To some it’s just the little things

Longing and reminiscences

Gentle touches in a soft cafe

The peak of sunlight after a long winter night

Because oh so finally it’s day

And yet, much to their dismay

The longing is not matched by tender day

And relationship with dawn begins to fray

Like the rope of Terabithia did sway

The Nose Knows

Hour Eight

Freshly baked bread, a warm towel from the dyer, stew bubbling in a pot, brewed coffee, the sweet aroma of a flower shop, a candy store.
A schnozz in heaven.

Cut grass, cracked pepper, dust bunnies and pollen, second hand smoke, cigarette or otherwise, perfume baths,
tickles and bothers tiny hairs, a sneezers disdain.

Bacon and onions frying, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in a hot oven, burgers and franks on the BBQ, spaghetti sauce and chilli, simmering in pots.
Mouth watering flavours, hunger pains in the belly, overloaded senses.

Dirty diapers, overflowing toilets and sinks, tarring of rooftops, rotten eggs and gasoline.
Putrid smells of the unthinkable and nasty.

A sensitive spot suffering agony and pleasure, pinched, itchy, pierced, and sometimes bloody and broken.

What the eye sees the nose knows moments before whether by scent, smell, odour, fragrance, perfume, incense, waft, funk, stench, vapor, and sweat.
The nose knows it all.