The Poetry Marathon

Hour 8 – Song prompt Funeral Singers

inspired by this song here

So much loss in losing

Not so much picking it or choosing

Little lifes like candles

Buzzing out a tune

Funeral singer bee keeping

When magnets report the queen

Buzzing her tune no more

Pray for successions

Return, return to me

Little lost singer bee

So much life in loving

Sparks of light the way do lead

Funeral singer light housing

Lost ones on their way

Unhoused and restless through the night

Ships adrift in quarry bright

Adrift, adrift in the night

Return, return tonight

Return, Funeral Singers,

Half gone yourself on this journey

Prompt eight Funeral Singers

Funeral

 

What is real in this fight or flight

What line #7

What line can I write
That I might again repeat
Later on tonight

I rack my tired brain
What line can I write
It just won’t come
Do you share my plight

If only words might spill
Bent to my will
I rack my tired brain
The words silent still

I steel my pen
And my faint resolve
If only words might spill
I strain wih all my might
Oh dear gods above
What line can I write?

hour 7

after sylvan esso 

bass thump

guitar pluck

shoulders sway

finding a rhythm 

synth pulse

voice cut through

press into 

coherent cacophony 

marinate 

all together now 

words flow together

more feeling then 

decipherable lyrics

harmonies sneak 

voices crescendo 

another voice joins

three now

rhythm moves down

a body, to the hips

to tapping toes 

funeral singers

funeral singers

someone must 

bring the rhythm 

once the heartbeat

stops 

Poem 8, Flower

What will I do without the weight of you now?

I let out what I had been holding in;
screams, secrets, shame, fear.
If the police take you away, it wont affect me.
You are out of my life for good.
I live as a free woman.
I can take care of my cats without feeling bad.
With you, I was broken and shut down.
Without you, I have opened up like a flower,
taking in the sun.

The future is aching for me.

Most Mornings

Daylight warms the window
as I stretch my arms in bed.

Lost in contemplation about
something dumb I said.

Or was that just a dream?

I try to clear the existential cobwebs
from my sleep-filled head.

I rise to face the morning,
greet my beloved with a kiss.

I can’t help but be grateful
that most mornings start like this.

Hour 8- Music for the Soul

The melody tumbles through the atmosphere

Ebbing and flowing in a delicate symphony.

Nudging my senses towards a climbing crescendo

Dropping me with the ease of floating imagery.

I detect sadness tinged with melancholy tears

A rush of hope and empathy mixed in.

A cacophony of rushing sounds fills my ears

Like a dawn about to finally begin.

I allow the music to carry me away

To a place where I can follow my dreams.

In a rush of sweet emotion I fly

Where everything is as it seems.

Hour 8: Alone in the Stars

I want to be among the stars,

Not to find something that we don’t realize exists yet,

But the exact opposite.

I want to be alone among the stars,

Be the biggest part of this Universe

As it exists only for this one body.

I want the planets to shine for my pleasure,

illuminating a path of where I am meant to be.

I want the cold vastness of the dark

To spontaneously combust at the sight of me

As to keep me warm in the unknown.

I want to be sucked into a blackhole

And emerge somewhere where light has never been

Becoming the center of gravity as the sun once was.

 

I want to be among the stars,

Travel into the depths of where no one has been before

And become one of them.

I will become a star.

Poem for Hour Eight (8/24)

Accented by sunshine yellow, a long-legged fellow known as white-headed lapwing resides.

Fairly reclusive and favoring cattails the stunning and musical African Rail, wades carefully into the open,

Ready to join the best-dressed club run by those like Livingstone’s Turaco,

In stunning green and scarlet, with cap so vivid, yet all bow down to the grey-crowned

Crane, king of spectacular sights. The killer queen, secretary bird,

Allows no dangerous snake to even put up a fight.

TERMINATION – #7

Seasons drape the shadows of life

The dark corners

Shade of ancient oaks

They hide they protect

 

Armour against doubt and dread

Seasons drape the shadows of life

Occlusion’s illusions remain

Wind borne particles scurry away

 

Stripped bare winter’s rough hands

Steal from fall, spring and summer all lost

Seasons drape the shadows of life

There is finality in stillness

 

Age and time’s pretty knowledge

Blown down the ground’s raw edges

Coughing retching nothing left

Seasons drape the shadows of life