The Poetry Marathon

Summer’s End

Summer’s End

The deerfoot stippler, washed, dryed, put away

Quinacridone Magenta frowns as her cap is tightened

Stuffed into her den between Naphthol Crimson and

Phthalo Green;

The easel creaks

as he is flattened,

placed beside the

crafting table.

Canvases mourn,

modeling paste grieves,

pallet knives lament.

A little wave goodbye to my ArtSherpa,

Creepy Trees,

and Thankful Art.

Table is cleared of pallet creativity;

the mind must focus on its new venture–

Creativity with the pen!

The artist’s pallet changes from paint and brushes to

powerpoints and Writer’s Notebooks.

The crafting room morphs into an office once again;

Soon pencils, highlighters, folders, essays line the table

Bags of homework to be graded

Late to bed, early to rise

School starts again.

A tiny poem to open the heart…

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A poem is a small bit of the soul wrapped up in hope.

A hope that its words will pierce the heart and open the mind to pure possibility.

A poem is naked and vulnerable; it is the gateway to self-discovery…

The End? I just got Started!!!

They’re not gonna trick me into quitting.

I wrote a pome fair and square.

Bluff.

Yeah.

Complain a little, that always helps.

IS THIS THE FRIGGIN END OR THE BEGINNING?!?

Where’s the end of the line?

PRS 1.2 2016

I Am…hour 1

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I am that broken piece, the chain…Keeping things together…I am Peace…I am Hope…I am here to gain & spread knowledge…To those ready to Listen…#Formation #BlackPanther…I am my ancestors dream…I am for change…I am for growth…I am that body hanging at the end of the rope…I am conscious…I am ready for action…I am the last bullet drilled in their backs…I am aware of the c-r-a-c-k (crack)…I am the struggle faced with fear…,panic ready to attack…Have knowledge of self preservation…3rd eye open in this nation…Black tears and broken bonds on the plantation….

Boy

You kept me in your sights

Stayed at my side

Followed in my steps

If out of view, you hunted me down

Or returned to base to wait

You feared losing me or it seemed so

I had your gaze

 

 

Mercy

A sacrifice we offer, a Sacrifice we pray

as we go forward upon this glorious, wretched day.

Humble resurrection..

a transfiguration…

the word became flesh…

but then, the Lord gives, and He takes away.

On this day when life goes forth

Blood and Water are poured.

Mercy lives on despite death….

in His daily Word:

“Let the children come to Me and do not hinder them,

for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.”

Thanks be to God.

 

HOUR 1

My Demise

 

I’ve often thought and wondered

about my demise.

Will it be gentle

and take me in the night?

Will I find what I’ve been looking for

as I search through the light?

 

So many thoughts and issues.

I see them sitting there.

Sad little faces and

some hands, filled

with tissues.

 

I wonder how they’ll see me

with sadness or joy;

a player in the madness

or a child in the void.

 

I guess the answer

lies, in my untimely

demise.

 

 

 

Hour One – The End

The end

The end

The end.

Nothing else comes any more.

No more

No more

No more.

The clock is ticking anyway.

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick-tock.

 

 

Sonerous Breaths

I would like to invite you to join us in celebration of
Two most momentous occasions: two sides of the breath.
The first inhale
The last exhale
One marks the beginning, and one the end

This fete full of marvels and milestones
Is sure to bestir such great gasps of wonder
At times
Observe
the first view of the milky way
the whale breaching
the aurora borealis
A litter of kittens beneath the stoop

Between the first breath and the last is monotony and adventure
And endless sea of breaths
Gathered full force,
a lifetime of breaths could suction out the essence of space and put it all back again
But we cannot know such power
And so we sip politely each our own lung-fulls, and empty them again, never counting, never knowing when the last one will come
The first one hurt so badly, was such a shock, and the last one will just be the last
The sonerous breath
To whisk the dandelion seeds across the lawn
Gather in you lungs the briny breath of sea
A breath that hitches in surprise, but eventually seeps back out into the ether
The roiling rising disturbance from beneath water,
The duration of said celebration cannot be determined
Until the final sleep where the breathing ends

VIRAGO #1

Quickly, now, we tiptoed,

away from Notorious Joe,

our cover we were sure not to blow,

“Ouch!” A throbbing big toe.

 

Jack whispered, “Oh woe.”

the torch in his hands aglow,

no light from the kitchen window,

the glass, imported from Glasgow.

 

“Be quiet!” Jack nearly bellowed,

a vase sent crashing due to his elbow,

made in Malay Archipelago,

says the label, but it’s really from Mexico.

 

Little me said, “Oh, oh”

as Joe walked in with an espresso,

and she was mostly known as a virago,

and she was mostly known as a virago.