The Poetry Marathon

OH, How I hate to get up in the Morning!

It’s the End of sleep for another night
I hug the covers oh, so tight

My Mother’s annoying wake up call
bounces off my bedroom wall

“Good Morning to you…
Good Morning to you….

Time to get U–UP
you have things to do!”

I love sleeping in
is that such a “sin”?

Just five minutes more?
Then my feet hit the floor

I still remember Mom ‘s wake up call
a singing alarm from down the hall

she left this earth in twenty-eleven
no doubt she’s singing now in heaven

I’m left with memories …good and bad
But I’m awake now…and I’m so glad

1. To The Ticket Girl Working at the Carnival, Cherry Festival 2016

To the Ticket Girl Working at the Carnival, Cherry Festival 2016

 

Gulls scatter erratic,

like plastic bags estranged

in air current

over the ferris wheel.

A wind peaceful

of lake, wind in

my veins, or rather

winded, bone-terse

& skin-brittle

from cold cloaked

in summer’s peeling.

the dog days razing

a burnt lintel of wither

& aimless want

on my back.

I follow the lead

of wandering color,

sporadic in disposition,

neon memories buckled to

bleak nights where I hold

quiet & clamor each in a palm.

My eyes elevated to

a bruised sprawl of sky

until my muse drifts

to you, red security shirt

& a scraggly-toothed smile.

I buy a ticket & hold onto

the search for you

at every rotation

of the tilt-a-whirl.

Period (The End/Hour 1 prompt)

Period

Sleep is a comma

between dreams,

at most, a semicolon;

this life is an epic

run-on sentence,

one thought

to the next,

barely pausing

for breath,

anxiously,

hopefully,

climbing

breath’s ladder

ahead of flame,

praying not

to reach the top.

The other end

I am done with beginnings

I have seen too many of those

Half done

Half proposed

Regurgitated

This time i want to flip my coin

I want to see the other end of the rainbow

I want to be exhausted and exhilirated

I want to see the finish line

The ribbon across my chest

Give me the end this time

Victorious or defeated

Let me land my flight

At a destination.

The hidden tears

Unlike the others,

the sorrows I had need to be hidden,

from everyone,

and from her – his beloved adopted.

So I told my heart,

its fine…wound will heal,

though he was forever gone.

Word Stew

Fuel for a day of words

is gathered in a warming crockpot.

Chicken

three onions, one large head of garlic

a generous fist full of cumin seeds are

mingling, heating to slow simmer.

The aromas will climb up the back staircase,

waft down the long hall to

stir mouth watering anticipation.

I shall stir softened lentils into the hearty broth

and strip the bones of meat,

stir all together then

fill my white crockery bowl to the brim and indulge.

Hour One: The doors on the right will open

You will step out onto the platform
into the humid embrace
of the summer afternoon

You will melt
as you melt into the crowd
of which you are a part

but from which you are completely apart

The streets of Shibuya
will suck you out of the station
and into the open air

Tokyo will scream at you
right to your face

You will smile
though you know she does not love you
she is always there for you

(13 August 2016)

Awaken

Night unfades to dawn

as I will my body,

mind,

soul,

and spirit

to rally and fight another day.

 

1 // transparent wood

we twist spaces between cells into windows
pull out pigments and lignin
remove wood from wood
until we have glass
or the closest thing we can get
xylem lets light in through soft spaces
green architecture without colour–

perhaps we will build a house
out of transparent wood
call it the greengreenhouse and laugh
secretly delighted at its name
at what we have built

HEY WRITE

As I read through my old poems for sweet inspiration, I only grow in upsetting irritation.
play the goodies through the headphones, sing along in screeching tones.
and yet, NOTHING.
I can write about the life of a daycare assistant, juggling diapers and babies while i listen to the parents “what if’s” who is “who’s” and gaping “maybe’s”
OR
scribble about how being 20 is like a Pandora soundtrack, you can only listen to what that station gives you and there’s no playback. (damn, I really love that song.)
…NAH.
thumbs up? thumbs down? toss in the the trash.
burn the thought but keep the ash.
I’ll figure out something. I’m a writer goddammit!
…hey, I can write about…oh, forget it.
damn writer’s block..