The Poetry Marathon

Hour 21 – Oscar was Wilde

The rich are far too opulent

to bleed for a Cause

and besides, Causes have no place

pleading to the rich.

It would only make them unhappy

and if the rich do not feel content in their mansions,

who would be available for mindless gossip?

Everyone knows gossip is the lifeblood of society. Without it, what would people say to each other?

Talking about art has its limits. After all, art is only there to make the rich look cultured.

They all said Oscar was Wilde but behind closed doors, the rich were fucking like possessed monkeys.

Only those who fell out of the trees were exposed, so to speak.

So let the Causes be the business of the poor so the rich can maintain their façade.

It is really all they have. Well, apart from fabulous wealth of course.

Accidents and Insults

“Accidents don’t happen to people who take accidents as a personal insult,”–The Godfather, Mario Puzo

What would it be like to live out this line?

To treat;

Every mishap,

Every sling;

Every arrow of misfortune;

As an insult deserving of redress?

Would there be fewer insults?

Or less time to be insulted?

-30-

 

 

hour 21 poem

Memories of the seaside
brought by London rain
memories of Greece
fixed by architecture
and words of ancient Greek origin
in the English language
even a newspaper is an ephsmeral
every story
every novel
every life
to Graham Swift

Twenty~One…

eee

eeeee

cummings??

(how so?)

sometimes when i look into your eyes…

(how could i have thought they were blue

when they are so very, very green?)

…or listen to the slide of your voice…

…or feel the touch of your hand on my shoulder…

sometimes i am amazed at how well you know me, and how

comfortable i am telling you all my scary things

in the quiet moments of our day…

Viva Sweet Love!!

Twenty first poem

If I could escape like Spaceman Spiff.
If I could fly like Stupendous Man.
Imagine myself into someone I can stand.
Bill Watterson, you made it look so easy.

Fearless Intangible Time

That fearless intangible time

Stealing my life

Grabbing one moment

then another and another

Graying my hair

forcing my body into new contortions

Spinning me into complacency

Tempting me with ecstasy

Promising me minutes

That turn into seconds

That flip into decades

Life happens

Corkscrews and pinwheels

Excited screams and deafening noise

Silent nights, irreverent joys

All rolled into a jelly roll of dramatic comedy.

Fearless intangible time

A quickening illusion

Spinning past at supersonic speed

One day into another into another

Barely noticed

Until it’s taken away.

 

 

Poem #21

The twilight sun has come and gone,
without the rise of the new moon.
The birds sing frantically,
but the light is far from reaching them.
Their panicked twitters and caws echo between buildings,
but not to any human ears.
That species that is the ruler of this earth,
sleeps soundly in their beds,
unaware, and confortable in their belief of a rising sun each morn.
Other creatures begin to pick up on the nervousness of the avians,
and add their cries to the growing cacaphony.
But the humans yet sleep.
No new light begins to shine,
nothing rises above the nearby hills to chase and stretch the shadows.
The fauna starts to panic,
bringing the noise to a higher and louder pitch,
as they fear for the worst.
The sun would not rise,
as it did day after day,
and the darkness would trap them forever.
They huddle away, fear clouding instinct,
as they await whatever is to come.
But right as hope is leaving the last creature,
the shadows begin stretching themselves,
slowly away from the hills,
and the light begins to seep back into the world.
The creatures’ cries turn from hopelessness to gratefullness,
as their fears are hiden away with the darkness.
And as the humans finally begin to awake from their beds,
all they can think about,
is getting the stupid animals to shut up.

Matin

God in whom my attention flags

As I pray and sleep to

Keep awake before the

Outdoor sounds say join us in

Awakening to the Sunday

Lust awaiting you in prayerful

Chambers silent, not too much, stark

Not enough, a silly goat has

Found its way inside, once

Year a donkey walks through the

Room enchanting all, one

Day is set aside for sheep

To learn about the Good shepherd

And other metaphors for Christ

As the pastor of his flock

This day is nothing special ordinary

Words will be from Psalms

Advice perhaps from Paul

But I have prayed enough today I

Asked for strength to write

And then to stay awake and

Give gratitude for grace and peace.

Way After Midnight

Once way after midnight, my eyes were blurry.

I pondered about how weak and weary

I had become from A Poetry marathon.

Edgar, my dear literary friend, it’s well past the

Witching hour, and that’s all I got.

Living with Chronic Pain

How can I reclaim the essence of my dream,

Everytime I open my eyes,my pain debilitating.

I am a survival,doing one day at a time.

I take my daily dosage of pain medication,to help me carry on.

Since I’m not in control of my pain, I hope they sympathize with my situation.

It is rehabilitating,when I choose to live, one day at a time.

The coping mechanisms is adjusting my lifestyle,

That’s why I choose to live,one day at a time.

It’s all about endurance and strategy to work at my own pace

Making the right choices,save time and energy to regulate.

Too much activity will succumb to drug addiction,

The reason why I slow down,so I could work,one day at a time.

My only consolation are family and friends,who cares and understand,

The life of a person living with chronic pain.