The Poetry Marathon

What one physical object (I am not talking about your dog or cat or baby, but a possession) would you save in case of a fire? Your prompt this hour is to write a poem about that possession.

When I close my eyes.

I can feel your warm breath .

All over my soft body.

Your warm soft kisses.

On my lips .

Your gentle hands caress me closer.

Too your body where I can feel your.

Breath on my soft skin.

A labyrinth
Choices I made
Decision that I stand upon
Working out to one’s heart content
Uplifting spirit to share
Loving so immensely
A shadow overcome
Learning so tenderly
Life is indeed beautiful

Sleep calling out to me

“For Sweet Dreams await

This is as close as you get to Death’s gate

Tears stream here and there showcasing the battle between Awake vs Sleep

Yawning quickly follows

Drifting off into the deep

Elicit my love a dairy
or if prefer a child
I’m in town to tarry
tired of the wild
prithee don’t be wary
pray thee don’t be riled

For should thou be so riled
to linger at the dairy
a wooly beast as wild
may with you choose to tarry
he is a she with child
better to be wary

And why should I be wary
she taunted and she riled
for unforgotten dairy
so circular and wild
the home in which I tarry
to set upon this child

A bowl of fruit my child
no need that you be wary
no matter you be riled
my father owned this dairy
the fruit is from the wild
if you must leave don’t tarry

The cooper may not tarry
in keeping with a child
I shall burn the dairy
if you be so riled
spoiled you be wary
ruined in the wild

Forget that I am wild
I dare not linger, tarry
you see he is my child
a present just as wary
a bastard never riled
upon a wayward dairy

One two dairy three four wild
Five six child seven eight tarry
the wasted wary rounding ten riled

I love delicious tea
with tags of hope
and fun for me
that help to cope
on days I’m not free
to just say nope.

It was a nope
when without tea
I couldn’t cope
and inside me
was shrinking hope
for I could be free.

I yearn to be free
and void their nope,
bold on tea,
that helps me cope
for who would expect me
to give up on hope.

But is that hope
what makes me free
what if it’s nope
does my tea
which helps me cope
lie to me

But inside me
I know my hope
isn’t in my tea
but in my heart. Nope,
the tea is free
from duty to help me cope.

For I’ll always cope
and you’ll see me
manifest hope
completely free
of anything, so nope,
I cannot blame the tea.

So with tea I may cope
but my hope is just me
I choose free over nope

I awaken in the morning
To lick my master’s face
I need food to survive the day
If I play at my pace

I run around the house till rest
And cuddling I need
I dedicate to snarl at cat
Or Mailman’s dirty deed

I protect my parents daily
And show them lots of care
Because one day I might be gone
So my love, I must share

Repeat daily

He stands defiant, a child without Hope
Everyone cares and no one is Kind
He’s alone, untrusting of Compassion
Demonstrating his artistic Rage
Lonely child full of Hate
Home is the comfort of other’s Disdain

Awaken by Disdain
Devoid of Hope
First to Hate
Keeps to his Kind
Full of Rage
Lack of Compassion

Show him Compassion
Free of Disdain
Calm his Rage
Show him Hope
Please be Kind
Reframe his Hate

We deserve his Hate
We expect Compassion
Him to be Kind
We show Disdain
And squash his Hope
While feeding his Rage

Igniting his Rage
Fueling hisHate
Killing his Hope
And Compassion
Promoting Disdain
Of his Kind

He tries to be Kind
Dampen his Rage
And Disdain
He buries his Hate
Tentative with Compassion
And Hope

Teaching him to be Kind, releasing his Hate
Letting go of Rage to make room for Compassion
Converting his Disdain into great Hope

I hope to create in this life more than a noise
and to leave behind, as I go, more than an echo.
It might seem like vanity, but truly
it’s an ambition. For my dreams are surreal
and my soul is electric
and I hope my words are not forgotten.

Ideas lose value, if they are forgotten,
And everything becomes just background noise
from the chatter to static electric,
useless gossip surrounding you like an echo
of the world so surreal,
that it’s no longer perceivable truly.

As for myself, yours truly,
I am not yet forgotten,
but saying “remembered” would be a bit too surreal.
As I try to tune out all the noise,
to avoid turning my writing into an echo,
my mind tunes into the steady buzzing electric.

Let’s keep our lives in a state of electric,
plugged into devices, as if we are truly
nothing but an echo
of our human nature, long forgotten.
Our ancestors would find the city noise
confusing and our lifestyle surreal.

We made our art surreal
as if life is not moving, not electric
enough on its own, as if we need the noise,
the disturbance, the distortion to truly
see what would otherwise be forgotten
like a fading echo.

Let your own words become an echo,
so they reach farther, even if they sound surreal.
Better that, than be entirely forgotten
in this age of electric
communications. Say what you mean truly,
and don’t become part of the noise.

We live in the age of echo, surrounded by the electric
and the surreal. I’ll make my words truly
my own, in hopes of not being forgotten or dismissed as noise.