The Poetry Marathon

As the clock strikes midnight my mind is on something beautiful
Away in the city she is who I long to be with this night
We don’t need any words or to speak just us together touching
It is as if the only language we have is our love
As my eyes grow weary and my heart is full I feel drunk

But in all honesty it is a foolish truth or maybe this insomnia
Curse this forsaken burden that now cast upon me. Oh insomnia!
Words muddled and lines are blurred it is almost beautiful
Trying to convey these thoughts or feelings of my love
Can I be any more frank or do my words any less touching
I can’t think straight but all I feel is the warmth of night
Just listen to me and hear me speak for am confused as a drunk

A fool am I to think that my wakefulness is clear, not drunk
Again I curse and swear and scream and blame my insomnia
Missing the sights the sounds the things that are beautiful
Are you thinking less of me amongst the confusion my love?
Because at this very moment I rather be with you hands touching
Let the sounds of the city play the lullaby of the night

 
And that’s what this is a man in love up at night
Pretending to be far from a truth and creatively drunk
I shouldn’t curse it or blame my companion insomnia
Since I writing words as an attempt to say what is beautiful
It is like the waltz of the stars and the moon in love
Spread out across the sky like a painting, how touching

And then my heart feels it again the long of us touching
Underneath your sheets as we listen against the night
Your eyes are closed and against me you lay. So beautiful
I am still awake and I don’t blame it anymore on the insomnia
A sharp noise wakes you but it’s just a drunk
I don’t want to be anywhere else by here beside the one I love

You talking in your sleep roll over and kiss the man you love
And I smile back run my fingers through your hair touching
The hours keep going by and I don’t want the end of this night
I understand now what the singers say it is to be love drunk
And I try to sleep but I cannot, as I cannot rid this insomnia
Yet, I am at peace with the moment that I find so beautiful

You are beautiful you are my love
Let’s spend this night touching
I am not drunk and I am lying about the insomnia

Unassuming children for truth they reach

Starched pants and pleated shirts staring eyes wide

Pilgrims all pew perched in high holy pride

Eager innocence seeking what men preach

Following along with the rhythmic stride

Narrating illustrated thoughts to each

Selective scriptures for the soul to ride

Contradictions that confuse what men teach

How the altar of disappointment brings

Naive babes to be fed the truth that cries

Animated parables pulling strings

Fooling all who would be honest and wise

Enamored by the dancing shiny things

Until they all crave the taste of men’s lies

by Karen Sullivan

Form: Petrarchan Sonnet

Taking form of chaos,

the outcome is peace,

seems like a wrench thrown in reality.

Taking form of chaos,

water into wine,

weddings always blow the mind.

Taking form of chaos,

walking on water,

crowded boats are a bother.

Taking form of chaos,

Red sea split in two,

right on time they after you.

Taking form of chaos,

guy’s been dead for days,

not even at work I get a raise.

Taking form of chaos,

death, hell and the grave,

the only perfect one came just to save.

Delusion

Our reflection,a misleading fantasy,

True acceptance of ourselves,betray.

Face the truth,go out of your comfort zone,

Stop daydreaming before you’ll get drown.

Arrrrghhh this was a tough one. Ended up creating a so-so poem using a range of pick n mix candy/sweet names.

#26

fruit sours
& an apple drops
as the flying saucer
sherbets overhead
skittles warheads
toxic waste
atomic fireballs
liquorice ropes
with a sour
rainbow twist

#1.  First one of the lot 🙂

War ground to a halt.

It was a bloody war.

And seemed like it would never end.

Too much ammunition.

Too much at stake.

But peace was declared,

Armies disbanded.

There are tremors of the old conflict

In the minds of old men

Who can’t forget what was normal in youth.

All others, though, have adapted

To amity,

To goodwill.

The children of today’s children

Will read in dusty books

Of warfare, of sides drawn,

And it won’t make sense

That this was ever so.

Grass and new forest will cover

The deep scars in the earth

Made by so many bomb blasts.

Soul mate, mirror image,supernatural

Inexplicable soul,blinded…

A cynical.

When I see the dandelion
Reminds me of the weeding
In the garden my grandma
Full of native wisdom
from the sun dark-skinned
kneeling with her cane

Leaning on her cane
poking its end at the offending dandelion
wrinkled in the sun dark-skinned
in her childhood of farming and weeding
she gained so much wisdom
what she had gained, my grandma

I miss my grandma
and her wooden cane
from abuse she gained such wisdom
and her laugh delightful as a dandelion
her laughs did not need weeding
she was more than dark-skinned

in her time those dark-skinned
not like everyone’s grandma
obsessed with dandelion weeding
all summer leaning on her cane
I would make a wreath of dandelion
crown my head in her wisdom

now here i walk in wisdom
like her I walk dark-skinned
making medicine with the dandelion
not like my grandma
not yet in my hand, her cane
my hands know by heart the weeding

with my bare, brown hands I learn weeding
taking and leaving, weeding wisdom
use my fingers to point at each cane
I walk this world dark-skinned
how do I emulate my grandma
draw a tattoo of a dandelion

through life the weeding, in life run dark-skinned
with simple wisdom I am my grandma
one day I’ll have her cane wreathed in dandelion

In the deep midnight blue
hidden in the creche dark
came the softest, sweetest song
a crooning, lowing lullaby baby
to a green-jealous moon
and a stilling heart.
The private audience heart
in that deepening blue
did watch a blushing moon
beam in the dark
a tune sweet to a baby
a wordless honey-breath song.
the tender-voiced song
whose refrain touched heart
to a restful, sleepy baby
with delicate closed eyes blue
in the fading dark
to a waning moon.
And to the sickly moon
not a gentle crooning song
in the predawn dark
but from a loving heart
to that sweet boy blue
the loved restful baby.
That handsome baby
whose jealous moon
paled green from blue
of that hummed song
from now a wishful heart
in the slowly lighting dark.
And from the lighting dark
there stirred a sleeping baby
in the gentle loved heart
far from that weak moon
a love song
to a coming blue.
No longer to linger dark nor ill moon
stirred my dear baby my singing song
from one full heart to eyes of blue.