The Poetry Marathon

I Try Not to Think About #15/24

I Try Not to Think About

the private jokes we shared
our favorite pink pajamas on Christmas morning
sleeping in the old white Chevy
touching tongues because it felt funny
giggling till we couldn’t catch our breath
fighting over the blankets at grandma’s
your morning grouchiness
getting caught with boys in the house
dancing to Three Dog Night
sneaking down the television antennae
and into the freedom of a summer night
late bonfire bashes at “the tree”
sneaking in drunk after curfew
sharing the stick shift, dark green Vega
locking the keys in the car at the
Steve Miller Band concert
crying together after your abortion
holding your head in my lap
while you sobbed over something
I couldn’t change
for the first time
of many more to come.

Sonnet for Tonk

The Medicine Man in Hill City

rode in on a Crazy Horse.

While I struggled to hold his committee

I was swept into his light source.

Behind his golden gates

stretched across heaven and Earth

he told me of many fates

tied directly to my rebirth.

So then, a journey to the Wheel.

Miles of walking up the road

ripped away all I tried to conceal.

Layed out there, the way was showed.

While coming down, the raven called

to me, and Earth, on which I crawled.

Reruns Before the New Season

Sometimes I try to do as others always say you should do when you feel, say, your lip tremble for a split-hair second
when you realize that she never calls
And when she does it’s basically to pretend for whoever she’s around that I’m even a blip on her radar screen
throughout the course of her day-to-day goings-ons
As though she suddenly snapped out of some bout with amnesia
and miraculously remembers everything
as though she hasn’t been out of frame for the last several seasons of the show
Like she can walk back in
And demand the producers resurrect her character
from the most recent death she suffered;
the last being the fatal fall
she had when she slipped on a stick of butter
while making oatmeal.
Just one in a long, long list of necromantic revivals.

You get so tired of writing her
in and out of the cast
that you finally just say,
“Enough is enough!”
and resurrect her zombie of a character,
one last time…
…to be played by a different actress.
That way, you don’t have to worry
whether or not she will be on set for her scene
Or have to wonder
if she even cares that she is holding up
the entire production- cast, crew, staff, the writer (that’s me)
every time she injects herself
only to eject herself,
with a quickness like Jackie Joyner-Kersee
But then there is the sadness,
the whimpering emptiness
that she cuts out of you,
leaving a void of blistered lacerations
and pink, fleshy scar-tissue.

You ask yourself,
“What is the difference between now and then?”
trying to find the good memories
Of a time when she cared,
before she shut the world out,
before whatever cog shot loose
and she quit loving you
Which is the moment
the numbing truth of the matter sets in
and you realize
that you don’t recall any so-called happier days
Because she’s always been
like this, to some degree, on some level
And on some level, to some degree,
she will always be like this

But you will carry her weight,
not because she deserves it
or because she’s changed
Not because she’s earned it
or because she does or doesn’t call
to ask about your day,
your week,
your month,
your year.
It’s because she is your mother,
and it is what a son should do,
because you hope
that if the shoe were on the other foot
That she would
do it for you
Hell, that she would
do it for herself

But in the back of your mind,
you always knew
That life isn’t fairy dust and rainbows
And that those sorts of wishes
don’t ever come true
Hurting is this one’s heart
This story
My story
The story of a broken son
And his broken Mom.

The Pen is Mightier

I pour my memories through this pen

Climbing down the lines and margins

The maturing letters bond and stretch

 They burn my eyes with their truth

Fresh paper loses its virginity

When thoughts become written word

They stain and press themselves

Like gravel into a knee

The fibers scream and beg

Pulling apart, coming undone

 The ink comes to the surface

 Bright and vibrant and new

My last poem for the half marathon–THE TWELVE HOURS

THE TWELVE HOURS

When at the eleventh hour,
The final whistle travels by the air.
The workaholics stand to the podium!

The podium becomes a pinnacle
For the survivors
Once my eyes stuck on the screen
As I laid beside the rippling river to the east

Silently I gazed in the sky
For I sat on countless hours
That the clock may chime one o’clock!

Leaves wobbling through the woods
That they might fall on my forehead
As I finally opened the gifted casket
Then I recap a tone from a throne
That to gain is to sacrifice

The nightingale whispers
Through the air into my ears
Telling me of a poetry marathon

Yes! The twelve
And the twenty four hours journey!
A Journey I then chose
From the jingling of my veins!
The Half marathon!

(C)2015 All Rights Reserved
Kofi Acquah

Prompt for Hour Sixteen

Write a sestina! A sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing three-line envoi.

Does that sound intimidating and time consuming? It only is if you do it from scratch, however there is a website that helps with the creation of sestinas: http://dilute.net/sestinas/

All you have to do is come up with 6 words and they will figure out the order of everything, then you can add the rest of the text yourself. A sestina can really get you writing about something you would normally not. They are great in that way.

Poem 12

Black cat, Luna, sits

in window, gazes at night

Moon smiles at namesake

 

Eve Remillard

6/13/2015

Poem #24: Pencils

Never wrote a single line in ink, all
graphite lyricism, swabbed by constant indecisive eraser smudges.
Dixons, Ticonderogas–the works–
torturing a pencil until it was shorter than my pinky finger,
burdensome, my forearm earning its exercise from hours
of writing and mindless music in the background.

Ticonderogas, however, were the best, always one in the single
helix spine of my notebook. When the eraser f!attens,
sparse of any more use, I would sharpen and remove
its green-metallic carapace, extending its lifespan surgically.
Although pencil lead tends to fade with every closing of covers,
I enjoy knowing that however old the words become,
I’ll still be able to read my sloppy handwriting,
and know its age is not finished.

The Path to Light

I didn’t choose that path back then.
I was afraid. Too oft warned of the
Consequence of being myself.

I am Janice Joy, not Joy Elizabeth,
The child whose body lay in blood
That hot August day.

The dogs were gone, and my arm
Still whole, yet wrapped in bloody
Cotton torn from the shirt of my hero.

I have chosen the wrong path
Again and again, wondering of the
Consequence of truth, or opening the door.

It’s been the devil waiting there
To test the sacredness of life,
And prove that Jews are not a chosen few.

Who knew a child could prove them wrong,
Come back again, and with a song
Remind these demons of eternity?

Yet still, the pain of death and life
Is not a pastime I adore
Or want still more.

No.

I am done being her.
Probably the wrong path again
To take in this fascist state.

Hour Fifteen

I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby leave you:

My mind-

Where dreams of greatness once manifested,

Where a plethora of useless knowledge once swam,

Where words of wisdom once danced,

Where hopes and aspirations once congregated,

Where fond memories now lie.

My hands-

That once held the precious cargo of my future,

That once caressed the intimate places of ones who promised forever,

That once cradled my head weary of the world,

That once clenched in outrage, anger, and grief,

That once rose in compliance and surrender.

My heart-

Full of love for ones deserving and undeserving,

Full of admiration for those who stood brave and strong,

Full of compassion for the downtrodden and despaired,

Full of regret for chances not taken and mistakes made,

Full of sorrow for broken trust and untruth.

My soul-

Which embodies all of me:

Every thought, every feeling, every hope, every dream, every memory, every secret of who I was truly meant to be.

Mind, Hand, Heart, and Soul: My Legacy for You…