The Poetry Marathon

Empty at the bottom.

If the world was a whisky bottle

I would swallow it whole.

Like a drunkard drains the bar,

The bartenders stores

and always finds it empty.

At the bar,

The only thing I ever found

at the bottom of the glass

was me a little drunker,

The only problems I was able to escape

were problems I didn’t help create.

We’re all empty

At the bottom of the glass,

And at the bar

The bartender stores

The little last peace of a heart.

The last bit of pride

Of some young tart

The brains of a lost art.

The foolish ramblings

Of a fool from the start.

 

the road less traveled

making decision

always two  options

making pros and cons

weighing the equal footing

 

ambivalence in making decision

marking into new environment

decision making at its best

clinching the tide

likening for two roads in making choices

 

clearly a new decision

determining for what is truly best for both

a choice hallmarking a processing of discernment

Blue You

She said they found you blue

on the floor of your room

with a needle still dangling from your arm

they tried to breathe life back into you

you did not respond

and now your once beautiful body

was turned into ash

you are resting peacefully, on your mothers shelf

in the living room

where we used to laugh

I wonder if you can still our laughter

echoing off the walls

tucked inside of your tomb

Hour 13: The Piper’s Lover

The piper stood upon the hill

and gave the pipes a blow,

while I was sat upon my knees

and played the pipe below.

Poem #13: Nocturna

The song of the burdened lover,

The brief appearance of Lazarus, resurrecting the screams from us,

The lungs that whisper nothings to the ear,

And deal in foolish love.

The skeletons of the six o’clock madness come raging out,

Still wondering what you are thinking now?

This shitty city’s roads do not tell your secrets,

And you sit back and sit on your phone,

Collect the souls of eager lovers to taint your soul,

We never are anything of the night,

Lazarus has brought you back to life,

And you stumble around, your colors are gone,

Drained of what you once knew and once loved.

The secrets to your bones, the rattling echo as you move,

I see the night, the evening is my mother,

And the stars all whine your name still.

I see your name all over, the road to my north stine home,

The road to your home, down into the end of this city,

The nice homes, the ones we hide our secrets in,

Behind bricks and gold,

I see the way you shine with her,

The pale man just like the moon,

The beautiful russian savior, here to spill the truth,

The evening is my mother,

The night is your wife,

Your lover, Nocturna,

The beautiful whisper of darkness,

Between your teeth is truth,

Between the kiss are lies.

another move

i’d love to stand still for awhile,
take a leave of absence from life
and not do a thing.
not even think, or wonder.
just be, a little while. a few years,
a couple of decades, the rest of my
life.

Moved

it pains me

to think

how you play games

to move me

that your words are meant hurt

you’re only twisting

your brain

and adding to your own pain

when you realize

the things you have done

it is a learned behavior

like words committed to paper;

something you do from time to time

I see you coming

silently watching

as all of this runs through my brain

I stand here

and I know

you will never move me again

By: KMH 2015

Under water: no thanks.

If you are interested in my poetry leave me a reply here, or wait for my chapbook that this amazing marathon opportunity has got me trying to achieve!

Thank you poetry marathon folks!,

Jenny

Cetacean (Hour Thirteen)

Surfacing briefly like a cetacean,

I breathe and go back under.

Sometimes I would breach for fun,

But not now.

No.

There are things in the deep dark

That I must find.

Things needed, for nourishment.

 

Half the brain sleeps,

And then the other half.

And always, stay swimming.

When we are fully awake,

Another time,

We will burst up joyfully,

Slap down with heavy grace.

But now, the deep is calling.

The deep, where sunlight fails to reach.

vegetable soup

That big pan sitting on the stove

means hugs and kisses and Grandma’s love.

It may only be filled with potatoes, carrots,

tomatoes, cabbage and other roots,

but it was planned days ahead and just started

because she was getting a visit from her Sweethearts!