The Poetry Marathon

Hour Ten

 

Autobiography of A Face

The eagles perch on my wrinkles.
Facial hair of moss, grown over decades.
Rain has worn me down, now I slip away
into a gorge. A river runs through.
I take my steps slowly, winding through the
mountains and gripping the peak.
The trees that have emerged, like happy blemishes,
reach out to grab the last droplets of sunlight.
Time affects me little, but the climbers
blister my hide with spray paint, hooks and ropes,
they are changing me with every foothold.
A dark shadow cast by thunderstorms gently rises on
my skin. My fears are met by miners, who
thrash about with heavy machinery—clawing and scarring me
for the treasures found within. I’ll take my time and remember
what it was like back then. When the hordes of man had yet
to leave the jungles and meadows, when I was visited
only by beasts and things. When I was a nest and not a
resource.

Aging

Your failing eyesight

Greying hair and sagging skin-

They are beautiful

Silver proof of caring arms

Holding us all together

 

by Karen Sullivan

Form: Tanka

 

 

Autobiography Of A Face

Even as the cartography
of her skin
begins to fade, he maps
the constellationesque nature
of the thousand starred miles
between her freckles. Her eyes
are moonspill, outerspace, light
years scribbled onto parchment.
Her lips, the kiss of sky;
her smile all the paren
-theses he’ll ever need.

(Hour 9)

Fragile lives and shattered dreams,
all coming apart at the seems,
the cruelest dream is our reality,
a fatality not before known,
while others were thrown,
from where we used to meet,
we can’t beat how this world has changed,
becoming to desolate and deranged,
trying to adapt to this world
that has changed.
The poor scrounging for dirty needles,
while the rich are nothing more
then blood sucking beetles,
keeping their stance in society,
by taking away their variety.
Trapped at the bottom of the ladder,
but would you rather,
be the one scrounging for dirty needles,
or the blood sucking beetles,
who made them this way,
what more can I say,
this is the way we pray,
focused on ourselves,
only caring for our position
on the ladder,
but if you had a choice,
would you listen to that voice,
be the one scrounging for dirty needles,
or the blood sucking beetles,
I know the truth of your choice,
you will ignore that voice,
as if you had no choice,
you will continue with your day,
there’s nothing more that I can say,
no matter if you continue to pray,
no one cares what you have to say,
but I will tell you this day,
you are no better then the
blood sucking beetles
you only wish to decay.

Insomnia

Sleepless night, sleepless day,

Pass everything by – I’m in a haze,

my mind is a fog –

memories displaced,

my thoughts are a puzzle

with scattered pieces.

 

I lay awake at night

and watch stains on my ceiling,

I dream awake at daylight,

the stars and the moon –

I’m merely an image now

of what I used to be.

Hour 10: Yin and Yang

Yin

Dark, Black

Destroying, Reaping, Chaos

Moon, Water, Death, Life, Fire, Sun

Creating, Sowing, Order

Light, White

Yang

Lucy

I wish my name was Lucy.

Beautiful red hair and tiny waist.
I have some ‘splaining to do.
Mouth and breasts full of chocolaty bon-bons.
I can dance.
I make my best friend get into shenanigans with me.
If only my name was Lucy.

Hour 10–Ugh

I thought I had so many ideas

feeling empty now

brief nap

Inside (10)

I wonder if …

If I could bite off a piece
of your flesh.
If I can swallow it make it
a part of me.
If that will ensure our never
being separated.

Hour Nine Autobiography of a face prompt (Untitled)

I won’t do it!

 

I will not write another woman’s poem

any more than I will wear another woman’s face.

 

This is my voice,

my words are my person-hood.

 

Buddha suggests that, in the time before my birth,

I was no one. I merely was.

 

The Watcher-Behind-My-Eyes,

nameless, thoughtless, full of empty

 

but then! I tore screaming into the conscious world

on a spume of blood and light.

 

Since then I have been Sara,

fought for and won,

and this has been my birthright:

 

to say my own words, tell my own story.