I
am
the
city
Windy
places
Passion
created
bringing
wunderlust
The First Seven Hours…..2015, 24 Hour Poetry Marathon
A crazy old hairdresser who wrote
Did not want to miss her own boat
So she juggled her scissors,
and guests did not receive fissures
while poems appeared to promote!
Censored (9th hour of half marathon)
Words flow
I talk, think, write without ceasing
Make sense? Not always!
One certainty: Succinct is Not my middle name.
(unless I edit, re-edit, re-edit, re-edit.)
hahahahahahahahahahaha
Hour 9: The Other Woman (a sonnet)
What if they see us holding hands?
What would they think? I’m scared to guess.
Right now I’m grateful for this darkness.
Though I’d prefer a visa to some foreign land.
Because who but us would understand?
Words of defence are meaningless
And God knows I know it’s a mess.
I’m the Other and I am banned.
But this will work out because love always wins;
That is what the literature states.
I fell for the wrong man, for my sins
And now we hide, something he hates.
In the dimly lit cafe, more people pour in
And see two people in love, their merged fates.
Poem#10 Random Words: Negativity
Spooky scary creepy,
Sleekly crafty wily,
Slimy prickly shitty,
Clumsy grumpy whiny,
Creaky squeaky noisy,
Spiky prickly grossly,
Nasty naughty vainly,
Devilishly messy folly,
Life’s negativity!
Summer Haiku (complete with kigo)
June evenings
I mourn your death
with warm tears
daisies and grass
on your back as you leave
your rendezvous
summer wine
last year tasted
so much better
beach sand
no dog worries about
his sandals
summer solstice
waiting for the sunset
yawn after yawn
(c) Ella Wagemakers, 23.48 Dutch time (= 17.48 EST in the US)
Who is in need?
Those who want, say, “we need”
Those who have, say, “we bleed”
Some who are desperate plead “we need”
Yet those in power confess their greed.
“We need food!”
They hear the chorus cry.
“We need medicine”
They watch them die.
“We need help”
They turn away.
“We need workers!”
No one’s left to be a slave.
Be careful at the top.
Scar 2 (9)
Silvery ripples across my hips
flowing thickly towards my thighs
unnoticed until the sun bronzes my skin
but leaves these symbols untouched.
I cup my bare breasts, lifting
turning this way and that to catch
a twinkle. Faintly, twins of the
lower branches wink in the light.
My belly escaped these cicatrix
internalizing its own failures
by heads tucked into rib cages
pressing lungs for months on end.
When the life has drained
all that’s left are the scars
like grooves on the bottom of
an ancient, dried creek bed.
Hour 9: Dear William Stafford
Kind sir: I feel as if I know you, having
met your boy Kim, and your daughters
Kit and Barbara. I missed Bret, sad to say.
I know you missed him, too, with that feeling
of grief, as you put it, like snow in Wyoming.
Your Dorothy cheered me more than I could ever
tell you, but I know you could close your eyes
and see her smile. Helen, too, gave Kim such
encouragement to go on, without you and Bret.
Ah, what a group, what a tribe. And your poems,
so familiar to me now, but always fresh. I lean forward,
straining to hear what the river says, no matter how
often I read, “Sometime when the river is ice, ask me.”
Your elephants holding tails, your purification of the
language, the call you made to Kansas, years after
your folks were dead. Kim gives me your jacket
to wear, to cut the chill of Colorado Springs at 3 am.
We walk and talk about you, so recently dead, the
glass of milk you were drinking when the heart attack
hit. It might still be sitting on the counter, except there
was no time for that. You let it go. You let it all go