The Poetry Marathon

Truth is…

Most times
We don’t even know what we say
We assume we have it all right
When reality is…
We’re just cherubs trapped
In a grown body

Our minds play this game
Of
Cat and mouse
Is it mind over matter?
Or
Body over mind?

We claim to have all the answers
In just the little time of being alive

We boast about
All the achievements we’ve made so far
Yet have no clue that
There’s so much more to do

What we’ve obtained
Means nothing in the grand scheme
Of things

We claim we know what life is all about
Truth is…
We don’t

We’re all just learning
From past mistakes
That were made
In our previous
Lifetimes

What we do know
Is how to put others down
We act like everything is rightfully ours
We quickly become defensive
And act like
Others have ulterior motives
Ones that might put us to shame

Too many of us
Live a life full of fear
We don’t know how
To just let go
And know that in life
We can never be without

We have an infinite supply
To satisfy all our means
All we have to do is
Reach for what we dream

Hour Nine

Spontaneity is the hand of Hadit,
we live in a time of polished nonsense—
bunkum at every turn.
Well I say, Good Riddance.
Who needs euphemisms anyway?
Compelled to express a variation of
madness that seeps from the corners
of consciousness, I will manifest
an unwavering movement of action.
Willpower is spirit, spirit is me.
My outward expression is not representative
of who I am. My thoughts, speech, and deed
Will quantify me as a wanderer.
Can the magick of words bleed through
without the tone of the writer heard?
I want to divulge a secret… I am not me,
and you are not you. You are not your
job, automobile, prized possessions, family name;
You are not your fucking Khakis.
We are the all singing all dancing crap of the world.
If you have time to dance,
sit quietly you happy lucky idiot—thanks Ninao.
I ride a tide of emerald river water. Surfing
through the cosmos as a salmon upstream—
against the flow.

Hour 9: Seduction of Spring

The sun, so low of late

Now rising higher

Wakes the maiden wood nymph

Naked, as though born anew

Bathing her in golden warmth

The gentle kiss of rain

Coaxes out her blushing buds

Anoints them each with dew

Cradled in her supple boughs

Caressed by softest breath

Ecstatically burst forth in flower

Soon her seed to strew

#9 Self Sabotage

I love to write about pets

(but so do lots of other people)

Writing about gardening is fun

(but, other people know more)

I’ve written a lot about education

(but honestly, I need a break)

I was quite successful writing about travel

(but, have I traveled enough lately)

I’m awesome at writing picture books

(but, not sure how to go about it)

Maybe, I should just work at the grocery store…

 

 

#9 – Mister Green Match

Mister Green Match

Watches the scene

Through the window

 

He is in trouble:

He felt in one of

His own traps

 

He just finished installing them

To catch the naughty ones

When he got caught, like a beginner

 

In the big net of filthy rubber

He couldn’t move as he strongly believes

He has the best traps of the countries

 

Mister Green Match

Is in trouble

And he has no idea how to get out

 

Of this terrible situation

He starts losing his nerves

He is really out of rage

 

Feeling outraged to be seen like that

He runs out and kills some lives

Out of rage, he is out of his mind

 

Never allow mister Green Match

To become your friend

He will ruin your life

 

Never allow yourself intimacy

With such a jerk

A real sociopath

 

You came back home

To find out that

The mirror has been broken

 

While you were away

Someone came with a black cat

And broke your mirror

 

And you know what they say…

About mirror

And cats

By the way…

 

 

 

Prompt 9/Poem 9

Darkness
I’ve noticed during this marathon my poems are filled with darkness
Happy images do not avoid me, but darkness is easier to grasp
I’ve spent most of my life in darkness
I am a living breathing contradiction
Internally, I dwell with those who dress their pain in white face and black robes
I dwell with those who deny their pain through needles and alcohol
I dwell with the cutters and those in despair
Externally I am a force to be reckoned with
I bring happiness and light to those around me
My sense of humor is like a ray of sun for some
A beacon of light guiding them through their trials
they say the strongest ones are the ones who need people the most
Well maybe I need people
Maybe all I need to do is write
Write out my sadness, my despair, my brokenness
Write myself out of the darkness into the light
Use my gift as a therapeutic tactic
To tell the truth on paper, through poetry, fiction, whatever
Write myself into who I know I am

Poetry Prompt Nine: 5 minute write

A day not working out

Could spell addiction, are you addicted? An addict? Such negative connotations…

Thinking over all the articles I’ve read,

things running through my head,

most of the content of fat comes pouring out of our mouths????

Break up the fat cell and huff and puff, like the Big Bad Wolf and it all makes you a slimmer, trimmer version of yourself. But do you truly change?

Could you lose the bad memories with it as well?

Like if you were stronger, could you have made a change for the past?

Dwelling hardcore over a decision you had already decided to let go of?

Are you pushing yourself hard to try to push out of a mindset?

Is there a place in time for you to eventually stop thinking about it and let it go to the universe?

You may feel stupid but should you then hold on forever?

We’ve seen what holding on does.

It breaks people into an unrecognisable version of themselves. Dark and lost and broken. Can you ever come back fully from tragedy? Is there coming back or is there only carrying it forward, lost in the hopes of being carefree and forgetting for longer than a minute that this world is unjust, cruel and heart breaking.

poem #8

What I will remember

The fisted curl of an infant’s transparent fingers
How rosebuds involute as tightly
Waves cresting breaking falling cresting again
A carpet of snow clouds beneath a plane’s wings
Sunlight shafting through the silver of rain
My mother   silent in the pale silk of her coffin

Hour 9

Demon in love

Oh my! My lord! Dear God! Such blasphemy!
Demon in love: in love with me?
It cannot be, let not one soul know
Such arrogance! He thinks his love will grow?
Grow what it may, what sprouts in the dark
My heart is mine; he shall leave not his mark
But what must I do, I am vulnerable
Love is a disease hardly curable
Demon or human, love hardly saw the difference
For it may bring the demon in man and bless the demon with a diffidence

 

The Exorcist

Writing poetry is exorcism

of ideas or emotions.

Whichever has the lead

is seasoned with the other

then slapped onto the page

to see which way the words splash.