The Poetry Marathon

#8 – Have you seen my boxes?

sometimes i wonder if anyone has actually seen me
i know with obvious senses they have
whether through sight, smell, taste or touch
but have they SEEN me
the parts that sometimes aren’t what they appear
the parts they have to engage
look for
dust off
uncover
to clear cobwebs from
that no one has looked for in a long while
possibly ever
the very best parts of me that have been packed away
waiting
in the attic way up high & the basement down below
waiting to be discovered
they were packed away long ago when they kept getting forgotten
when people stopped looking for them
if they even ever did before giving up if it became a challenge to look harder
the actual search required too much effort
keeping only what pieces out that were needed or beneficial
the rest got stashed
the best things
the most valuable
the ones that got overshadowed
that went unused
the best parts
they got put in boxes, on shelves, behind closet doors & inside cabinets
stored away in hopes that one day they would be found or needed
when i ask if anyone has seen me
the real question might be
how long has it been
since i have seen myself
since i have allowed myself the opportunity to be seen
to be unpacked
unearthed
opened
how much have i simply allowed myself & others to put me in boxes
boxes i never belonged in to begin with

Hour Seven: The Apron Dress

My mother’s clothes
always smelled of yeast and flour,
cinnamon sugar and vanilla.
For years I thought her apron
was sewn onto her dress.
She never took it off, except on
Sundays, when church was mandatory.
Daddy, her husband, had been ordained
although he secretly drank in the woods
and molested her daughters, the neighbors’
daughters, too, if he could lure them to revival.

Like Steinbeck’s Casy, always fingering his buttons,
most preachers can’t be trusted with daughters.
I can see mama donning her apron dress, returning
to the oil cloth table, the rolling pin, the gas oven
that might explode in all our faces,
if we ever told.

#7

Dark,moist,rich soil
From your fertility springs life
Green,poking shoots erupt
Seed coats sitting jauntily like hats upon cotyledons
Seeking things to climb on and
Warm, bright light to convert to energy

Petal on a rose

When a drop rain falls on a rose.

It melts the petal.

Just like our life .

When a petal from a tear that falls on a rose.

The rose was from a love that is gone.

When a drop of rain falls on a rose.

The rose melts.

Petal of our life is as tender as a rose.

Petal on a rose

POEM 7-Music

Music is such a delicate ‘weapon’,

that it can help foes to make peace,

that it gives wings to our dreams,

that it brings people together.

 

Friends as well as foes share the concert hall,

sharing a joy, a moment of grace.

You do not need to know to play the harp or the piano,

you just need to listen and you’ll be happier.

 

In my sad moments, music can be the rainbow

after a disturbingly heavy rain,

it soothes me, it touches my heart,

giving me one more reason to smile.

 

Whether I listen to zen music or to classical music,

I feel that music is one of the world’s greatest wonders.

Even if we do not realize it, music accompanies us

in the different stages of our existence.

Submerged

Submerged in the wet oasis of a hidden dimension

A portal I, by chance, discovered in clumsiness

A night walk to clear my mind

Only led it to be filled with waters

Of floating feelings

A mix of salt and fresh oceans and lakes

Clashing against my entire being

I could never swim

I panicked for fear of succumbing to death by drowning

And suddenly an overwhelming sense of peace took over

Leading me to simply let go

 

Hour 6 — A Green Friend

I spoke unto the great big tree
Growing by the road to Infinity
And when I asked for a true friend
A clump of moss was all it had sent

I tended the moss with water plain
We had friendly chats in a casual vein
And in time, there had grown a forest vast
To serve the earth unto the last

Reflection

 You

most vain

a mere reflection without any warmth, feeling or regard

cold, sharp, clear, unforgiving

attention seeking

never seizing

witness of the beauty, tenderness, anger, and sorrow of each heart

 large and rotund you hang there each and every day

when I leave, you seem to tease, beseeching me to stay

for a while longer at least…

and when the sun shines brightly, you force me to cover my eyes

it is part of your nature, not to care, should I happen to go blind

other times you are so revealing that I must look away

you show my insecurities and weaknesses

you embarrass me too much, to want to stay

but each day, I leave you there

a silent witness to my life

cold, sharp, clear and unforgiving

from you, I cannot hide

By: KMH 2015

Prompt for Hour Eight

Write a poem with the phrase “we need” reoccurring throughout it. Repeat the phrase at least five times in the poem.

Long May It Wave

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue and Purple;

The Pride flag flutters exactly as a flag should on a San Francisco afternoon in June;

The fingers of each of its stripes caress the blue sky

It waves with the triumphant spirit of possibility which, for many of us, is the reason we came to San Francisco–and for nearly all of us, is the reason we stay;

But this particular flag overlooks Market Street;

To its right is the headquarters of Twitter and the tech workers who have flooded the City as part of the the tech boom of the “New” San Francisco;

To its left are a group of homeless men and women.  Three of them have lived on this patch of curb since I moved here in 2009.  They are as “Old” San Francisco as it gets;

The flag floats over the battle lines between these groups, between the privileged rich and the poor whose San Francisco dream has been reduced to sleeping on a piece of urine-soaked pavement;

But the flag calls us all to something better;

If any City can negotiate the conflicts of inequality, it is this one; which raised itself up from the ashes of a quake and fire unprecedented in American history;

The flag hopes;

And as a result, so do we

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