The Poetry Marathon

Twice in October

A window faces a harsh blow from the rock
the moment of impact, a bundle of white streaks stretch violently
like sun rays in solar flare
radiating outwards
and in between each finger concentric loops connect
suspended for a moment
then in a cascading rush, the fall to the floor
each shard, each row, each crack
release and tumble into a glowing heap of diamonds

This was me when you abandoned me once. Shattered glass you could scoop up in your hand and let trickle through your fingers like smooth, beaten river pebbles. Shattered, but all of my pieces still here, alive and shining brighter than before.

I’m glad to have you back again.

Post #5: Trust

Trust

You made it, and I’m so proud
look at the way you handle the now
You faced me with all you had
and now you see I am not that bad
Once you see I am another part of you
you’d never question what I do
I’m here to show you ways to feel
and how times you just have to be real
There are rules to life that are a must
for happiness, feel, allow and trust

@ Renee Avard-Furlow
June 13 2015

NAS #7

Birthday rose

the color of purity, or brand new, unused cloth diapers,

(I remember those days so fondly.)

The green leaves are the same shade

as the grass my sweet husband mows.

Standing as tall as 150% the height of the vase

(I don’t really love math,

that’s just keeping those skills from getting rusty.)

Each day on the way to #64,

it opens a little more,  gently,

as carefully as we open the door

when we KNOW April 1st is hiding a trick somewhere.

The fragrance is subtle, but oh so pleasant

so subtle that it can only be sniffed deliberately

and worth the effort.

by Nancy Ann Smith

Beach Bum

She walks slowly anticipating the breeze. As she approaches the sand she bends over anxiously and pulls off her sandals… Ah, there it is! The wind catches her hair and twirls it toward her face. She uses the small open spots between her twirling hair to watch where she is going as she digs her feet into the sand. Her feet burn at first touch but as she digs deep enough when she walks she feels the cool sand glide between her toes; the part of the earth that doesn’t touch the sun much but is always there for comfort. All of the good spots are taken so she puts her hand against her forehead as to salute the sky and she watches the seagulls flock in a circle, squawking and dipping toward the water and again to the sky. The bag she is carrying begins to make its way down her shoulder toward her forearm as if to say “This spot is fine” so there she posts. She pulls out the towel and lets it ruffle in the wind before settling it on to the golden sand. She sits on her aged but favorite beach towel. Listening to the waves as she closes her eyes and lets the rumbling water take her to her daydreams. Hair still twirling, towel still ruffling in spots unoccupied, she is happy.

Signs

Black and blue peas
Birds break trees
Falling knees
Un-natural breeze
Animals sneeze
Car’s disease
Cold bees
Elegance seen
After the human
It’s been
Done

Poem #5: Heat, Drink

The stormy day has come barreling towards us,

I sit and whisper misgivings to your ear,

We should remember this when the air is clear,

And I think on your vodka drenched lips,

And the heat burning between us,

And I wonder where we could have been in this shitty city,

If it weren’t for your chaotic life.

Bejon #6 (A poem inspired by the picture of the dog)

I have often thought about my dogs life

Was he content with just being my best friend

Or like humans did he yearn for more

Did he hope to find love on a sunny spring day

Wish to travel the world

Graduate

Have a child of his own

Was he content with just being there for me

Or did he also have dreams

Ma/ze–of/pOets/&/PoetRy

Poem 7 for Hour Seven

s/c/r/i/b/b/l/e/s of/
hie
ro
gly
phics
totems
of thoughts in labyrinth

find me everywhere

in between
periods
commas & ampersands
c.o.n.n.e.c.t.i.n.g
heart
to hearts

(c) ceri naz visual poem/ maze of poets and poetry

Aubaude with a Broken Wing

Dawn brings fractured fragments: a murder
of ebony crows scattered across
a wire, inky feathered music
notes – treble clef, octave, breve.

That incessant sun, he’s a lemon
-orange scorched ping-pong ball
plopping up
where he doesn’t belong.

A stone-washed sky
breathes her secrets to
the raw umber of earth
and a skeletal tree clad only
in mismatched shoes.

Witching

Us witches do know
That the witching hour is here
We must go now now