The Poetry Marathon

Hour 4: Fighting Clichés

 

All bent out of shape, I abandoned ship

As the Cliché Monster destroyed every quip.

I tried to look on the bright side, but he was armed to the teeth,

He preyed on every word I tried to bequeath.

 

At my wits end, I beat around the bush

Writing lyrics I knew would fall at a push

I put my heart into it, but pound for pound

The monster threw curveballs and they all hit the ground.

 

I cried ‘all hands on deck!’ And help was at hand;

As luck would have it, the best in the land.

I had an ace up my sleeve that was good as gold

I invited her in from out of the cold.

 

The Poetry Fairy had got back from her hols,

From the sun, sea and sex, from the booze and the lolz.

“What’s up, m’love?” she asked with a grin.

Said I, “The Cliché Monster has wandered back in.”

 

“I’m back to Square One, and I’m bored to tears;

The monster attacks my work in all gears.

I wish he would just go and bite the dust

Or I’ll be unable to earn a crust.”

 

The Poetry Fairy sighed and looked pained

She took out her bazooka, took position and aimed.

The magical dust bomb puffed a plume of pink dust

Coating the clichés in a fine, single gust.

 

“Thank fuck!” I exhaled. “He’s gone back to the bogs.

Thank you so much; you are the dog’s.”

“No problem” she said. “Another day, another dollar.”

“Just a joke,” she tittered. “If you need me again, holler.”

Sound Bytes

Waves push past tentacles

Quivering in clear blue

Waves thick with life.

Circular flow

Down

Up

Undulating gazpacho

De mer la vive.

Silence not silent.

Not silent.

Loud clattering

Pushing

Bumping

City of ancient life

In a silent sea.

S. Kiss Snows

I’ll give you kisses with my nose
Like we were Alaskan eskimos
Fighting the arctic winds as they blow
How else do you think they survive in the snow?

Time Travel

In Denver, Colorado grown and raised,
in the laboratory’s where I spent most of my days;
flippin’ switches, linkin’ gadgets, mixin’ potions so neat
makin science discoveries that couldn’t be beat.
Then a couple o’ dudes who were bein’ so rude
started talkin’ smack about my Hubbard Review
I made one little threat and my peers got scared and said
“We’re shuttin ya down, then we’ll get outta your hair.”

I knocked em out cold and when they came to
they were in my time travel pod halfway through.
Where exactly we were I had no idea.
I said “who remembers your prehistoric trivia?”

We launched outta the pod around 150 million BC
and I yelled to my colleagues “check these sphinx moths, ya see?”
Looked around at my jungle and visited time and again,
tamed me a dino, became the first of cave men.

Genre: self help

sometimes

HOUR FOUR

POEM # 4

24 HOUR

POEM

MARATHON

SOMETIMES

Sometimes!

Sometimes I don’t know the day,

Will my body give permission to stay.

Sometimes I’m not sure how to think,

My body cries for one more drink.

Sometimes out the window I look,

I try to sit in a chair and read a book.

Sometimes I wake up and salute the moon,

My head feels heavy, larger than a balloon.

Sometimes I hear people call me a drunk,

I have a date to be placed in Earth’s trunk.

Sometimes I ask who I am, I know not me,

I look in the mirror, a shadow do I see.

Sometimes I’m not the person you knew,

Always be my friend and bring the brew.

Sometimes when the parties over I’m awake,

I promise no more drinks will I ever take!

Sometimes!

Written by Carl Mann

The kurlman

6-13-2015

Hour Four

They, with lips tangled,
grasping at the nothingness
of Love—ultimately only
tasting lust—seize a moment
at the sun’s wake.
A procession of coffins,
filled with nightmares,
trips into the scene.
Traffic jams are stemming
out, branches on a tree of
confusion… And the light
reads red.
Lovers tick away at old
cookoo clocks, greedy for
another bird song. But
no birds will wake without
a greeting from sunrise.
Slipping into a deafening
chorus of cosmic composition,
three lovers grip at their hearts
trying to resuscitate their souls.

The Five Singers

1. Amy Winehouse
Dead before I ever heard
your name, that voice.
Did you die in vain?

2. Tracy Chapman
I want you to sit down,
have tea, sing some poetry.

3. Ronnie Gilbert
You can’t be gone.
Not now, not ever.
Even if I forget my own name
I’ll close my eyes and hear “Goodnight Irene.”

4. Joan Armatrading
Ma Me O Beach, lucky enough
to walk under ladders, I’m taking
my baby uptown, leaving the
empty highway behind.
Thanks to you, I know
when I get it right.

5. Hildegarde
A 93-year-old woman in
Hospice care, speaking mostly French,
remembers you singing in a cabaret,
circa 1952, the big war over, the cold
war just begun. You charmed the men
and inspired the women. First to sing
“I’ll Be Seeing You,” how is it possible
you never recorded it for posterity?
We can only listen to others sing it
and pretend it’s you.

Hour Four – The Traveller

He came to town one Thursday

all dirty, wild and worn.

His steed was lithe and sturdy

His clothes were slightly torn.

 

People started whispering

as townsfolk often do:

Was this bloke a traveller?

or from that mining crew?

 

He settled in the local pub

and hogged the bloody fire

brooding over middies

until he’d then retire.

 

The local folk were edgy

at this silent, dusty stranger.

He seemed to carry with him

an air of sullen danger.

 

Just a few days later on

the whole town met to ponder

the man who’d built their township

and another one just yonder.

 

Old Man Age had taken him

a week or so before

and everyone who knew him

felt a sadness to the core.

 

So as the speeches ended

and the silence fell around

the Stranger put his hand up

and his voice he finally found:

 

“I’ve come to town to pay respects

to the man who gave me life.

I have no other siblings

nor a mother, nor a wife.

 

And now I have no father

with whom to reconcile.

Stubbornness and petty pride

made me a imbecile.

 

30 years ago we fought

and 30 years have fled

with not a word between us

and now, my father’s dead.

 

So take my words and listen

for I’m leaving town today:

Never let the curtain fall

on a half-arsed written play.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heart Murmur (prompt 4)

I heard my heart break

shards of glass were left inside

my left wrist

I cut myself

staring at the pain I couldn’t feel anything

It was perfectly placed this time

Maybe it has finally left me,

my imagination

was a tool unneeded

My heart dared me to love myself

the mortality of what I enjoyed confronted me

it was stone cold

foul mouthed and closed

seconds rolled by like miles

I realized I dreamed of this ending differently

My mind lingered in corridors

the sounds of love echoed in my consciousness

thickening my vulnerabilities as I sank silently

all I could think about was my pleading eyes

as I placed my heart at his feet

leaving me to stare at my own reflection alone

a minute long conversation was all it took

and I knew we were done

scratching the surface of my strong self

I dug inside deep enough

to remove that pain

like candle wax it warmly dripped

as I painted the canvas of the unknown

with a fading ache and fear

of knowing I would have to live

without his shadow