The Poetry Marathon

Life Evergreen

Embodiment of a life evergreen,

Be the compass lit path toward my best.

I feel your soul echoing in my dream.

 

Awaken vibrancy in every gene.

Provide a solace softening my nest,

Embodiment of a life evergreen.

 

Amid bountiful harvest may I glean.

Pillow my compassion and pad my breast.

I feel your soul echoing in my dream.

 

From wisdom’s sweet drops I shall not yet wean-

Channel my hope to babes tucked at my breast,

Embodiment of a life evergreen.

 

Harken me to the song inside my queen-

Humble my heart to make me truly blest.

I feel your soul echoing in my dream.

 

May the shape of truth be forever seen.

Lead me through a life of love and sweet rest.

Embodiment of life evergreen,

I feel your soul echoing in my dream.

 

By Karen Sullivan

Form: Villanelle

 

 

#4

Old New Me

I’m fighting the ‘second’ old me
When it comes to loving you

The old me that would
Easily give up
When things got a little
Too tough

I’m trying to keep
The original me alive
The “Me” that had the will to fight

Before
I was made to commit
Suicide
To the love I had inside

When it comes to loving you
I continue to fight
For something I see
Can be a lasting thing

I can say forever
But forever really isn’t a thing
Because forever only lasts
As long as we have enough time to blink

So
I just want to love you
Until my heart
Decides to take its last beat…

-Angelica Villarruel

 

 

It’s Home #2

It’s always a good morning when I wake up naturally

And it doesn’t hold a five year old yelling out “MUUUUMMY

I need the toilet and I think I’ve spilt milk down the stairs

And can you get the vacuum out, ’cause I’ve pulled out some dog hairs”

It’s always a good morning when I’m not woken by a bark

And the Patterdale at the window tells me it’s no longer dark

“Be honest” he always seems to say, “you know you want to take me out”

And then he gets his lead out and my dreams are filtered out.

It’s always a good morning when the alarm clock is switched off

And I’m not woken by the husband’s snuffling,  snoring,  sneezy cough

I look out of the window onto my rainy street

And can feel the pull of nature and its dancing, rhythmic beat

It’s not a treasure island, and it’s not paradise

And on a rainy grimy day, it’s not even very nice

But it’s my house and it’s my street and it’s where I’m calling home

So I’ll go back to bed now – Queen in my lie-in throne

It’s Not Rocket Science

The click of gears rusting, the brain slowing,

I feel it surely as can be, that groaning halt

as the great steel husks echo, a shuddering clang

that crashes through the empty air.

You point to the formula before me,

college young, youth fresh, frustrated.

“It’s not rocket science!” you fume, enfuriated

that my young brain cannot comprehend.

Algebra, your lover and I, we do not understand.

I don’t see y I should find out about your x.

Poem 4/24 – The Ice

#6

Two poems each hour

easier said than done

but possible

working on number six

should be on seven and eight

it will happen

my muse is overwhelmed at my confidence

put pen to paper

number six done

a poem- not exactly

a post, yes!

Hour 4: Us

If you and I and them and me;

and that and this and those and these;

and they and it and he and she;

and ye and thee were naught but ‘We’

Not one or two or even three,

Might not our purpose stronger be?

A Day at the Flea

The fog is slowly lifting
I feel it whispering to me

“two hours west”

Promises of a good morning with rich coffee
The Bay beckons to grand adventure
at The Treasure Island Flea.
Anticipation and glee fuel my drive through the valleys and passes
Wind farms and wildflower fields with loud proud poppies.

The Bridge is a beast
but the sight of water, cools my travel weary eyes.
It smells of secrets and such
wafting over and under cold metal structures.

Carnival colored tents of every shape and size
Demand my attention as I arrive
Where do I start?
What to do I touch?
Fancy food trucks with festive feasts
Musty dusty boxes full of scarves and laces and blouses with broken beads

That special tiny painting of a girl in a silly hat
I couldn’t possibly go home without that.

The DIY is strong in this place
Papier-mâché pigeon perched atop petrified bacon branches
You are not speaking to me

I walk to the bay and hum to the skyline
I always find the real treasure on this Island
The view

But those crimson crushed velvet Mary Jane’s with satin ribbons
had stories to tell of mad dancing days.
They need a new home.
“Be honest,” I ask the vendor, “Did your great, great grandmother really wear these?
I’ll take them.

Colors Dance Together

Almond feather steps inside
Tangerine
Salomon arctic lime grinds into a cosmic love line,
Emerald green
Autumn septic airwaves signs sonic above pines
Authentic scene- Amethyst dreams
Apple green
Celtic signs