The Poetry Marathon

#1 – The island of beauty

The island of beauty

Is just on the other side,

On the back of your skin

Flower many treasures

You cannot see yet

As for now

It’s prickling all your ears

And eyes into the blue

To supplicate you to

Truly get true

Through your dance

Into the sunlight

At midnight

When you can’t help

But stay

And sit down

On this bench

In the station

In the middle

Of this hot summer

That moves you through

This brand new love

Story that felt upon you

Before you noticed it was over

You sits down and sweats

It’s hot outside

And even hotter

Inside

You got fever

And she’s leaving you

Unsettled

And unrested

 

The island of beauty is just

On the other side

Of your thin skin

The Faithful Yew

The yew tree,
It’s red berries,
And black seeds,
Flat needles, new green;
More a stunted bush than
One of trunk and height, but the berry,
Within the seed, contains a dark night.
Bite down. It is the sweetest suicide.
Emerge into the web of its design.

Three Hundred Feet Down

The Golden Gate guards the Bay;

And when her currents and tides are mocked;

When her fog is not properly feared

She slams the door shut on ships that dare to cross

Which is why after the City of Rio de Janerio dared to  molest Fort Point

It now lies

Three hundred feet down at the bottom of the Bay.

-30-

 

 

 

A DAY IS A DAY

HOUR ONE

POEM # 1

24 HOUR

POEM

MARATHON

A DAY IS A DAY

A day is a day, until it’s a week,

Some days short, some days meek.

Some days long, some days strong,

Do you think either is right or wrong?

Written by Carl Mann

The kurlman

6-13-2015

1. Falls

FALLS

Clear waters fall

From the deep blue ocean

Turned down to stand

Conveying love, peace and hope

To couples around the globe

(Tanka, 2015 @9:15 a.m.)

Underwater Freedom (Poem 1/24)

I move with the currents.

I dance with the seaweed.

I wrestle with the fish and float with the whales.

I move my hands through the cool, crisp water as I dive deeper and deeper into the darkness of the sea.

There is no fear in me.

I feel at home.

It’s in my soul. It’s my freedom.

It’s my love.

I take one last breath,

I’m part of it.

 

Underwater 9:04am

It is not unlike me,

to breathe through my fingers.

I often do not see but the rippling

of half truths and dreams.

Words that, once uttered,

drift downstream to be swallowed

by trout.

This is not new to me,

but feeling it this way,

in this life,

is a bejeweled treat.

Once I was meek.

I was beaten by

furrowed brows,

and bellowing clouds,

and for a time,

I cowered.

This new drift,

the sun rippled sand and stone,

and the prickled feeling

of a spine;

this distance between

you, and me,

this is a twist.

The strength of current,

and good weather,

and the drift of words

downstream,

by God,

I will rise up out of the water,

one day,

and leave you

to catch up with

your own

drifting words.

You Give Me Sleepless Nights

I am drawn to your pure illumination
Though darkness fills up the air
My thoughts always bring me back to these nights
Though I can’t close my eyes to be numb and just rest.

My mind brings me to a black hole of oblivion
The sound of night creatures haunts my every breath
You give me sleepless nights
Whenever you are within my sight.

Across the sky with stars scattered at your sides
You are like the Queen guarded by your valiant Knights,
There is no time that I don’t look up just to glance at your luminescence
My beloved Moon, your are like a sorcerer who cast a spell on me.

Your every phase, I love especially when on a Full Moon
When you shine your brightest and show your magnificence
Oh, Moon you are loved from a far,
By this kindred soul who offers you her words of admiration.

Author/Poet Elizabeth Esguerra Castillo

Morning Song

Why must our words rhyme all of the time

It’s too early to rhyme all the time

Sipping my coffee

Putting away my wine

Kicking my feet up because this is “ME” time.

My eyes are sleepy but my body is awake

right after this cup is finished I should feel great!

The day is ahead and yesterdays gone.

I guess my life rhymes and this is my morning song

Shipwreck

There is a coursing wave throughout
the fine parts of my frame, where
the fish schools come to investigate

the mystery of my death. They don’t
make much of it anymore–they are
used to the sight of rotted bones

after millennia of foreign beings
crashing through the firmament which
separates their world from mine.

If I can call it my world anymore.
I was built on dry land but born
in salt waters, and if I had not sunk

into craggy depths, I would have crumbled
into pieces on the same kind of mass that
allowed me an existence at all.

And anyway, I have lain here for centuries,
so shouldn’t I be calling the ocean
floor home to my soggy body?