The Poetry Marathon

Monsters and Demons

“Monsters and Demons”

Fumbling, stumbling, 
My whole world is crumbling, 
My vision is blurring, 
My rationale is obscuring, 
My mind is racing, 
My thoughts are unclean, unspeakable 
Horrors of monsters and demons, 
My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking 
A tortured voice from within begs and pleads for the madness to end. 
God or Gods, whichever you may be, I cannot stop crying! 
Let it subside, oh please have mercy! 
The evil monster ‘depression’ is at it again, 
Consuming and devouring all whom may cross its path, 
Soon I will no longer have the strength to conquer these monsters and demons, 
What will happen then? 

Home.

She’s not afraid of silence,

Not afraid to go alone,

For when anyone’s your family,

The whole world becomes your home.

Unending Love

Holding hands walking through the park

Feeling free without a doubt

Love has its hold oh so secure

Nothing can release us now

 

Each day is lived in hope

Great or small let it flow

Keeping life still and free

Share it all in glee

 

Two hearts will live as one

walking hand in hand

Cuddled close entwined as one

Believing in love as we grow

 

Where there is love

There is hope

Where there is hope

There is peace

 

Sensual beings brings life to its peak

While two hearts beat

Just like lilies in a pond

 

Wine glasses out under the stars

Lying in each others arms

Gazing at the stars

Wondering Near and far

 

As the fire that burns within is repeated

Not ever extinguished

As love nourishes love.

 

 

The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

Part XIV

In 2000 I fell ill,
literally…
I had to be carried out of my apartment by two policemen,
put in my sister’s car –
I never would have guessed I would soon be paralyzed
from my neck down;
what person ever thinks at age 34 that she will be taken down?
It was months before I made it back to my apartment,
wheelchair bound for years,
and now – 2014 –
still cannot walk very well.

Why?
what has God planned in all this suffering?
I cannot pay my rent,
meat and fruit are luxuries,
no fuel in my truck,
I fall every day,
my bones hurt to their marrow,
I cry every night,
and my brain works on halves –
or maybe I should say bi-s,
manic, sad, manic, sad,
pills of all colors, bitter, nasty,
none of this seems fair;

oh, beautiful poppy field,
take me away…

– Michellia D. Wilson 08/23/14 9 PM

Prompt for Hour Fourteen

Write a poem from the third person perspective about something that happened to you personally.

smile

screeching tires in the night
time car alarms and gut-screaming
people walk faster to their destination
or they stop to take a picture

take a bow take a bow take a bow

Poetry Marathon poem #9

Someday I’ll find my way
across this great divide
I’ve created within myself
and fill the crack between my souls.
I feel somewhat unreal
a cracked visage
of a monument
a testament to the past
the precipice I may view
but have never crossed.
I must prepare for the unexpected
to be dejected and lost
but I will press on and
someday find my way
and I will be whole once again
but I must wait
and Fate will take my hand
and lead me over the broken land
over desert dunes of sands
of broken memories
passing Time centuries
listening to the song of the Valkyries
beautiful and pure,
filling me with the strength
to carry on the journey
until I reach my destination
the grand and mighty ocean
of my imagination
surging waters and tidal waves
crashing and swelling
against the seaside caves
as I sit in silence and peace
watching the new take their place
looking forward to the open space
the future holds for those
willing to grasp the reigns
of the Chariot of Fire
leading the blaze through the sky
over those stuck in the mire
breaking the chains of the lie
we’ve deluded ourselves into believing.

(xiii)

ՔՆԱՐ ( Qnar):

Her ashough caresses her curves;
marmoreal surface limp in prone latitude
of a more laconic repose. Silent, waiting to sough
and sing, to his touch; peregrinating fingers,
probe and tease her supine, slender arms,
stretched heavenwards as if in supplication.

Eventually his digits will run through her taut strings
deftly, as if an aashiq gently his paramours unravelled
tresses coils – and uncoils, around the assiduous inches
of his nail, and bare-sweating skin.

Troubadour – and his exquisitely crafted lyre,
bewitching when quiescent, enchanting when stirred,
resonating with the tuning-forked vibration
which is still primordial to each universe….

and,

her curves, her caresses, her minstrel-love!

 

New

Lets find a new hope
Time to learn a new rope

All this while
So much pain
Lets find a new gain

Born again

Born again, like learning to reopen my eyes.

Funny how you can live your whole life seeing one way of thinking.

How you can supposedly shield yourself from the sins of humanity.

All the while, little do you realize that you’re the biggest offender.

Closed off to any new ideas that may shatter the bubble you live in.

Then one day your mind is opened.

Your eyes that once saw sin, see heathens in a whole new light.

Different actions played out by differing situations you never were enlightened to before.

I am born again, eyes opened and mind clear.

A whole new world before my newborn eyes.