The Poetry Marathon

Like a pebble commanding the ocean
Seeing her thoughts
Listening to waves and touching the dream
The aroma of possibility fuelled by the taste for solitude
In the sourness of the colour yellow
Lee cries alone upon the shore
Surrounded by a plethora of sun-worshippers
Not really there
The universe is tranquillity
Hot winds
Dreich days
Yellow tornados of fear
Liquified sunshine in hell
The devil quenches the fire
This girl drops to her knees
In a lifetime she is yet to experience
Speaking without sound
Shouting silently in lost whispers
Facere ius (make it right)
The grotesques laugh, “you have no power here …
In this world of chaos”

Posted By shirl

Hour Three: Babylon

“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy. They said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How can we sing our songs of praise while in a strange land? (Psalm 137:1-4)

They gave us a space

At the bottom

Where we can see wider spaces

Circling above us

with vultures

They captured us to cage us

Where we can be their entertainment

And learn “useful skills” for their profit

So we can love them for the benefit

And forget the tortures

Where they can continue to look down

Where they contain us

In this empty space we sit where

no trees shelter the joy we brought with us

We weep because we forgot

What we lost

We weep because we remember

What we no longer sing

Posted By Denise Krebs

Hour 3 – Twenty Little Poetry Projects

You are my pot of gold

The mint plant of life singing

I taste the soft breeze on my face

What would I do without Keith in Joshua Tree?

Though sometimes he is a dipshit

“Can I have a rainbow, Mom?”

The sweet stone of freedom beams me skyward

As we walk in the desert in order for democracy to be saved.

Do you smell that basil plant singing?

I am pricked by the cactus spikes every morning for breakfast

The arc melts into the future

Keith and Ditz will dance in fragile freedom

I see the olla de ora

The pot of gold calls out to us

Golden these years

Posted By preksha

“My dream is to become a writer”

Writers are not born professionals,

Their capability to struggle is vital.

“Pen is mightier than sword”,

Like playing with terrific words.

Read between the lines,

Until you turn nine.

There is the chaos in the crowd,

As critics raise their voices aloud.

Reading is to mind,

Like exercise is to the body,

Take lessons in creative writing from somebody.

By hook or crook,

We burn the midnight oil,

As food wrapped in a foil.

Sleepless nights with racing thoughts,

I became a freelance writer,

Without giving a second thought.

It’s just the starting,

As batsman hits six to earn innings.

The world of imagination,

Makes me ponder over,

Like putting up my thinking cap,

To work with dedication.

From amateurish to prolific,

Fluency will come, so be quick.

Competing in contests,

Lifts our spirits,

Don’t worry if you can’t win it.

Mastering the skill,

If there is a will,

There is a way,

So, make hay while the sun shines,

Those worthy write-ups are mine.

Chasing my dream,

Like eating the sweet cream.

Sometimes, up and down,

Don’t spoil your face with a frown.

Achievements will come in handy,

It’s my job and a necessity.

One day, will I be grinning?

Of course, others say you, will achieve success,

Stop counting numbers in excess.

Thank God, for this rare talent,

Will write in the present moment.

(c) Preksha puri 2023.

Posted By kriscleage

Too Much of a Good Thing #3

The air clung to my skin, a wet washrag waiting to be wrung out.
Grabbing a hand full, I squeezed until liquid filled my bucket,
smelling sweetly of new mown hay. It ran down my
arms and pooled around my feet.
"Ern's Better'n Nair'n, Kris" my granny would say long ago when I
complained about lack of something. How to account for too much
of a good thing? 
Water covered the yard. Making it hard to breath deeply.

This poem covers the page in messy writing, impossible to
transfer to the page. Full of aulasy, I fight on.
Water and words covering me, the page still empty.
Ahead, I see nothing but more nothing, but I plunge
squeezing words into the bucket with a rapidity that startles even me.

Pero, ¿a quién le importa?
The bucket, tired and full walks off stage, splashing overflow into the
already flooded yard.

A vivid image? I will be lucky to complete with a limp image, let's try though.
The air smells blue overhead. The sun, a round ball of yellow fire, begins
to dry the yard. the wet dishrag I didn't have, I toss after
the fleeing bucket, making a SPLISH, SPLASH.

Posted By Linda Makkimane

Hour Three: 20 line poem

cooking for me is a game of guessing
drop into the pot what you wish, the less you reveal, the tastier it is
sometimes i’m tasting with my stomach cells or my gills
John loves what i cook but America doesn’t
America loves what i cook but John doesn’t
who cares? not me
me
obfuscating the whole business of cooking
i cook therefore i am
who can deny that?
the old women of witchcraft would say
cooking is a balm and a poison
who knows which

Posted By Mark Lucker

American helper (Prompt 3)

Metaphorically speaking
she is a couch potato with
a heart of gold
answering siren song of
heart-tugging
tear-jerking
infomercial paeans to
starving children
abandoned pets
endangered land
forking over credit card
access with every
channel change
racking up enough points
to travel the world
times over
yet never leaving
her living room
therein proving irony
most always stranger
than fiction
even when the facts
don’t get in the way