The Poetry Marathon

Dearheart by Pams (hour 3)

Dearheart

I was young and we

were riding bicycles across Iceland,

ashen land, young men

following me everywhere looking at brown

eyes because they’d never spoken anyone’s

brown I understand that just by

looking delightfully cold at blue heartbeats

crystallized stillness roped off places you can

simply melt inside Blue

Lagoon hot, you simply

melt just by swimming looking up

at blue heartbeats of delightfully cold blue crystal Icelandic sky

she was young, eloquent feet, ballerina soloist, radiant creamy

skin, one of the bluest stars dancing extraordinarily

Iceland blue in the sky blue heatbeats dancing

her eloquent feet deteriorating blue

heartbeats pounds piled on her skin so horrible debilitating

pounds piled on her neck thick with a

stomach roll didn’t even recognize how blue

took hold didn’t recognize how blue took

hold of her extraordinary crystal gift

cold blue broken crystal barre roped off workouts

simply dance melting inside blue crystallized stillness,

simply melts just by dancing, looking up

at the blue heartbeats cold blue crystallized stillness

Hour 3 “Seawalls…”

Hour 3

9/02/2023

 

“Seawalls…”

 

California dreamin’

been there, done that.

East and Gulf Coasts…

Japan, other green-riden places…

Norway, Portugal, Crete, Turkey,

Great Britain… and places that aren’t places anymore.

 

I’ve paused on docks, promontories,  battlements, bridges;

in meadows, gardens, pubs, malls;

at empty places, within crowded spaces,

days, nights, mid-naughts – all;

along ship rails, desert dunes, glacier ice,

city curbs, park benches, steam grates, asphalt tangles,

and within church pews and at too many tombstones marking souls.

 

Each is but a Seawall in my mind’s view.

A place where thoughts coalesce, meander –

wander, wonder

…and flow unbidden,

where dreams fade like steps along the shore

as tides bring “waves” til the eyes …see…

no more.

 

And sometimes along the way

you share the space – but  seldom the moment –

each has their own perceptions needing expressed –

addressed – breaths taken, held, then lost –

til time gives up its ghosts

and life moves past – each now

becomes a “then”.

 

So many echoes are behind my eyes,

and the years are strewn with “silence”.

 

Chris

(C) Chris Twyford 9/2/2023

 

 

 

hour 2

20 Little Poetry Projects Prompt (abbreviated) 

the spray of ocean bites into my skin, sharp sting 

the sky is only blue if that’s what you decide 

andre was born in detroit, murdered there too 

ocean nestles against my shins like a familiar cat 

this is the hottest summer 

the ocean is full of plastic, is ever filling still 

ocean is a cauldron, bubbling full of hot plastic 

and carcasses and bodies and drapetomaniacs 

in the name of innovation, in the name of progress 

what came first?

the freedom or the dying 

i mean dying is a freedom

the earth will heat

the ozone will melt 

the viruses will spread

we will keep dying

we will keep killing 

we will keep being killed

empires will fall 

there will be carnage

it will be terrifying before it is beautiful 

it is terrifying now 

Sunflowers

I look at the sky, full of sunflowers
A new day, to see the beautiful colors
Smell of lavender, oh life is so different today
I still remember our last kiss in a farm
Next to a river, far from people that
Are lost in their daily effort, to fill their lives with the latest iPhone
To send another meaningless message to the friends
: That they do not have time to see
my friend, today I will drink poems
Until another morning when
I am drunk of metaphors, similes
Until I am full of life, and can touch the stars in the farthest galaxy

Randolph, TN

It was 1862, late September, on the banks of the Mississippi River, the entire town burned to the ground, all that remains is one church and one dwelling. A decaying village that was once prosperous, now carries the burden of the cotton. How can this be forgotten? Memphis was the rival full of greed, in the end they took the guilty plead, swept under the rug, the lies and deceit, the battle is never finished until the hatred is beat. Beat it and burn it, down to the ground, no matter what you destroy, love can always be found!!

H3.P3

I am wilderness

Full of earth and roots

I taste the water around my ankles

I drank the wind and floated a fluffy white cloud.

Do you see yourself in my window,  blue eyes

Londan calling, sanzy ,

Sandra , loves the ocean, she breaths it in and

doesn’t drown.

The night smells of wild flowers , can you weave

them into a crown ,  for heaven’s head.

Dress me in sugar and spice.

1. Spank me

No. 37

She strips next to a doll-sized mannequin
for an unimpressed audience, all studying
the choreography, and will she or won’t she –
the women don’t blush;
they’re studying from Godard’s notes
and the men are as involved as
the proximity of the stage
will allow.

The film pops up on Youtube
someone in Mo’s house is scrolling
and in-between hauling out her kit
for cultural passersby and
switching to FOX,
there’re dishes in the sink.

ANONYMOUS hour 2 by Pams

Your voice

is sure.

I listen.

 

I’m the one

who

will never leave you…

who would die

without you.

 

I try not to hear your voice

drop

 

“ I love you,” you whisper.

 

I feel myself

starting to become her,

Her voice,

whispering

back.

 

They go on this way.

 

 

Feral (prompt 1)

after Diana Khoi Nguyen

On the first night we ran out
simple lesson held prisoner
sighs of moon sinking teeth into its exposed belly.

It will not return with us
the innocence like mud between our toes
broken skin healing without the faintest scar.

Their scraps in the wood
spilled wine soaking through linen. The two legged animals:
lost with no desire to be found.

 

Target, Hour Three

Target

Fish in a tank, suspended in murky depths,
four plastic walls separating
are an illusion, as sharks circle
and salivate, just beyond sight.

Cat in a box, canary in a cage,
rat in a maze, all secure
and safe, as safe as they
wish to believe.

Self centered, self satisfied, central, smug,
she sits at ease, a queen on her throne,
director of all surrounding action but above,
center stage to an audience of none.