The Poetry Marathon

III- Flight

I cling to mountain rock

weary from fruitless migration.

Wind tussles my feathers,

bids me unwelcome.

Ancient oak whispers of wisdom,

promises peace.

Coquettish waves push and pull,

winking an invitation.

I release my talons

and dive into the open air.

I seek guidance in the valley;

there are answers in

the world between.

Sunset

She’s in a room, in a solace

that one have never seen.

 

The sun stretched its golden arms across the plains saying “She’s coming”.

My heart had been skipping around in my chest when I saw her eyes naked.

I have prayed from sunrise to sunset

Only to eye a spectacular nightfall.

Both the sunset and the twilight fell

The light had conquered darkness –

With you –

I’m forever young.

Poets of the Night

“Poets of the Night” A Golden Shovel

 

who are we

those of us who write

what will our words amount to

what can we make you taste

 

do we have the answers to life

 

walking the paths, at least twice

three hours in

preparing for the 

 

long hours ahead, present in this moment

we turn to each other, and

gather in

our lines of retrospect

 

 

Quote used: “We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospect” Anaïs Nin

“Veer”

I’m a black limousine,

A black cat on the window peaking.

I am your shadow who stop you from following.

I am a banter remarks you give up with.

I am your ten year old pink shirt that no longer fits,

I am your hated gap teeth.

I am your grown shoes you once love,

Or a thing you can’t have.

I am your blank page you missed to write,

A dream you fright at night,

I am your anger management issues,

Or your overthinking clues,

I am your past,

forgotten, veer at-last.

 

(I didn’t follow the text or prompt image for this hour 😉 )

#POETRYMARATHON2023 #HOUR03 #24HRSCATEGORY

 

Protected: Break My Heart – H3

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Onion skins prompt three

My falling tears are onion skins

Flaking in the day

I cry

The smell carries old socks worn with purpose

As Uncle Tom chuckles at my state

Hour 3 – not Indigenous enough

not Indigenous enough!

DONT

don’t speak ancestry language

don’t have dark hair

don’t have the right coloured skin

don’t know about culture

not Indigenous enough!

YOU

you white women

you shouldn’t wear that

you shouldn’t be here

you pretendian

not Indigenous enough!

LISTEN

listen for drums beating

listen when the wind blows

listen when elders teach

listen to Creator

not Indigenous enough

not Indigenous enough

not Indigenous enough

not Indigenous enough

This plagues my mind….

It haunts my heart…..

MY SOUL SCREAMS!!!

ENOUGH!

DONT YOU LISTEN

TO THOSE LIES!

ITS TIME TO DECOLONIZE

THIS MINDSET DIVIDES OUR COMMUNITY

FUCK JUDGEMENTAL ASSHOLES

THEY DONT KNOW YOU

WE ARE BROTHERS AND SISTERS FROM OTHER NATIONS

STOP BLOOD QUANTUMING

SUPPORT EACH OTHER

RISE UP

STAND TALL

BE STRONG

BE RESILENT

I KNOW WHO I AM

I FEEL THE BLOOD OF THE ANCESTORS WITHIN

I AM TRAVELING MY JOURNEY

I AM PROUD

I AM LEARNING

I AM CREE

I AM METIS

I AM ENOUGH

I AM INDIGENOUS!

hurry scurry (Hour Three)

Who do we look past, when we scurry about our day.

Looking at our phones, or lost in thoughts along the way.

Who do we talk to, when running to and from,

Do we notice anything in the places we do go?

Please and thank you,

have a nice day.

Simple words oft left unsaid.

Look up, look out, take a moment,

Share kindness, it’s okay.

 

 

 

 

Not a Poem

When I look at void
It looks back at me..

— No, that’s actually abyss

Oh right!
When I look into abyss
It looks back at me
Then I get tired
So I shout into it

— Um… that’s the void

What’s the void?

— the one you shout into

Oh..
I shout into the void

— why are you shouting into the void?

Because you said I can’t shout into the abyss.

— Yes, but why shout at all? That’s not very nice.

But then how would I express myself?

— Can’t you just whisper gently?

…. Okay….

I stare into the abyss

— Staring is rude

Ugh! fine!

I gaze into the abyss
As it gazes into me
Then I whisper to the void
And it listens
Silently.

Hour 3 – this body was a person once

this body was a person once

 

with uninterrupted skin

and lungs ballooning with ambition

it even knew its own name

this body isn’t much for purity culture

but perhaps it was the hands that touched it

that took away the self, the animation

or perhaps it was the slow decay of mourning

or the woodgrain patterns of trauma

all building upon each other

to make this body a tree

 

but this body was a person once

 

this body was a person once

 

my body was a person once