The Poetry Marathon

Hour Two – A TEN-YEAR PERSPECTIVE

Look at you!

You’ve achieved so much.

Perhaps not what I thought you would,

yet, in some ways more.

 

How the years have flown, ten years more like ten days

dissipating like the morning mist.

As if Father Time is manually spinning

the hands of the clock, faster and faster.

 

What dreams I held tight within my grasp then!

Bold, daring pursuits.

Yet I feared releasing them, losing control,

letting them fly

 

But you dreamed new dreams,

better dreams

Ones that suit you –

the you, you are today.

 

At 62, my face still held the glow of youth

love blushed my cheeks

stirred my heart to create stories

like lifeblood pulsing through me.

 

Today, skin like tissue paper

covers my blue-veined hands,

Mother Nature painting me

in the image of my departed mother.

 

I see your accomplishments.

I see the challenges you faced without wavering

Come, see you from here.

 

Who is that woman I see?

Is that really me?

Surrounded by friends who love her –

what greater achievement than this?

 

I chose love over tangible rewards

my goals transmuted into acts of love,

and now with my fortress of friendship

I can pursue my dreams once more.

Introduction

My name is Muhammad Auwal, I’m from Nigeria. I’m the teacher who’s still a learner. A poet from the top, counselor from the bottom. I’m 29 years of age, a bachelor with a bachelor degree in Computer Science.

I love seeing adventures, new people, places and innovation. I love technology…

Of Light and Dark

Hour Two

Of two minds and two shades.
One of lightness the other dark.
Of open fields and black caves.

A positive,
A negative,
And somewhere in between.

As the sunlight shines my spirit glows,
A sprinkle here a sprinkle there as she goes.

When the power goes dark and the light is gone,
She hides staying safe til the light of dawn.

Like a coin with two sides,
An in and an out the ups and downs.
Opposites attract so the story goes,
Ebbs and flows as the ocean’s tides.

My inner self versus the outer shell,
The private side and I am here doing well.

The innie and the outie of who I am.
Two minds the same but not,
One body one soul is what I’ve got.

A positive,
A negative,
And somewhere in between.

Living within a shadow,
Rarely appearing in daylight.
Sometimes hollow,
Sometimes a mere spark.

Of lightness or dark,
See through or not,
I live on both planes.

A positive,
A negative,
And somewhere in between.

Egg in the Sky (2 hour)

This egg was a shell cast under a spell

no route, no stout, no bell

merely an inanimate object in an embryo

waiting for life and moving to and fro

 

How many embryos do you notice and not see?

how many inanimate objects do you kick and not pick?

how many routes do you observe and not serve?

my story in a hurry – ten years ago

 

If eggs birth their contents and retain the containers

if inanimate objects could speak and not gawk

if my egg could voice the noise and shun other voice

This egg could have flown over the zone

 

Soon,

very soon,

this egg

will fly

above the sky

 

Mammals

Hour 2

Mammals

 

Mammals think too much of hair.

Take it off here, put it on there.

Too much time we spend on shaving,

waxing, braiding, cutting, waving.

 

Hair and gender norms are crazy.

Girls who don’t remove it, lazy.

Men wear ball caps when they lose it,

or try fake hair if they choose it.

 

Culture dictates hair in fashion.

Make a statement. Find your passion.

New hairstyles can make us happy.

Ruin our hair, and we feel crappy.

 

Do birds and lizards waste their time

on feathers smooth and scales sublime?

They can’t obsess about such traits.

They’d starve before they found their mates.

 

 

Sue Storts 09/02/2023

 

Never Near Enough

I stand in the kitchen
and cry each day
before heading into work

Beat down by systems and
administrators and politics
the things no one tells you about

when they ask
“What do you want to be
when you grow up?”

When my future self looks back
after the heart attack
the evidence will be clear

every tear another shred of stress
gripping tighter and tighter
an unending cycle of torment

my breathing slows to shudders
as I hold my travel mug and work bag
“Okay,” I exhale. “I’m ready.”

[Prompt 2: Write a poem from the point of view of yourself, ten years ago.]

Waterbury Road hour 2

Waterbury Road

Lilacs in the dooryard blooming
since Grammie was a baby, a sprig
of a bush planted when her parents
got married, first in their families
to own their own home, so proud
and pleased to see lilacs growing
with their family.

Those lilacs spread joyful news
through the neighborhood when Janie
was born, then Grammie Maggie.
That same bush, heads drooped to scrape
the soil when Janie died after falling out
of the oak tree in the backyard, the one
they chopped down a week after her burial.
A few years after, they thought the bush
would die when Maggie’s dad, James
succumbed to influenza.

Winter came early that year, brutal
with snowfall and spring barely made
an appearance; they prayed over those
thin, spindly shoots. Next spring,
there was one flower head, a tad small
but fragrant as an April breeze. Grammie
remembers, closes her eyes and smiles
each time she tells me about it.

For the past five years, I’ve lived here,
caretaking my grandparents, tending
gardens and whatever needs doing.
My first spring, Grammie put tiny flowerets
in our salad, out picking the best open blooms
before the sun crested Hodge Mountain.
Grampa wouldn’t eat them, picking them out
like flies and dropping them in Grammie’s
plate. Purple flowers ain’t meant for eating,
just smelling. And he loved those lilacs.
We lost him in July, the end of a heatwave
that sweltered us for the whole month.
Here’s the darndest thing you will ever hear.
That Saturday Grampa died, that old lilac bush
pumped out three giant clusters of heavenly
purple, perfumed with angel wings. July!
It was as if that bush was bruised with hurting
missing him already but wanting him to have
her blossoms as a sendoff.

So now, it’s Grammie and me and the lilacs
blooming in that dooryard over a hundred years,
fragrant as a cherished memory, sturdy as family ties,
and I pray it will still be there a hundred years more.

~ J R Turek Hour 2

 

 

Poem for Hour Two “Recovery” my 10 year ago self,combined with the image

Seeing only darkness ahead,

a never-ending night

calling for surrender

and giving up the fight.

I crawl up to the blank walls

that seem to surround me

and for the first time, I see

a stair just out of reach,

rungs of beauty and pain.

Is this recovery?

I grab, grasp and grapple

with those first steps

but continue to climb

up and out.

 

 

Hour 2: 10 Years Ago

Looking through a window to what was once unknown,

Look at me now,

From where I was ten years ago.

Who could’ve imagine how much I’ve grown,

My current blessings are through past seeds that have been sown,

So I plant my seeds now for blessings of tomorrow,

Knowing God will comfort you through the unknown,

And hopes for tomorrow,

In the morrow’ we remember the mistakes of 10 years ago,

For they are learning curves in our journey of growth.

Hour 2 – Poems & Anger 

I tell a friend that a good poem

makes anger rumble 

through the soft of my belly

and she laughs.

Asks why such beauty

warrants that response. 

 

When bed and body 

were smaller,

my home 

was always filled of sound.

Cacophony had only two causes

laughter or anger. 

 

And I’m uncertain

a rabbit blinking 

unsure when to bound away.

Do not think me angry

when perhaps it is only madness.

 

Laughter and anger,

a split hair

regurgitated up the throat

a string with opposing symphonies

uncertainty of which notes 

will play when struck.

 

And suddenly I am Alice

following a rabbit who is also me

as it runs rather than be perceived.

I am not confident enough 

in my own thoughts

to trust you’ll hear them

gently. 

 

But is it not these emotions

that opened my doorway,

that I heard through a crack

sneaking to hear what the family 

coughed from their lungs.

 

And I am 

laughing cackling howling

but the caterpillar 

hands me a poem

There is nothing funny

about the thought

that those hands 

that mind

crafted something so complete. 

 

Is it not these emotions

that taught me expression

could be beautiful?

That shattered my chest

to scoop the years 

of composting feelings

from between my intestines.

 

So when the poem does not warrant laughter

yet loudness is called for

can you blame me for the raging in my eyes?