The Poetry Marathon

II. Somewhere Between

In the lasting shadows

of fallen towers

and bombs blasting holes

in our global souls

but yet quite before

the plague

came to our door,

while we waxed patriotic,

swathed in red and in blue,

star-spangled fervor,

and voted our leaders

as if nothing new

had changed in the background,

had detoured our tomorrows,

saw no hint of the deaths

the vaccines, and the sorrows,

and there in that lull,

between explosive bouts,

 

SeJohnson, 9.23

the horizon unseen

our tomorrows planned out,

in that valley–you know,

the one shadowed with death–

was a decade-deep chasm

of blood, funerals, and fears,

where we interred our innocence,

on viral, terrorist biers.

Hour 2 Image Prompt – Art Installation

I went to the gallery for a change of pace

Tired of mundanity I came to this vestigial place

Left over from a time where all who came

Came verklempt

And all the same they changed within

Thanks to a small notion

Perhaps the issue of the day

Is I feel more emotion

Watching you dance away

Through this gallery maladicta

Serving as a guide at times

The sails in a solemn sea

Unseen by outside

Untouched by the reveries

And somehow more enthralled

Yet enthralling me

 

Obits & Laundry Lists

Summer legs march past my living room window,
nonchalance with leashed dogs,
inattentive to beast while studying phones.
Interrupted only by my envy,
I nestle with consternation of
an extended deadline
and wishing my recorded voice
didn’t annoy the hell out of me.
The washer and the ceiling fan
and the waning morningsong
lull me into thinking
this day might be mine to kill more efficiently.
I cross self-tanner for my own limbs
off the list
and wait for the spin cycle
to motivate me to stand.
Ron stopped wearing his Hawaiian shirts
to work, but the straw hat
I can see on the backseat.
Nothing’s out of reach.
Yet.
We can still scratch our futures
like a lottery ticket one of us bought
at the grocery store
with the eggs and coffee.

Voice of Two Worlds

The scent of pine and autumn lay softly in the cool crisp air.
“Come with me”, his soft whisper mixes with the calls of nature like a love song only I can hear.
He has a calming sense about him, making me feel at peace in his presence.
I take a step forward and the air turns stale and frigid.
“No. Stay here, with me.”
His voice is deep and raspy, sending a shudder through my spine.
I turn and look to see cold darkness.
No longer is the scent of pine and autumn.
No longer is the love song.
No longer am I at peace.
‘He is right’, I start to think, taking a step back.
“Come with me”, the love song breaks through.
I look forward, to the calm openness.
I take a deep breath and a sigh of relief,
As I take his hand and step forward into the open field of hope and dreams.

“Welsh Word” A Ninette

“Welsh Word” A Ninnette

 

Cwtch

what we

as people

need, for our growth

Sustain our Spirits

in order to

protect our

divine

Love

Hour 2, Poem 3

To the dumb, impulsive, impressionable me

From 10 years ago..

Get it together, girl!

You gotta go, keep moving on

The world won’t give you time to breathe

Nor does it do that favour to anyone else

So get it together girl!

Make your own impression

And learn to hide your impulsiveness behind words of reason

The world doesn’t forgive

But, you can

And start with yourself

With the fact that even 10 years later—

You are still your dumb self.

hour 2 – back to school

 

it won’t be anything you say, or your off brand jeans,
this place is a certain kind of killer and,
intentions not withstanding, you look like chum.

your slick hay colt legs will not avoid
carefully placed stones of unimaginable consequence,
and there will be no way to predict

which balloons start brush fires, or
what doors the loose keys in your apartment
have sacrificed
without consulting you.

if i were you i’d revisit
everything you’ve ever done
each night, between the hours of 2 and 4
while he sleeps beside you.

accept the dark side inimical to your house of learning,
adopt a posture that feels comfortable
crouched beneath a table, breath inflating a paper bag.

A Baffling Concept

HOUR 2

Coming from a country

with no time changes –

a strange notion,

I always forgot.

Until –

The choir was strict,

about timeliness.

A Sunday in April,

I rushed in.

Proudly stood in front

of a full church,

wondering why

the choir hid smiles

The director whispered,

the time changed.

You are an hour late.

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Prompt 2, untitled

2
if I thought about it at all ten years ago it was as some nearly invisible ladder whose bottom rung I couldn’t quite reach despite my best attempts, and I read books and wrote words and hid them away and cooked for myself and you the sweet and savoury and rubbed your shoulders and sewed on buttons and swore and sweated and made love and told myself it didn’t matter as my fingers wrinkled and jowls sagged and hair grew shorter and more sparse and all along the ladder was climbing me

P cherrett