The Poetry Marathon

Prompt Hour Two – Line from Robert Frost’s poem -Woods are lovely dark and deep

The woods are lovely dark and deep
Line from the poem By Robert Frost

Life is a journey not a destination
all have miles to travel ,miles to go
choices of which road to take, often
trouble and perplex the mental station-

the woods are lovely, mysterious and free
so much hidden so much to seek and see,
a haven for some , a home for many, many.
elves to play and witches to prey and peep.

still the woods are lovely with treasures replete
princes ride with swords, cut out their track
through dangerous darkness ,love leads their way
bravely they dash to awaken the treasure treat.

The woods are lovely dark and deep.

Prompt -Hour One -Water- Secret of the two Seas.

From Within

Love is in the air

The air is breathing love

To this feeling none can compare

If it’s pure then it comes from up above

 

Yet some may, do well gifting fear

Without a care to others their acts bring out tears

Waterfall of emotions they cause to erupt while burying their emotions deep in their rear

 

We aren’t built to understand love but to live and give it

Wickedness is not thick enough to kill

Whenever you need a refill, only look within and connect with the spirit

Love exists, and it’s purer than we think, the purity of it comes from deep within.

Bless-ed

I know you might be reading this from a different time zone

You’re probably in a place right now you usually would call home

With thoughts maybe hovering over your head seemingly piloted by a drone

Now you’re confused and withdrawn

How is It done?

That in a world with over a billion people how do we get to feeling all alone?

Come rain come shine. Through thick and the thin they promised to be there for you

But it seems, they are left in their numbers with the winds blown.

 

The burden has become too heavy to bear

Deep inside you’re beginning to feel it…they call it fear

A fear of the very future you once expected

But now you can’t tell what it’ll bring, so prophecies you’ve rejected.

Take this letter I’m writing as something of an investment

From a different time zone in your peace of mind I am interested

I’m sending stars out every night just look up and count them

Then List your blessings alongside you’ll see plans perfected.

You should wake up calling yourself bless-ed.

History Repeats Itself

“History repeats itself”

Here we are again in

“the good old days”.

Where your fate

is predecided

by a government

that believes in

“Equality.”

 

Women,

Gays,

and non-whites

are being thrown away

in a dumpster

hidden by Wallstreet

and false news.

 

Lies are now the truth.

So, history repeats itself.

 

Sacred grounds desecrated

for greed.

Warnings from Nature

are disregarded

and called hoaxes.

 

Those called

“Sisters in Christ.”

Are lesser than

your green paper

made of a tree’s carcass.

 

Greed now rules

with ignorance at its side.

We are blind kittens

in a world of hungry Hyenas.

 

Alive

On the way home

Shades of green blanket the horizon,

I look

in the distance,

as my love Says,

“Looks like someone spray-painted the Mesa’s white.”

The scattered, surviving snow cowers in splotches.

And the crouching cedars stretch out

with the rabbit-like bushes

together they dance as the wind creeps through.

 

Everything is alive.

 

Our car jolts to the rise and fall

Of the ancient drums

And hums with the age-old songs.

Songs that only the privileged are to hear.

To the right,

The Peaks stand tall with a white veil

Waiting for our Father, the Sun

To kiss her forehead.

 

Everything is alive.

 

As people of the land race each other

Like they’re in the Indie 500,

But only

To escape the barren land they live on.

 

But to me this land that we call “Home”

Is alive.

My Black Hole

Vampire bites littered

My little bothers forearms,

Exposing his lifelines.

Crouched to the ground, he cried,

“Don’t look at me, Sister. I am not your bother anymore.”

 

This led him to place a gun to his head,

Red and blue flashes raced to his aide.

Only to see the villain in his laugh

As they cuffed him and took him to jail.

“It was only a joke.”

 

This is where

Bottles of false hopes

Gave my dad a kaleidoscope vision of life:

Dizzying him to drink more, to blackout

As he veered to a sign and walk away unscathed.

 

When I pulled on his over-stretched shirt

Pleading him to come back

To come back to us.

Because a rundown trailer with vacant fridges

And dust-laden cabinets is all we had.

 

“Dad, can you hear me?”

Only silence answered.

 

Cut to my mom,

Falling to her knees as

Rives flowed from her eyes,

Followed by stuttered apologies

And a pause of realization

That her life was over:

She had lost her marriage and us, her kids.

 

Nothing was worse than that.

“I’m so sorry. It was all a misunderstanding.”

 

But to be called a liar by her

is like a silver bullet to a werewolf,

.

Iraq was his tour and he was to serve again.

“I swear I miss Dustin too!”

“Liar! You’re just copying me!”

 

I cried for my big brother to save me that night.

 

Past a decade ago,

My world of Lisa Frank stickers and folders

was shattered by a boy of platinum hair,

ice water eyes, parchment-colored skin.

He walked up and stole my smile,

“You’re ugly. Your skin is the color of mud and you don’t belong here.”

Speechless. Collapsing into a fit of tears. No one defended me.

“Wish you Were Here”

Your birthday is in September,

When the leaves fade to sunset colors,

and I sing

“Wake Me Up When September Ends.”

 

Each day

I wish you are here.

I still check my phone

when a phantom buzz vibrates

and there’s no sign of you.

All I hear is:

“Nothing Else Matters.”

 

I can’t help

but stand still in a moving world,

and hum your favorite songs

thinking:

Why am I talking to the Moon?

 

One again

I hear an echo in my heart,

and pray that

you found your

“Stairway to Heaven”

and not the

“Highway to Hell”.

 

Because you lived your life.

you were my jukebox hero.

When these songs on repeat,

I cry out that you’re

“So Far Away.”

 

And wish once again

that you were here.

Something was Missing

Something was Missing in
Our house for 1.
It was like the first snowfall of winter:
Cold
And Silent.

There was nothing but
The music from our hearts.
Falling like rain,
Our tears fell.
We were alone
Together.

We kept him in
A corner of our minds
Never forgetting
The love that he gave us,
His smile, his soul
Of an adored cat.
This noir Feline.
We called him our son,
A piece of our hearts that we lost,
That we wanted to keep with us;

He was our missing piece.
Our one thing we called “Home”.
When we felt alone.
Something was missing from our bed,
On our covers,

From our house built for one.
We looked everywhere,
We thought like him,
Then like his eyes on cat nip:
Round and golden like the moon,
We thought, we uttered the taboo possibility:
He’s gone.

There like our bodies,
Our sanity fell,
Plummeted to the floor, our
Hearts hit the floor.

We knew then
that we were going to be
Missing everything:
Home.
Son.
And family.

Learning How to Braid

For as long as I can remember,
my mom braided my hair,
Her fingers take my hair in three parts
at the top of my head, she starts
with a glass full of water.
In that I sat, shifting to the right
then to the left; a cup of water
she dips her fingers in and continues.

10 years later I stare at my own eyes:
“Mom was right.”
I grab my hair, look at the comb.
“Should’ve learned. . .”
My hands reach for my phone, my fingers glide as they type
“How to braid your own hair”
ENTER.

“One day you will have to learn this.”
I say nothing,
In those days I wasn’t into braids.
I thought of it being too girly
That went with bright pink dresses
Tight skin tights that matched the hair ties.
“I don’t like braids.” I pouted.
Arms crossed and eyes wandering. Impatient.

Three sections is what I remembered:
One over the other and I repeat,
My first braid loose and messy.
I lowered my head. My first try
Hanging down my back.
Proud that I did it, I stood straight.
Next time:

I took the three sections:
Tipping my head back to help me
With the weaving.
One over the other
I lay over with my fingers tighten as I go.
Careful not to let any strands free or left out.
I continue until my hair runs out.
I get up with a better braid….
Better than the last, the first messy braid.

My lips slip into a smile
“I finally learned how to braid.”