Hour 19

Response poem to Irisa Kwok’s Hong Kong Triptych

When spring never came, my friend left forever.
She said, fuck the neon metropolis and instead moved
to countries of fog instead of mist, brick
instead of cement.
She bowed not once, not twice but thrice.
Swam laps around the public pool.
Am I not people, is there no place for me
in this bauhinia, this town of orchids?
I want to come Home Kong,
Am I expat, foreigner forever? Or am I
a tree re-rooting itself, finding its ancestors
up the family trunk.
I take the ferry more than once a month,
I run across the dragonback hills
and fly up the 120 floors.
The city has changed beyond our sight
but I will uncover the hidden pearl,
chocolate strawberry candy,
that lies at the mouth of the river delta.

Text prompt-Poem 15 Kusadasi

Hour 19 Watchtower

Gazing out

you can see the ocean.

No worries of evil

only animals on a

horse riding island

with one bridge

on and off this secret space.

Poetry Marathon Hour 20:

Poem 20: Naming the stars:

I’ve always wondered whether we’re spending too much time or not enough naming all the stars out there. Deciding which ones will be famous and which can live a quiet life just because. It has always been fascinating to me that there are so many pinpricks of light in a single galaxy and each and every one of them is important for something – or we wouldn’t be naming them after science and decades and our loved ones. Or we wouldn’t be spending so much money trying to get ourselves out of orbit and into their many outstretched arms for warm hugs and a certain sense of belonging. There’s something I’ll just never fully understand about naming the stars – but if it makes you happy than I’m looking forward to all the new ones we discover and the articles about where the names come from. And even though I won’t be alive for this, I hope that new myths and legands and stories are created around each and every one of them for the generations to come – so there is always something to be in awe of. Even if Earth is no longer our primary home.

 

-M. rene’

sincerelybluejay poetry

Second Breakfast

I don’t know why I went back for seconds
I’m always full!
But there was something about those hash browns,
bacon,
sausages,
that had me wanting more.
Fill me up
for the big day ahead
Don’t skip breakfast,
they said.
I had it twice,
with all things nice.
In my belly it goes
I wouldn’t do it thrice.

Hour 17: How the mighty fall

He was a magnificent creature, the son of Typhon and Echidna
His mammoth heads inspired awe and fear alike
He was the dreaded monster, known as the Lernean Hydra
His abode was the seas, he ruled with great elan
And ravaged the inhabitants and livestock of Lerna
And, when they tried to retaliate and him behead,
Out sprouted from his wounds, two more heads, even more terrible, even more vicious
His boon of one immortal head, only further fanned his ego and arrogance
But the two heroes, Heracles and Iolaus orchestrated his doom
And buried his immortal head under a heavy rock
It still lies there, a testimony to how the mighty fall
The gigantic monster could have been ruling the worlds,
If only he had discerned; power is synonymous with responsibility…

Wind Witch, poem nineteen

Somewhere in the blue,

amongst the clouds,

there is a small woman,

who lives in a cottage

surrounded by bees,

and floating with the breeze.

Caustic Soda

Blue barrel

filled to the brim

in which we will place memories

still in tact but cut down

and wait until they’re an unrecognizable soup

Mushrooms and Wine

Lead me into the woods
where it is unsafe.
I wish to howl with the wolf
in my dreams. He cries to be heard.
A den of my own making:
Ground palms and sandy loam
and a handful of psychedelics.

We almost burned down all of
Hunting Island in our drunken delirium.

I love her best.

Chris said my ego is in the way.
Whose isn’t? Drop that Earl Grey
at my feet. Tea is for therapy.

Our tidal house fallen from stilts
into the Atlantic. Still I want
to sleep in that 30 degree angled bed.

Don’t try to save me from myself.

City life

If you listen closely late at night
the sounds of the city
become ever more clear
traffic noise, road hum
sirens distant –
and not so distant
squealing tires –
cars racing
too-fast trucks
pitter-patter of raccoon claws
on alley concrete
squeal of train wheels
screeching hawks
occasional owls
unsteady footsteps of a
neighbor, returning
from some sort of revelry
a kaleidoscope of
aural enlightenment

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
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