The Poetry Marathon

Downtown

Bustling cities scare me
32 years ago, on Toronto streets

There was space
Now we walk huddled on the sidewalk
As if we know each other or come from the same home
You stop and someone crashes into you

Caught  between the shades of condos
Close to the lake, the city is cold though it’s spring
Towering structures hide the sun
Leaves no space for warmth

Food trucks line the street
Downtown is impersonal
Nobody knows you or sees you
Barely any interaction with each other
As crowrded street cars, busses and trains make their way to the burbs

In the midst of this chaos
One search for peace
Earplugs the answer
Surrounded by a whole hosts of people but
Lost in the midst
I hate the city

This Day Will Not Be The Death Of Me (Hour 13)

We smoked better than chimneys- cheeky urban teenagers

roller-coasting our way through life, cussing at life itself

Like we had a spare in our dirty closets.

This night will not be the death of me

 

Smoking guns reaping death’s harvest for our father the devil

smiling and cheering and waiting for us at hell’s gate

as we gang-warred on bloody pavements.

This night will not be the death of me

 

Sirens screaming blue murder as sewer rats scrambled for cover

running, ducking, upsetting waste bins as we looked for an exit

in the smoke-filled streets, groping in tear-gassed frenzy.

This night will not be the death of me

 

Yet a bullet found me with my name on it,  and dazed, eyes turning pale,

hands dragging me as I smelled the antiseptic interior of an ambulance,

doctors reeling out orders, mom crying, and I soaring towards a Man above in white saying

This night will not be the death of you.

 

I awake with head pounding.

 

 

 

Hour 19 (2022)- City of Domes

Iridescent domes rise up into the sky
If you could stand outside them
A wonder you would see inside.

Terraced homes line the outer walls
With green plants growing down
From sturdy walls and planters
Oxygenating this strange town.

Along the floor down below the homes
A tranquil rivers runs right through
Providing a subtle swish of water
To calmly inspire you.

As you move through the twisting streets
You will find shops and stores galore
The residents saunters leisurely
Their shoes silent on the floor.

The placid conversations you sense
A susurration fills your ears
Of people living life in this city
That has lasted for many years.

GIGANtic Hog Ensnared Hour 20

GIGANtic Hog Ensnared (Valkyrie)

Staggering from the roadhouse, howling liquor at the moon,
Strategically well-dressed, I smile at the great goon.

Weeknight when most have more sense, sly words distract. Promises,
Soft lullaby on the breeze, offering more later on,
Holding his gaze as they leave, punters go home, skirmishes.

His beard ruffles to his chest, as dirty claws scratch at head,
And we are alone tonight, under moonlight’s gleam, red.

Taking his giant, rough paw, I lead him to the old farm,
Assenting ego follows, for what woman can do harm?

Through mire we slowly trudge, we cannot arrive too soon,
Staggering from the roadhouse, howling liquor at the moon.

His beard ruffles to his chest, as dirty claws scratch at head,
Unbalanced but desperate, to follow a strange being,
Desirous though most flaccid, unlikely worthy in bed.

Inside barn doors my world resides, hungry wolves baying for blood,
Staggering in the farmhouse, howling wolves baying for blood.

“A long list of questions” POEM 7

What if the sounds you hear are nothing more than echoes?
Questions asked you refused to address,
bouncing their way back to you.

What if I had been heading South,
instead of North
that left, should have been a right
pointing me to the Eastern Coast
where I would be in the perfect moment
enjoying my love of sun rise beginnings
instead of the darkness sunset welcomes?

What if he had lived?
would i just have a live target
or a newly found bond
digging our way past his embarrassing Lee Jeans
or love of jigsaw puzzles…
never made sense to me,
how he could work hard to piece back together some twisted image
but no seeming interest in me
this broken thing
who would learn to like himself
“just the way I am”

whatwouldhappenifitoldproperwritingandpunctuationtofuckrightoff

What if bitcoin bounces back
or cryptos really become this more than metaverse thing?

What will a penny buy today?
Am i the last generation to know the joy
of 100 pieces of candy for a dollar?
Would you buy footies over circus chews
a grape head over a red hot?

What if the perceptions we believe,
are the roots of the lies they feed us?
Twisted truths told to toddlers till they test the tales no more!
Realities rightness roughened raucously.
Left to die while their half truth lives to water away what has always been known….

What then?

Georgia, I am still grateful (prompt 18)

white writers write about flowers
limited by brightly colored metaphors
easy descriptions
simplicity and safety

takes less to swallow and sell
than we budgeted for
best to stick with what we know
lilies and orchids and baby’s breath

the flower shop on the corner
in downtown Albuquerque
my roller blades at the front door
while I’m organizing stacks of cards

Georgia’s hands soft and calculated
curling ribbon with the edge of a blade
removing thorns from long stemmed roses
a balance of violence and grace

her husband passed suddenly
unpreventable – a hole in his heart
I was always impressed
by how her heart remained so whole

we had met when she let me make a bouquet
and trusted that I’d return later to pay for it
I came back every day for the scent
and the safety of that cool damp room

the one that preserved
kept crisp and fresh
petals pressed open frozen lightly dewed
I wanted to be the same

never left to wilt or shrivel forgotten
on a hot dashboard
to dry out in a waterless vase
for the balance of violence and grace
Georgia, I am still grateful

Hour 19: Turn Your Lights On

I’ve walked the walls

a thousand times

Traced the lines

Between you and me

 

Through quiet halls

a river city sleeps

The intersections filled with signs

on abandoned streets

 

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

Is there anybody home?

 

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

So, I know I’m not alone

 

We could be a constellation

A single moment full of life

One big terrestrial formation

To illuminate the night

 

Won’t you turn your lights on

Hold a lighter in your hand

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

Crank the brightness on your phone

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

And see no one is alone

Poetry Marathon Hour 19:

Slowly but surely gradually but impactfully making popcorn and making progress as hour 19 kicks off. And there’s something so beautiful in the fact that we are still here despite everything that has been thrown our way – lack of sleep, lack of veggies, lack of movement, and then even losing internet connection for a brief moment. Anyway here we are and poem in the works with no real prompt

 

Poem 19:

We always complain about how we

don’t have enough time to do the things

we need and want to do – how there’s

not enough time in a day for living anyhow –

 

but taking a solid chunk of a single day

with a passion and some friends I am

beginning to realize that there’s plenty of time

when you’re willing to risk sleep and sanity in one.

-M. Rene’

sincerelybluejay

Opponent of My Opposition (Hour Thirteen, A Four Way Stop Sign)

 

Opponent of My Opposition

 

I’m a walking contradiction

filled with inconsistency.

How can I expect acceptance

when I cannot understand me?

As for the unborn right to life,

I’ll be a vessel for their voice.

What science calls “a clump of cells,”

I call a child, not a choice!

 

The Lord hath proclaimed vengeance His;

tooth for ev’ry tooth, eye for eye.

When a man’s life has been taken,

the one who took it now must die.

I believe in showing mercy,

bringing suffering to its end;

providing death with dignity,

surrounded by fam’ly and friends.

 

I must agree that love is love,

whether you’re bi or straight or gay;

your rights should still be protected,

but that protection works both ways.

I support the right to bear arms,

to protect life and liberty,

but even moreso to defend

against the force of tyranny.

 

I could keep this up all evening,

laying bare my inner conflict.

My list would roll on for miles, as

my own opinions contradict.

I hope by now, you understand

the wars which rage inside of me:

victim of my indecision,

captive of my insanity.

 

****A stop sign is another fictitious format from the mind behind the madness, made up of stanzas consisting of eight lines apiece, which are each composed of eight syllables. The number of stanzas which complete the poem determine the number of sides on the corresponding Stop Sign. In this poem, there are four verses, making it a Four-Way Stop Sign.****

Hour 19 – The Mythical Sun and Moon – Text Prompt

Welcome to San Luno, run by Señor Bruno
We sleep during your day light
Within this city we keep desert hours
We come awake at night
Buildings made of mesa, stone and pueblo cliffs
The inhabitants are happy
Though there’s lots we miss.

Like there is no glass here, nor trees to offer shade
We keep things simple and simplistic
For we were desert made.
And while Agave and cacti serve us well in time
The limits of the desert increase as population climbs
We import lots of goods and struggle with our water
But we’ll be fine some time
As long as Bruno marries Coyote’s Daughter

Bienvenido Santa Sola, run by San Miguel
Our priest is lovely, our father treats us well
Our land is by the cliff-side, above an ocean blue
And we thrive on fish trade, and we sell pearls too
Buildings by the seaside may be strange to see
But the inhabitants are happy
The ocean makes us free.

Like we can go out in the sun, though burning is a risk
And church is plenty fun, our Father brings us bliss
For we are seaside made
And while the fish seem fine
It’s been a while since we’ve seen San Miguel outside
He makes up rules that make less sense
Than surfing at low tide
But promises that Coyote will
Give San Miguel his Bride