The Poetry Marathon

Twisted

A knot in my stomach

a lump in my throat

it’s hard to swallow, sometimes.

those moments that cause so

much anxiety. When you have

the talk you’ve been putting off.

the day you anticipate the news

you’ve been waiting for.
the moment before the surgery. Or

When you find out you’re moving

across the pond to fulfill a dream.

then it gets twisted, like spaghetti being

coiled around the fork.
what you want isn’t always what it

seems to be. Be careful that you don’t

get twisted in the chaos that

lurks, the twisted monster that

wants to see you fail. The twisted creature

that tries to break you. Twisted and coiled like a snake in the grass.
always remember that the grass gets cut down, too.
that abomination tried to get me twisted.

but I took the mower and the blades,

well, you know what they do!
never let anyone try and twist you.

Hour 12 (2022)

Dear six of nine,
How dare you.

How dare you call
yourselves justices
when you’re nothing more
than souless, spineless, jesters.

How dare you.

How dare you.

How fucking dare you.

I hope one day
you feel this wrath.
And I hope it fucking burns.

Hour 14 : woMAN

Raised by men

Who taught me about womanhood their way

Handed me a cape

And let me run through the woods

When I reached a house

Tired and weary

There was a man hiding

Behind the mask of a woman

I was not scared

Thought he was my tribe

As his paws clawed on me

I realized, I was raised by men

Who never told me

I was one myself “woMAN.”

Hour 13

Novelty. Timidity. Melting. Warmth.

Acceptance.

 

Closeness. Distance. Saunter. Running.

Secrets.

 

Ashes. Seedling. Honesty. Bravery.

Maturing.

The Match Girl, hour fourteen

Many years ago, I read a story of a small girl, lost and alone.

Selling matches by the book, fingers stained black with soot,

ignored on this frozen day, lighting matches to make her way.

And I remember feeling grief for a tale, of a girl so long ago,

lighting matches by the book to retain a lively glow.

And if the moral of this story is, be careful what you dream,

may I continue lighting matches to keep the light burning.

13th hour – Ying yang something (Text Prompt)

The sorry camp came happy absent the right sized tent.

Ying yang touch inevitable

Dust kept dust locked sweetly. So amiable

Morning came.

The clouds wept joyfully

as did the ying yang campers.

 

Coronatimes

It’ll all blow over, don’t worry, some said
But the hospitals were full, there was nary a bed
And the TV showed sidewalks with hearses, and the dead
Waiting to be buried.

Communities had barricaded themselves in
All deliveries were dropped off to be collected later
All stores shut down and their owners fled
To the countryside where it was said
The virus couldn’t survive.

With its hundred apartments, our own community,
Locked the two sets of gates, which we’d never seen done.
People worked from home, all felt dark and dun
Till, slowly, slowly, the children came down

Masked and washing their hands very often
They went into the yard, tried to have fun.
But out on the street, a little girl spied
A skeleton-like form– a dog that’d almost died.

Were his owners too sick, or had they fled
Forgetting him, abandoning him in their fear or dread
Of the virus?

All the children who saw his feebly wagging tail
As he leaned on the sidewalk’s rusty red rail
Determined that this little dog wouldn’t die
And they thought long and hard.

They begged their parents to order in dog-food
For the dog who’d barely outgrown his puppy hood.
And they promised to make up the money
By delivering all the goods that’d been left at the gate.

The residents were happy to pay a little more
To have their essentials delivered at the door.
The children used the cash to feed the poor strays
For there were four dogs nearby in the same case.

The dogs were adopted after the curbs eased
But my admiration for the kids’ empathy never ceased.

Hour 13 ( Happy Day)

Its been a wonderful day
Poetry Marathon is on fire
Lets dig deep
Get the coffee mug out
Bring in pen and paper
Lets get at it
11 more hours to go

Copyright(c)2022 Roxann Lawrence

Dog named Lumpy

Dog named Lumpy

looks patiently on the bedspread
Sweet little thing
wearing laurels
waits for its turn

Hour 13

@varenyas

The Aggressive Giraffe

The Aggressive Giraffe

“I can’t believe the library is closing early today.

Everyone must get out of my way,”

Barked Annie, the aggressive giraffe.

“A three-day weekend with the kids off at camp.

My husband laid up with writer’s cramp.

I need a new book and a fresh cup of tea.”

Pulling into the lot with minutes to spare,

Annie stormed through the doors without a care.

“I need a new book, a mystery or thriller.”

Around the shelves, she started to sprint.

“I’d prefer a book with extremely large print.

The one’s with fine print are a pain in my neck.”

The librarian brought her a stack of the latest fiction.

Annie skimmed through them all with great conviction.

“I thought you had the latest John Grisham.”

Her long neck allowed her to spot it across the room

“It will be mine,” Annie assumed.

She raced to the book without a care.

Knocking down people and toppling stacks of books

The entire building trembled and shook.

The aggressive giraffe was almost there!

Touching the book on the tip of its corner,

her fingers slipped off and she became a mourner.

“You snooze, you lose,” said a prickly hedgehog.