The Poetry Marathon

Poetry Marathon Hour 13:

As we have now crossed the half-way point, I have replenished my snacks and water and cold brew – and even though there’s not a prompt calling out to be utilized this hour I feel like I’m at least somewhat human again and honestly that’s the best start to the second half I could have possibly hoped for. And not like any of you asked or anything, but I’m also going to say I’m SOOOOO glad I did a chair swap for this event because my back would usually be KILLING me by now – but I’m actually doing okay. Rajah and I had a random dance party before the start of the previous poem and I’m thinking that might be a good habit moving forward. ANYWAY, I’m searching for a prompt now – let’s see what calls to me…

This is “Houseplant Symphony” from the BlueJay Prompts book I released earlier this year – available on Amazon and my personal website www,sincerelybluejay.com available worldwide at both retailers!

 

Poem 13:

On Sundays the houseplant symphony

begins in earnest and carries on throughout

the entire afternoon in full force – there is

a certain sort of beauty that comes from a

simulated rainforest in the middle of a desert.

 

And another very different sort of beauty

that exists only in the strange hours of

noon to five pm on a Sunday in this space

we’ve built for ourselves and each other

and really no one else, although they all

seem to come and go as they please.

 

This symphony though – the reason we

are even wasting time or breath is wonderful.

Playing the raindrops, rhythmic breath, and

even taking time to let the silence shine as well.

It reminds me that we are all living through something

or living somewhere we do not belong – and yet

 

we manage to survive. To flourish. And if we are lucky

also to inspire a few more people along the way.

-M. Rene’

SincerelyBlueJay Poetry

Warrior

I stuttered, was shy

Loving solitude, I dive

into depths. Soaring!

 

 

 

Exponential Function

meta – hebrew for dead, the clickbait articles gleefully inform us,
waiting for something to bite.
מֵת – harder to G–gle the real word, to learn.
The second home, the screen, slowly turning into a tomb,
and even the colors of the world seems to grey – dark mode
and simple opacity tricks to brute-force 3D through astigmatism.
It’s hard to think about anything else
when it’s everything we do – we were too addicted to notice.
It robs our ability to speak.

One apocalypse to pick of many.
There’s no lack of them.
And they’re all on display on the doomscroll.

As a wise man once said, “the world is a vampire.”

Laughter

With every mention of your name
I force back the grin that my heart won’t contain
Swear my heart skips a few beats then speeds in an unhealthy way
I hear you singing that Jackson Five song
Just look over your shoulder baby
I look over
Retract my neck stuff my face on my breast
Chuckle and heh heh under my breath
I know you’ll be here
A merry heart does good like medicine is what the King James proverbs have to say
If this love is contains more than one joyful l word
I’m grinning over my shoulder everyday

Life Expedition

---

Send me on a journey
to nowhere,
a one-way ticket
out of here.
Home I carry with me,
so it doesn’t matter if I return.
Coming back this way
might be more painful than the leaving.
Knowing not where the path
will take me,
seeking new adventure ahead,
finding fresh roads to walk
can heal a tired and wounded soul.
Time travels with me,
leaving behind distant memories.
Shelter can be found in unexpected places,
where discovered doors
open worlds of possibility,
and welcome a weary wanderer.

 

The Final Girl Hour 14

The Final Girl (Valkyrie)

Ultimate survivor in wait,
Her life force comes from deep within,
Triggered when threatened, hearing cries,
She develops a thicker skin.

Ultimate survivor in wait,
Entombed in cabin, observing,
Her quick brain constantly working,
Never taking the offered bait,
Innocence, a repellent trait,
Detached from her peers without sin,
Counting the deaths as they roll in,
Standing strong, everyone dies,
Espying Dyer-Bolique’s lies,
And plotting to save her own skin.

Her life force comes from deepest fate,
To suffer whatever we bring,
But I am skilled at surviving,
Pitied for my mechanic gate,
She assumes he forced me to date,
Night blinded from my bleak killing,
She offers some kind assisting,
To save me from master of flies,
A master I cannot despise,
She follows my painful limping.

Triggered when threatened by night’s fate,
I suggest until dawn, hiding,
She acquiesces, abiding,
Breathing heavy, fear, I relate,
Trusting me, a trait too innate,
Closing her eyes, quick slumbering,
Resting her head, now lumbering,
In the garden shed we disguise,
I carefully plan her demise,
Secateurs ready for cleaving.

Ultimate survivor in wait,
I develop a thicker skin,
A strange noise draws her from hiding,
Alone, confused, mind in a state,
She marches heedlessly to fate,
Behind her I stride, lumbering,
Secateurs assist bleak killing,
From back of neck comes the surprise,
Three poor clips, and Final Girl dies,
Painful demise, encumbering.

Buzzy, Citizen of Maui–Hour 13

Brother boy, that ain’t just rain

Not here on Maui

I got the deal here, that’s my refrain

I don’t lie to none of Jesus’ friends

gift of the gods I tell ya

and we drink to no ends

comes from the sky

the mountains too

‘Tis excitable water make the sky sing blue

and lights up the heavens

with color galore

evidence abounds and I’ll tell you more

but here’s the secret

‘case you ain’t guessed

rain is Rainbow Juice Ha!

and we like it best

Maui No Ka Oi, Buzzy

 

Hour 10 Prompt: The Love Affair Between My Cat and My Laptop

I believe my cat has been having an affair with my laptop

She pretends to be disinterested, but I know better

That it is no coincidence when she walks across my keys while I type

If I leave my office without closing my computer

She will surely be stretched out on my keyboard

Getting kitty acupressure

And the purring caress of the motor.

If I leave the office door open, I fear they…

My cat and my laptop…might elope.

Sometimes

Sometimes

 

the old willow tree

grows

as if hands reaching up

towards

the fresh autumn sky

Love in Laundry: Hour 8- Prompt 8, 2022 (Gigan)

On a monsoon’s sunday morning

I woke up realising I have got laundry to do.

 

Piled up clothes, sitting on a chair, depressed?

As if they’re mocking me,

with a shirt’s sleeve crumpled hiding the buttons.

 

Exact the way I hide my conscience,

it is minimal but impactful.

 

Wish we had some sort of detergent too

for monthly- (ah? A month? Nope) weekly healing.

 

We all deserve fluidic companions,

on a sunday morning.

 

To hide our consciences,

their presence is like a scoop of liquid detergent,

all set to wash away our temporary worries.

 

I woke up seeing drenched funeral clothes

Why did you leave so soon, my mate?