The Poetry Marathon

Hour 6: American Airports

In Newark Liberty Airport Station, America is two men in airport security uniforms sitting in wheelchairs.  America is hiding in multicolored faces, eyes, hairstyles, standing in line, staring at screens, talking in many languages, complimenting the air and echoing from the concrete pillars and tile floors, scuffed with the oil of a thousand handprints, the skidding soles of a ten thosand shoes, and countless spilled beverage stains.

America is various patterns of family, standing around a luggage carousel, old and young, man and woman, child, children, students, filed through aisles and ribbon-drawn walkways, waiting for the weight they drag behind them. America is hardshell suitcases on wheels, masks under noses, protective cardboard sleeves for 24 oz. coffee ups, signs, music, symbols in lights orchestrating the competing rivers of people moving.

In Newark Liberty Airport Station, Terminal B, at 4:45 pm on Saturday, America is 3 women behind a check-in counter for a Polish airline, a blonde with sparkling earrings, a cream colored woman kindly adorned with a navy hijab that at he’s her attendants’s uniform, and a brunette with with a wide smile and perfect teeth. Talking, questioning, directly, indirectly, assertive, scanning passports,

America is hordes of people shuffling, crowds gathering, and sitting together on the floor. Flatbed carts rumbling down the corridors transporting silver kegs of beer. America is someone singing “I need love” and their words rise above the incoherent jumble of languages unchecked, and spontaneous.

America is the empty spaces that form from the ebbing of the crowd. Remnants, wreckage, America is the elevator doors shutting on pressing people trying to squeeze into maximum occupancy. Oh, the beauty. Oh, the disgust. Oh, the mundane!

 

Hour 9

Inside a box of silence

A part of me, deep under

disorderly seas of forgotten items

 

The winds of summer blow and

the lights shine the box within

 

My last thought awaits me in a box

I’ve left in a dark, damp room

2022 #10 – Skeleton Key

Lost, but found.
Dead inside, now alive.

Feelings asleep,
walled inside.

Kept safe from
things harmful.

Along she comes.
A key in hand.

Fear swells, as
she unlocks the
doors one by one.

Where did the
key come from?

How did she
end up with it?

A key forged of
love and trust.

A key specific to
my doors.

As the final
door opens,
a glimpse of
the key reveals
its origins.

I made that key.
I buried that key.

She found it.
Dug it up and
upon touching
the key was
granted its use.

Given the power
of its use.
Power of the
Skeleton key.

Your Smile

I always look for your smile

 

In the melee of people

In the crowded mall

In the arrival lounge

 

I keep the memory of your smile

In my heart

 

So I can go on my day

With the hope

That one day

That smile will be for me

Unbowed

Trudged a million steps

With tears running down the cheeks

 

Mouth quivering

Hands shaking

Legs trembling

 

Crushed

Weakened

Beaten

 

Yet,

Unbowed

Winter Storm Haiku (2022 Poem 9)

Sleet frosts window panes
Winds bluster, branches rattle
Cracking sparks fly out

Books by candle light
Water bottle at my feet
Sipping hot cocoa

Curry cooking on the fire
Cocoon of night and blankets
Darjeeling brewing

(Prompt: Look in your cupboards and find a food that brings up a childhood memory, and the memory is your prompt.)

Prompt 9, Maxwell House

I keep a jar of Maxwell house coffee that I’ve yet to open
and never intend to, unless in case of emergency.

The coffee serves a talismanic purpose, reminding me of
my grandmother, who brewed a cup every morning before
taking a bus from her shotgun-style house off Truman Rd
to her job sewing graduation gowns and funeral shrouds
for a company that, like all that muslin, has disappeared.

After retirement, she soon moved to another house,
one rented to her by by aunt, but still drank her one
cup of instant Maxwell every morning before switching
to iced tea and water for the remainder of the day.

I keep the jar, in case of emergency, and I may open it one
morning before going to my own factory.

Prompts For Hour Ten

Text Prompt

“Personify an animal. Switch its trait. Example: a disinterested lion, a polite gorilla, an aggressive giraffe…” – Contributed by John Dutton

Image Prompt

Photo by rajat sarki on Unsplash

June Summer Night

I’ll never forget

that June summer night

when I stood on Tower Bridge,

looked over the railing,

and I wondered what it

would be like to fall over,

and I would fly for a moment

until I hit the water.

would I float?
would I sink to the bottom

where my life has always been?

the bridge, shining brighter

than the full moon- its

reflection rippling in

the Thames. And me, a moment,

a tiny fragment of billions

that have strolled and stood

in the same spot.

did they think the same thoughts too?

9th Hour – Home away from home (Image prompt)

To feast fair on the wholesome meal of calm

The rapturous convenience of this space away from the peaceless stirs of babbling cities arrests me into violent satisfaction;

un equaled relief from the joyous trouble of this kind that loves her social hand

Calisto speaks the heavy language of transendence in my happy ear

i then scuttle out to find a golden spear

stuck in the chilly white sheets of substance that cools my very soul

Ranea says hello with a smile from the clouds

i reply with a chickle as i scuttle back in to pen a story. And listen some more

As much as humanity be beloved

This anchor of purity, centeredness and still

be more so treasured

It is wise

to find tune and melody yours

tune and melody scores

home away from home