Hour 9; Home away

beet
jacket
tremor
bayou
elbow
lightbulb
cinnamon
bucket
elk
carport

Her cheeks were *beet* red as determination became her
She owned it was never easy to leave your comfort zone
And start from the scratch
She could do this, thus assuring herself
She donned a life *jacket*
Filled a *bucket* with odds and ends, including tools, *lightbulbs* , knickknacks And swinging it over her shoulders,
Ran to the *carport* and unlocking her beloved Mercedes, Extracted her lucky charm bracelet and favourite perfume
With *cinnamon* and floral notes
She ran to a sleek boat that was waiting for her in the *bayou* adjoining her island
Before she stepped in, she felt a tug at her *elbow*
It was a wild *elk* that she had saved when it was an infant
And now often followed her for treats
She kissed it goodbye and took a last look at her old world
A tremor of uncertainity and fear gripped her for a few seconds
Sighing deeply, she tossed her head and sat in the boat
Life herein would be difficult but it would be her journey; good or bad…!

Abandoned

ABANDONED

Abandoned thoughts

Unloved,unprotected,unkind

I seek freedom

Abandoned needs

Unhungry, unthirsty, unfit

I seek belonging

Abandoned feelings

Uncertain, unchained, undoubtful

I seek out my identity

Endlessly

 

Cry To Heaven

Hour Twenty Inspiration= “Cluster One” Pink Floyd
5:43

Hot are the rivers
running through scaled eyes
blinded by the serpentine
motivations and macabre machinations
of the world of today
every day lacking
the promise of tomorrow.
Lord, hear our prayers
as we silently wilt
our petals fall with
an absent minded cause for concern.

We realize this world requires
a shift in perception
from the mummified remains
of wise old trees
ringed with years of stately experience
that have seen far more than we.
They are filleted into thin slices
and stuffed into the mouths of
those whose authority
govern the people
seething with ulterior motives
and promises broken like spirits-
Lord, hear our prayers
as we gather in hushed whispers
and the biting of fists-
our fear of standing out
standing up
at the injustice of greed
as nothing is filled more than pockets
with no thought to starving mouths
that lack the strength in jaw
to speak out or chew upon
another daily headline of
another corrupt institution –
failing in moral and character.
It is one thing to have fault,
yet another to continue the cycle of it.

The world, an unholy empire
built upon the backs of popular vote
and someone else’s work
for none consider a change in habit
and that fact is cause to salivate
where corporations pay homage
to the next candidate
with a vote of confidence
and clandestine bribery
to adjust tax brackets
and let it ride
the coattails of mudslinging,
ensuring the victory- a campaign of hate
and the blatant traces of facade.
Lord, hear our prayer
as we cry to heaven
as countries vie to expand
their attention upon expounding dominance
of yet another land-
not a battle of wits, but a measuring stick.

In a world where the appetite for power replaces
the wealth of knowledge
and subterfuge, loopholes, and manipulation
becomes the goalpost-
we neglect to realize that
wisdom and education is our fountain of youth
as opposed to the artificial cosmetics
affixed unnaturally to
the beauty of imperfection.
The world craves attention,
yet goes about it in the wrong way
for we fill our bellies with materialism
and the next best thing
comparison to who has the best new what
instead of filling our hearts
with love that has become
so fleeting in this cruel world.
Lord, hear our cries
as deep within the hollow
we know the truth-
a candle lit in memoriam
for the faith and hope that many have lost
as circumstances have much want to improve
They’re snuffed out and dimmed by
the shadows of suits and power plays
as we believe our father and not our Father
knows best…

As jealousy and envy pave the road
to our own demise-
competition became a war
borne of death, destruction, and ego
as it collides with faltering self-worth;
an uprising as the neglect to our own talents
leaves us no room for improvement
to highlight how intricate and substantial
each soul truly is and what
we as individuals can contribute
as we play to our strengths.
This has become a realm where
pride wires shut the mouths
and ties the tongue in knots-
a place where assumptions rule opinion
and emotion becomes fact
and not felt
The world a gameshow
where the winner takes all
and leaves behind no crumbs to those
who break their backs
and hearts to survive.

Lord Father, hear our cries to heaven
and bestow upon us Your righteous hand
shield us from the growing savagery
and crack open the tomb of our hearts,
uplift our broken spirits
that have shattered upon the rocks
thrown through every window
of our lives.

2023 Poem Five

Meeting Mothman in the Coffee Shop

Is that.. Is that really him? Tall wings of luscious.. Is it feathers? Or fur? Either way, I thought he would be taller and yet I can’t look away from him or his bicycle brake eyes scanning the menu in search of today’s selection. Those fur-slash-feathers seem to suck the light around him like they’re a black hole I would gladly swim through. Oh, who am I kidding? Everyone’s favorite Cryptid wouldn’t be interested in my scaley claws. Or a body that’s 40 feet long while my legs are as long as a croc’s. Besides, how could I invite a glorious moth to visit me in my home under a lake? Fur-slash-feathers can’t be comfortable when soaking wet. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh Shit. He’s walking over towards me. Okay, deep breaths to hide your excitement. Just act normal. You can do that. You’re a regular old cryptid and can act like one. Yeah, I got this. I’m just going to look at… that poster! Yeah! The… handwashing poster… shit. He’s a fellow cryptid, it’ll be fine… Wait, what is fame made him stuck up? And he gets mad about me being In His Space? Whatever, poster, yeah. Oh, wait, that’s my order…

“Oh! Did we order the same drink? I’m sorry, you were here first so this is definitely yours.”

He’s talking to me?! Fuck, answer him! Quick! “Hah, I guess so. Not a whole lot of cryptids get their coffee Dread Free around here.”

“Yeah, which is weird because not everyone wants Dread. I’m Mothman by the way. You must be Bear Lake Monster?” He knows who I am?! What?? “I’m on my way to that new exhibit at the museum about what humans think cryptid zoology is like… Would you like to join me? After my coffee is ready of course.”

He knows who I am? FuckFuckFuck. Act cool. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 21: A Tribute to John Keats “A Humble Man”

 

I watched her dance
and I felt the lure of her arms
viewing deeps breathes
that seemed to make her eyes asweat

the night seemed long
the latest of hours it was
and I ask, is there something I must do
my impatient sighs strangling me

I heard whispers, soft yet thundering
a storm of humiliation
my anxiety and fears my warbrobe
colourless and pale

Why such looks of mockery
what have I done I ask
I am only a humble man
yearning for the chance at love

Her gentle motion like a wave
taking her across the room
her delicate hands pointing to the moors
will she sing a song of wolves?

I see a chance at rebuttal
my flimsy friends to be denied
running towards the moon
casting its glow on her flaming hair

she rollicks over the thistled hills
I in relentless yet blissful chase
my hightops stripped og their soles
and I stripped of my doubt

I will forever run and follow
waiting for her to turn around
but, no matter
my love has limitless space

 

Crowd

Faces blur together

not a single individual  seen

moving as one like a school of fish

slow, fast

young, old

shapes, sizes

HR-9

Running to a place I’ve never seen

Longing to be there but don’t know why

Trying to get there as fast as I can

But here I am wasting my time running

Code Talkers III

Code Talkers III

 

Collection

Of carefully chosen words to

Deceive the

Enemy and a secret code

 

That saved the

Army and other militia.

Luck was on our side, the code

Kept our

Enemies guessing this

Radicle

Set of indigenous words.

23~11

the pillowcase

tiny safety pins

old magazines

my mother screaming

running through the house

in agony

trying to hold

her floppy twisted arm

a gift from my father

pillowcase from my pillow

third grade me

was dreaming on

now pins to it’s twin

lined with glossy stiff paper

encircling her pain

my little fingers fasten

sharp pins of safety

still a bit groggy

until I see dad

who scares me

wide awake 

who scares hurt her

both of us

saying nothing

again in the 

emergency room

Universally Acknowledged

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple locked in the hold of a ship
For forty days, off the coast of Venice,
Are in need of a good book.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That this book should feature
Stakes no more severe than
Very rich young people
Very slightly crossed in love.
It is a choice… politely accepted
That this book be read back to back
Five times.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple locked in the hold of a ship
For eighty days, off the same coast,
Are in need of the same book.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That they will cast
Their own *NEW* *HOLLYWOOD* *ADAPTION*
(Names in lights)
(Set in rural Somerset)
It is a choice politely accepted
That they also cast the Radio 4
Comedy version.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple now released from their ship
But cast away from gentle streets of gondaliers
Are in need of some stability.
And so it is a probability, widely accepted,
That the next adaption should feature
A fully genderbent cast.
Apart from Mel and Sue
As the Gardiners. Obviously.
It is a choice politely accepted
That Mister Hurst be correctly identified
As a cat.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That this young couple, having made dry ground,
Have now been living in close quarters for quite some time,
And have gotten in their heads a little bit.
It is a probability, widely… accepted,
That actually, no one knows this book
As well as them, that
The average man is wrong
About Elizabeth and Darcy.
It is a fact, agreed to mainly in self-defense,
That he is also wrong
About Mr Collins.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That this is tradition now. What would they do
To get to sleep? What? Read a different book?
Hm. Hmmm… No.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That, hey, this book is full of people
Completely silent, wholly uncredited
Where are all the servants?
What are all their names?
It is a choice politely accepted
To stay up researching regency household staff
For six hours.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple on their fifth circuit
Have developed something of an obsession
Realistically.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That THIS read-through comes with a LIST of names
And character bios. Of forty-eight servants.
And a tenant farmer.
Also very slightly crossed in love.
It is a choice politely accepted
To interject their tales throughout into
The body of the text.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple, something like settled,
Their days of adventure not quite behind them,
Are still in need of a good book.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That a sixth read-through should begin.
With stakes no more severe than
Very rich young people
Very slightly crossed in love.
It is a choice, unusual but cherished
That this book be read bit by bit,
Back-to-back.
Every night.
Every night.
Every night.

 

The repeating refrain at the start of every stanza is taken from the first line of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

…Which at this point, I know quite well.