The Poetry Marathon

Saddle Up

Prompts for the Seventh Hour

My brother took the base of an old saddle and recreated it with the Jackson last name stamped on its seat.  He joined the Marie Corp and so he left behind the horses and the saddle.  My son expressed a need for a saddle and now it is being oiled up for another life.  I felt like a haiku would work well to express my thoughts about this picture.  It is about transitions.

 

hanging from above

you are now cut free to ride

saddle up, cowboy!

 

 

 

Ambiguous Covenant (Hour #7)

Be careful, will you?

Things aren’t always as they seem. Why do you trust so easily? Are you naive? Do you know the most easily sold item? Wanna know? 

It’s your soul.

You.

Pacts, Covenants, Contracts — Call them whatever you want, the fact remains the same; it’s a trade. And the world doesn’t play fair… it’s your loss. You’re the one loosing out. 

Forget about having a long spoon, just don’t do it. Don’t dine with the devil. Why would you do so? What’s the use of using a long spoon when the meal’s poisoned? Isn’t it still entering your mouth?

You’re the most precious person to yourself.

Protect yourself for yourself. Stand properly will you? Stand properly and fight. Enough of those punny excuses. You only have yourself, no one else. 

Remember, it’s all a sham. 

This world we live in; it’s in shambles. 

You can only make it out alive by dying for what you believe in.

Ode to the Living Dead Hour 8

Ode to the Living Dead (Valkyrie Kerry)

‘Dyer-Bolique, as dire as you are,
Cursed streets offer something far worse,
Vacant minds, absorbing smoked plants and wine,
Menacing, intolerant curse.’

You heed my meaning, agree with my terms,
Prepare me to fight, in the bleakest night,
Load my limb’s weapon, to crush the dirt worms,
Lash and Winchester to take flight.

To town we travel, after dark rabble,
Dissident ills, unified mind,
Packs travel shady, lonely back allies,
We circle prey, stalking behind.

Once entrenched in their hole with no way out,
The undead-alive wrestle and shout,
No one comes near, caught in their fear,
Offering us a safe route.

‘Dyer-Bolique, as dire as you are,
Put the fear of hell in these stiffs,
Vacant souls we must cleanse in fire,
Before they have time to put out their spliffs.’

Poem 7. A Photo on My Phone

Twenty one 16×20’s nailed to posts.
Below each, piles of flowers
three feet, four feet high,
stuffed toys, teddy bears, notes,
signs, posters, prayer candles.
In the neighborhood streets around,
children of all ages chalking
pictures and notes to their lost friends…

It is all too soon.

They are hollowlost, ripped out.
They are still outside their bodies
from shockwave grief.
Still, they come to pray
to leave things teachers
and little kids might like to have
to write how much they were loved
how much they will be forever missed
to light candles hoping for angelsong…

I take the pictures.
I make the videos.
I write the words.
I look at them all in my quiet.
Make decisions about the when
and where of them.
The ones no one but I will see
have a long building deep in the background,
a building with giant boarded up
windows all around.
A building that can’t possibly hide
the atrocities inside. The horrors inside. I know.
They know. The world knows.
But, I can’t bring myself to show it.
I can’t bring myself to show it.
I look at them more than
a few times a day still.
We all know
and I don’t want to show you.

We smell the flowers
from the bottoms of the piles
purifying, rotting in the heat
under the thick layers above them.
All the children smile
in their giant photos above them.
The teachers smile
in their giant photos above them.
It is raw and poignant and unmentionable.
It breaks our spines.
The town crawls on all their fours,
limps, frail… irreparable.

The blown out, deadly silent windows scream
all boarded up deep in the background…

I will not show it… I will not show you…

Blue Healer – hour SEVEN

When the owner said, “Blue Heeler,”

I thought “Blue Healer” because

I don’t know anything about dogs, and

I imagined a service animal that sees

auras and sniffs out sadness

 

which struck me as odd, given all the

Second Amendment art forms

scattered around the house, but I thought

You just never know, do you? and

decided that the New Age and the

Confederate Flag could, perhaps in this instance, exist in the same sphere.

 

But “heal” is actually “heel,”

as in the lump of muscle at the

back end of the foot, and

Blue Heelers do just that —

nip at the backs of heels to

make something goes where it’s

 

supposed to go.

Especially sheep.

They herd them.

Keep them in their groups.

Lead the strays back to the flock.

Protect the flock from prey.

 

I feel protected writing this poem.

This Blue Heeler at my feet.

And yesterday when you died,

she never left my side and

she even put her head on

my lap when I cried. So

 

perhaps she is a Blue Healer, the

black and white of her fur

casting its cobalt glow, her eyes

taking me in,

bringing me back

making me whole.

Hour 7 – Ordinary

One lifetime is not enough to love you
When I couldn’t wait to say “I do“
Doing laundry and taxes are mundane
But no day spent with you is spent in vain

Loving you comes with ease
So in the next life will you find me please
They say when you take care of things
They last, And I can’t wait to see what forever brings

Better Sleep (Hour 7)

Lately I’ve been sleep walking, the lack of energy and emotional imbalances have led me to this

space of emptiness.

Conversations from my subconscious now merged into my waking life.

423hz frequencies playing softly through my phone trying to tame the fright, flight, and freeze

responses I navigate in this dimension.

Better sleep, all the tests say I need better sleep!

Awaiting patiently for my results, the somnologist said my legs moved more than 1,000 times

that night and mimics the results of a person being tortured.

With wide eyes I accepted the answer but where is the cure?

Once I close my tired eyes and laughter filled the room.

Another time I hear someone screaming but finally realized it was only me.

Better sleep, someone said I need better sleep, a phenomenon that escapes me.

Seventh Hour Slump

A photo of Dale’s pond.
He always wanted one.
I talked him in to getting it dug.
Then the drought set in.

This year, finally, it rained.
Twenty inches in one month.
I photographed the full pond,
sent the photo to my son,
told him we’d stock it with fingerlings
next spring.

There’s no poem here.

What about love,
a couple sitting together
in a lovely place?
This photo would never be us.
I can’t sit still long enough,
but we are comfortable together.

We bicker. We laugh more.
I like to read.
You watch television.
We agree on politics
but not on the best way to travel.
I like hikes, museums, local fare.
You like driving and driving and driving,
stopping only for coffee, to pee,
to photograph.

You’re an artist.
I’m a writer.

Two prompts.
Nothing to write about,
but somehow, I have written another poem
about you.

Rain Check

Rain Check

 

Dancing on the brink

of the apocalypse

is postponed today,

 

due to rain, sleet,

windstorms,

and excessive heat.

 

It is tentatively

rescheduled for Thursday

of next week,

 

but might need

to be canceled

until next year, if

conditions don’t improve.

 

Remember, you’re not

the only one who needs

 

to make sacrifices:

it’s a big disappointment

for the entire group.

 

So. keep your place

in line, and find

something to do

to stay busy.

 

 

Seventh Hour – The Graduate

Hour Seven – Look on your phone and find the 10th non selfie picture and use that as your prompt.

 

The Graduate

 

Shiny sturdy ravens all

They stride into the ancient hall

and take their designated places

after tentatively, anxiously scanning faces

at the back, where proud parents silently catcall.

 

Velvet bejewelled masters all

They glide into the ornate hall

Indulgent pride in their speeches

touches the young ears, teaches

the congregation. The words enthral.

 

The ceremony begins, black-robed all

They line-up nervous, they mustn’t fall

through the careful walk across the stage.

The handshake and blessing mark their page

and then, they are Graduates after all.