The Poetry Marathon

Stuck There for Days Unknown

Stuck there for Days Unknown

Stuck there like a sponge.
The viscous walls closing in,
unknown, unaware.

Cracks in the pavement,
krill like creatures come to life,
The fast dance of wings.

Here for a moment
each then gone with a flutter.
Race. Mayfly live on.

Earn your position,
fight for what is right. Alright.
Open doors soon shut.

Relax and unwind.
Days have passed you by and by.
All this time waiting.

Yet, what’s it all for?
Still, you sit and wait and wait
Unfit and alone.

Not wasting your time.
Knowing all too well, too well
now is not the time.

Own up and move on.
Wake up Charlie, move along.
Now, Charlie get born.

Hour Five, 1pm

Stuck there for Days Unknown
(form Acrostic/ 8 haiku series 5 of 24)
Charlie the Mayfly.

v.j.calone

Seek no glory.

Seek no glory when you live,
For you will surely find it when you leave.
Trouble yourself not for fame,
After your departure everyone will know your name.

Speak less of yourself to your fellow men,
When you are gone you will be known among women.
Death is a town crier,
Raising his voice higher.
Seek not to be recognized by others,
You will surely be known when you obey death’s order.

Cheddar Cheese

Like a wine glass overflowing
Onto the pavement
Or a sunflower slowly opening
To the sun
Grounded like oak
Silly like cheddar cheese
Be open to life’s adventures and fun
Remember to let the pages tell the story
Even though it’s the hardback
Cover they first see
Friendship is a knitting of space and together
And is worth the effort to allow it all
To simply be.

Mandy Austin Cook

Small yet Strong

Her hair falls to her frail shoulders

in natural streaks of grey and white.

She complains of having too many greys

and heeds her sister’s words about using coconut oil.

 

Wrinkles start to show on her

suntanned  hands

and painted nails.

 

Her dark chocolate eyes

reflect mine in turn as

she smiles in joy

just to see me emerge

from my cave of isolation.

 

She’s small and frail-looking

as she navigates around the apartment.

Her will,

her faith,

and her love

are strong.

 

Strong as the bunk bed

that holds a family of 3 at night.

 

Her faith is like spider webs

holding the family together

as she prays each morning and night.

 

Her love is Venus as it rises each morning

and when it greets the evening.

 

 

2022 #6 – Perspective

Perspective, what a thing.

A poem written
during a dark time.

Read by most,
a glimpse into the darkness.

Given to a child,
darkness becomes humor.

Laughter, not sadness.

Smiles, not frowns.

Perspective, what an odd thing.

Hour 3: Times Square 6/24/22

Rushing crowds of people, an urgency to arrive somewhere.

The moment a conglomeration of happenstance sensory-perspectives, each element dazzling the mind, appetites attributing to the particular experience of this place, right now, right here,

surrounded by electronic images contorting on skyscrapers, people cheering, laughing, dancing, speaking about their world to one another,

I catch a random phrase, ” So whats it like,” and ” Are you gonna go?” Ordinary montage of words, while the music pours into the streets, “Is there a god?” and “Are you her?”

the traffic collapsing as it topples forward, revving, honking. Under our feet the crime of civilization is smeared into the pavement, dark stains and cigarette butts, plastic refuse pressed into place or blowing across the street.

Above us, in the center of my view, blue sky reaches beyond all, surrounded by the ntermittent spires of glass plated buildings, like the points of an industrial crown of corporacy,

I am at the center. There are people here with me. Things happen here. This place is important, all the seemingly meaningless congestion are really the rites of holy sacrament,

we consume our flesh by offering it to one another, the plastic, the exhaust, the chemical condensation forming on the windows, mixing with the salt from our sweating temples.

We invoke dormant gods to sanctify our grimey station. We exist as electric revelry, our atmosphere, our fragrance, right now, in this place.

Poem 5

Flower in the city

I walked on the buried pavement of the Forgotten Avenue and saw some memories nailed to a dead oak tree.

I looked away and walked astray and I found her, the only one that looked alive in this dull city.

For years, I’ve been trapped inside a broken glass wine, tough is a life without amusement.

But she made me realized that I was barely alive, living in the space between the sunflower and the pavement.

Hour 4

The Piano Forest

The piano forest
is where I want to grow old.
I haven’t touched its keys,
walked its pathways,
counted its leaves
in a while.

I hold my breath
when I look at green-filtered sunlight
on the mossy floors.
I am a plant, anxiously exchanging
the bright rays for oxygen–confusion.
I wish I was a plant, so I could leave behind
the anxiety and fade into the hills.

Taste the heat, it is
palpable, numbs my tongue.
If I were to be a plant, I’d be desert sage.
Let my wisdom turn the seedlings to trees.

I would be grown through the piano
in the forest, swarm myself onto the strings.
Imagine, the sun shining a light
upon my dead cells transmorphed
into the purple sun-shaped blossoms
that cover all the keys.

I haven’t played in a while,
but I like to imagine that when I do
again, the music will sound
like the mycelium when given a voice.

Disdainfully waiting

How much longer will this take

My lips are strained

My tummy aches

I have more important things to do

Than sitting here with you

One Lonely Evening (Hour 5)

Sitting on an easy chair

in the space between boredom

and sleepiness, I watch,

wineglass in hand, as passersby hurry

along the pavement.

 

They walk, past the oak

which sits by the roadside

where a nail juts out, imperceptible,

hungry for a cloth or a skin,

hungry as I am thirsty

for another drink.

 

They walk.

I watch.

the nail waits.