The Poetry Marathon

Da’ling

What happened to you, Salvadore?

Born in 1904, long before the war.

A fine, handsome young man of artistic nature.

Barcelona beaches and galleries launched you to fame in 1922.

Awards with high praises were given to you.

How did you go from beautifully skilled,

Award-winning works like “Market”,

Lauded by the University Vice-Chancellor’s Prize,

To works in the 1960s so bizarre, Picasso paled.

You did indeed become surreal

And, sadly, to me, you did not appeal.

Your work spoke tortuous dreams

That may have been born of your zeal.

You left your mark,

But was it your heart?

Glad I never called you “Da’ling”, Dali.

Rest in Peace – I hope.

 

Hour 5 – Summer stories paint winter daydreams

I skip barefoot across the pavement,
Ignoring your warnings.
“Watch for nails!” you cry.

But when the sunflowers are in bloom,
I am invincible, and the oak tree
keeps calling my name.

I dance in the space beneath its
boughs and tell stories of princesses
who never needed a prince.

Knitting tales of knights who ride
wolves rather than steads, I create
witches with secrets too beautiful to speak.

The butterfly wings drip with gold
and the grass still smells like morning,
but I do not count the hours as they pass;

For the taste of imagination is sweet
on my tongue and my eyes see truths
time will teach me not to trust.

But here, under the branches
of the oak tree, I know that dreams
are the stories we decide to believe.

Hourglass

Unending time turns

falling down over again;

sand infinity.

Do You Mourn Me?

content warning: just comparisons to my past self.

Do you mourn me?
Child-that-was, person
of could-have should-have,
possibilities dying in the light
of summer sun.

I could go back,
and trace my own face,
hold tight to each flaw
and rounded feature.

I couldn’t go back;
I can’t be “her” again,
time caressed the memory
of who I once was.

Do you mourn me?
We are still the same:
“she” and “they”,
younger and older,
I find peace in knowing
I was never lost.

Do not mourn me;
I am still here,
standing before you.
Like earth from a river,
I was carved;
but with sculptor’s hands,
I carved myself.

translucent

A wine glass tucked in the corner,
a crack running down its globe,
tells the story of my realm

that translucent crack
visible to all the world
cannot be hidden
but will not be a hinderance either

the glass stands strong,
pieces separated, but still
unified

I polish, I perfect
I work to heal the crack
that has been run through me

yes, I am cracked,
but I remain
strong
unified
with the people I love and
with the pieces of me

always moving forward

Good summer day

The best days

Involve a good hardback

A nice breeze

A satchel with cheddar cheese

Space to sit on pavement

Hour Five – Reclaimed

I decided to go back to our old house
I hadn’t been there since we ended things for good
The windows were shattered, and covered in vines
The front door was hanging off its hinges
It was obvious that the world reclaimed the area
I couldn’t help but think it was a metaphor
One for how I’ve felt since you left
No matter where I go or what I do
You will always have a claim to me

Prompt 5 (image)

Hope

Look beyond the window
Behind the dirt and the decay
She is still there
Watching
Waiting for your return
All has turned to dust
Her vibrant life
Now banished to another realm
Exiled to purgatory
Not knowing if you even remember
Unaware of where your life has taken you
Without her

Look beyond the reality
She is still there
Still waiting

 

Another Whodunnit – 4th Hour

So here we are
100 years in the future

So many wounds opened
And not one has been sutured

A great many lives lost
One senseless explosion

Leaving holes in the legacy
Of the families left broken

We walk a fine line
Between what’s right and wrong

Never taking the time
To determine the cause

Still unresolved
How those lives were lost

Nary a culprit
Has been found to be at fault

After so long It’s been clearly forgotten
The truth of the matter buried in a coffin.

Too many players
and not enough game

The bombing of Wallstreet
A mystery that remains.

~Rebeli

Stage Four of Grief, hour five

You can’t crawl back into a moment in time. You can’t slip into it,

easy, like a hand through a glove. I can’t go back in time, drifting,

sliding into memory, but I try. It’s fuzzy on the edges, but if I focus in,

tight, I can see your face, reflected in the wine glass on a windowsill.

Your mouth moves, but I can’t hear your voice anymore. A sunflower head

perches in it now, empty and dried out, the petals hanging limply

or shriveled on a hardback that I left to prop the window open for air.

I’m drowning in air and drying out too, and soon I’ll just sit,

withering away like that flower. Lost in space, wanting to pull back time

like a filmy curtain, and just see you there with me again.

But still, here I am, just waiting, and the time ticks on.