The Poetry Marathon

No. 4: Trees

A family tree should provide open, welcoming arms
Like the shade of leafy branches on a hot summer's day
Shelter from the storms of life, the heat of stressful situations
Still allowing light to filter through so you can make your own way

A family tree is as varied as the many branches growing from sturdy trunks
Offering strength, flexibility, and variety
All are not the same but are tied to one another
By familial bonds, biology, and geography

Occasionally branches fall, break away
Unable to weather the challenges of life
Falling to the ground or driven far from its roots
To be snatched up as driftwood and thrown into the flames of strife

Often trees die, families are forgotten
Even though its roots were deep
It was wrenched from the soil by pestilence or natural disaster
Its exposed rings tell the story even though asleep

Once verdant, vibrant, and vigorous
Its stump serves as a table for a child at play
Whose family is just starting to put down roots
Its exposed rings reveal life in its day

Hour Four – KnowLedge Mary Pecaut

HOUR FOUR  – KnowLedge          Mary Pecaut

 

KnowLedge

 

Now in 2122, we stand on the ledge

of what 

we knew a century ago –

when blue bones began again and ice-locked 

streams broke loose by choice or time

to go – climate deniers clumped and clodded

skirted round the floes gathering rootless 

growth in a wake.

We should have known.

 

When the integrity of dirt

was lost, gone was

kakapo, sea turtles, sloth. 

Ferns from dinosaur times

became extinct – it’s not 

what you think –

decisions were postponed

We could have known.

 

The earth tilted ever so

greased its orbit

as if 

to alter flow

Gaia sacrificed – her sun

no longer in view.

Perhaps we knew.

Music of the Heart

The world is full of music.

The music of the heart

It sounds with each beat.

The rhythm of life it steadily keeps.

A heart of music; a melody blend.

The pulse of each vein

that mixes  with time and breath.

 

tap, tap, tap goes the beat.

The sounds that penetrate

and permeate the ears.

something that rests in the soul

the beauty and the magnitude

that draws us to the primitive call

of love long since forgotten.

 

Music of the heart

is like a babbling brook

with a gentleness

only music can give.

ebbing in an easy fashion.

penetrating the soul

as it courses through the veins.

All sounds don’t blend

to make a concerto so sweet,

but from the discord

other sounds escape

to claim their rightful place.

 

The falling of a rock on dry crusted land,

or the belch of a volcanos roar.

All blend together

to make a melody

of unparalleled magnificence

that only the heart can discern.

 

Music that will stir the emotions;

settles the fears;

calms the mind

as it relaxes the spirit

Nothing else can soothe like

the sound of music.

the music of the heart.

Hour 4- Picture Imperfect

We have fought many applaudable battles,

But our biggest one will forever be against time itself.

In a world where people grow older,

Than what we now see as fortunate,

With more time on our hands,

We spend lesser time on the what-s and more on the whys.

More time on the intricacies of life,

On the meaning of who we are,

What we’re made of in our minds and souls,

Not just voluminous blood and brittle bone.

As we race against clocks we can’t see,

We’ll learn to live a little more in the moment,

Focus lesser on the rights and lefts

And a lot more on the rights and wrongs.

A picture painted by our ancients a century ago,

Rivalled the tapestry that we have woven for ourselves now.

In a world where people grow older,
Than what we then saw as fortunate,
With more time on our hands,

We have more questions and lesser answers.
More time on the intricacies of life,

What we mean to the world and how much we can claim,
What we’re made of in our minds and souls,

Battles as each sees two different sides of a coin.
As we race against clocks we can’t see,

We force to go just a little bit faster,

Focus lesser on rights and more on coin,

Lest we miss something; we lose our minds…

---

Note: Prompt was to write a poem set a hundred years ago or a hundred years from now

Staring Screensaver: Hour 2- 2022

Working 9 to 5

most hours

spent overthinking

and other

escaping

from the dimensions

of a colourful

screensaver

I misunderstood

the ‘saver’

in the virtual pandemonium

filled with colourful people.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour four

grandmother weaves a story
around her mother’s birth

ten score years ago
a little house
a darkened room
airless
mud walls absorb
and reflect
the screams
of a terrified young girl
beads of sweat soaking
the bedding leaving
dark patches
and finally the dai ma
arrives with her years
of experience
confident hands
coax the mother-to-be
to breathe and push
and push and breathe
and the slimy mother
of my grandmother
is born without
a whimper in her
Dai ma whispers
in an ancient tongue
ancient words of life
and holding the mother
of my grandmother
upside down
gives a gentle pat
on her back
and whispers there too
then she readies
the mother
to nurse the baby
once more she whispers
to the silent mother
of my grandmother
while the young mother
watches uncomprehending
one more back rub
a blowing into the mouth
and the mother
of my grandmother
gasps, then mewls
dawn breaks
the silence of the room

2,566 Miles (Hour 4)

I hear the children playing in the summer heat, families cooking in the kitchen, and water cooling the thirsty plants of the earth.

The purest expressions of life, yet in this same space silence, outrage, and hatred flow freely.

Domestic terrorist protected under the same law that fails to hold sexual predators in this country accountable.

On June 17, 2015, blue waters surround the Holy City, drowning out the voices of diplomatic reasonings for the murder of nine souls praying under the eyes of God.

866 miles away

On May 14, 2022, at the head of the Niagara River, flowing around the City of Good Neighbors, blaring blue lights surround Tops Friendly Market.

1,700 miles away

On May 24, 2022, along the Leona River, waiting for turmoil to explode into desperation for answers.

Babies.

Future.

Taken.

Trauma.

Collective.

 

In memory of Charleston, SC; Buffalo, NY; Uvalde, TX victims and their families.

Fresh greens

Fresh greens
Sprouting so tenderly
Inching their way from underneath the ground
Oppositions of earth and grime
Stand not in their way
For the greens must out, come
To beautify and nourish
To make healthy
To give life

The Composer

The Composer

What heavenly symphony rises
weaved by the eternal master
that freezes the moment of reincarnation
the dry yellow
dances over the verdant green
where death meets life in the deep

Hour 4

@varenyas

Chance Meeting

Rambling in an unfamiliar wood,

I happened upon a young man sitting at a piano.

 

He did not look up as I approached.

He did not speak in response to my greeting.

 

He was not real, or at least not alive.

 

He and his piano had been there for a long, long time.

 

His instrument was half rotted away, leaf-covered, silent.

 

He appeared a plastic mannequin, weathered and pale.

 

What happenstance had placed them in this unlikely setting?

 

I pondered this as I sat on a nearby stump and ate my hiker’s lunch.

 

I decided I’d keep them company while I rested for a bit.

 

I said, “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance, sir.”

He didn’t answer.

 

“You live in a lovely wood.”

No reply.

 

He remained mute when I asked how long he’d been there.

 

I chattered on.

He made no comment to any of my remarks.

 

In an hour, I stood to leave. I doffed my baseball cap

and told him I’d enjoyed spending time with him,

and turned to leave.

 

As I walked away, I heard music.