The Poetry Marathon

HOUR FOUR: Millennium Nostalgia: Circa 2122

MILLENNIUM NOSTALGIA: CIRCA 2122

 

once there was a time unmediated

where black mirrors were an accident

but the digital decay has heaped up all around

covered by domes or just proximity

with no difference between skin and an interface

that world of rawness, rocks and twigs

unreachable now as clean water

 

once there was a time when music was made,

art, literature, goods, all by human beings

with hearts and hopes and wickedness

but those were hands who made their own worlds

now our hands receive without any part in making

our minds call forth what we wish and we

having never heard of a monkey’s paw,

(or even a real monkey) receive with insatiable delight

 

all our desires fulfilled- fruit that never goes bad

girls who never grow old. perverse plastic perfection

and outside the bubble, the consumed, the rot

which we haven’t found a way to repurpose yet but

just give us another 20 years of glamor and greed

and surely by then we’ll have gotten around

to grinding away any proof that Earth Herself

was ever more than another ancient legend.

When the Words Fizzle Out (Hour 4)

The muse wages war
against my words,
to rattle them,
eject them,
and lay them bare.

The war rages on,
to shoot my words
into the air,
enabling a scattering effect
that’d make my control slip.

With its full weight
upon my restraints,
I’ll let the words go,
I’ll lose this love of them,
I’ll let them be shot,
sown in centenarian soils,
to be harvested again and again,
a hundred years and more
from all time.

4.5… Splash

The children are laughing in the backyard as they splash with the hose.
The chickens scatter, but it only reminds me of the seeds we’ve burned
scattered like my thoughts
like our fears
like fuck you.

The children are laughing in the backyard as they race the sunlight naked in their joy
I hear their laughter and it sounds too much like screams.
They don’t understand what we’ve lost.  They don’t understand why Mother’s fear is a scent on the wind.
They delight in the hose, water play, and delights

without knowing how violent the world has become.

Chickadee

There’s a chicken named after me

Not the kind that you will ever eat

The kind that will cluck around and lay eggs when she feels like it

Did you know that chickens can live up to 20 years?

I’ve heard that my chicken grew faster than the rest

She’s very photogenic

One day I’d like to meet her

Monsoon 3022

It’s raining

A hundred years from now
New seeds will bear fruit,
You’ll see gardens bursting with
Elms, oaks, pine

Rivers in full spate, rushing by,;

Glens awash in roses, chrysanthemums,
Jasmine,
Our dreams of greened acres
All the things we yearn for today, but are too busy to find…

A hundred year wait will
Bring them up close
And personal
In our hearts,
Having worked through
Ravished terrain

To get there….

 

Smeetha, in response to prompt #4.

Hour 4 – Why save for tomorrow what you could get done today?

2003: Sitting on laminate benches
trading gushers for gummy bears
I declared, “I’m going to live
for another one hundred years.”

You claimed one hundred and one;
You always did need to be
better than me, but neither of us
could picture life in 2103.

2007: It’s neither the sticks nor the stones
I fear, but words with teeth that tear
at who you thought you could be.
I started to doubt 2103.

2013: I know the sound of shadows
as they whisper my name; the shape
of knives that glint beneath moonlight.
I tried not to think about 2103.

2016: Memories claw at locked
hearts; the world grows darker
as you take your last breath.
I swore not to make it to 2103.

2020: Sirens become my lullabies
as I memorize the smell of hospital
beds. Everything breaks; everyone too.
There may never be a 2103.

2022: The dry earth cracks as the forest
burns, but the bluebird still sings
and in its croon I hear the call
of a tomorrow drawing ever near.

Perhaps a hundred years isn’t so great.
Perhaps all that matters is how you use today.

I’m tired of waiting for 2103.

Hour 2: Rivers of Sisters

Swarms of anonymous people, congesting the sidewalks, frothing over curbs onto battered asphalt canals, interweaving through stalled traffic.

A highway full of angry people, anonymous behind their banners, united behind their message. Seen. Heard. They are the movement you see cascading across our country. Anonymous but you know them.

They’re your sisters, mothers, daughters. They’re your nieces, aunts, and cousins.

They are half our population, but they’re not as free as the rest of us.

 

 

5.Wine Glass

When I’m sixty six,
how will I be?
Will I sit near
ivy covered window
knitting all day
small little sunflowers
on Christmas sweaters,
shouting at the kids
making a lot of noise?
Or will I sit
on the old oak bench,
reading a red hardback
near the pavement
with freshly baked cookies
for the people who pass by
wishing them a good day?
Or will I go for hikes
up the highest mountain
with fruits in my satchel
and sticks in my hand?
What should I be,
the grumpy, sweet or wild?
Maybe I’ll be none of these,
maybe I’ll be all of these,
or I’ll just be
the drunk old lady
who wished to be buried
with her favorite wine glass.

#4- Broken Music

The rusty old piano sits there

Years of disuse

Centuries of neglect (more…)

Voice in the Silence

Steady and quiet,

only you can hear its call

and recognize the tone,

the cry,

the cadence and timbre

rising from within,

wanting to be heard,

fighting to not be ignored

or pushed down.

Sometimes it soothes,

at times it warns,

but it is always there,

a faint whisper

that can crescendo to a scream;

the voice of your heart,

your soul,

an inner monologue

of constant company.