The Poetry Marathon

(Hour 03) 12.30-01.30am. VISUAL PROMPT, red tree in pink field

Agent Orange

all this red dust in the sky : gets in your eyes : doesn’t irritate or itch : but plays tricks : on what you know is there: but feels like it isn’t : or can’t be 

for instance : that crop : can’t : just can’t : be pink : nor the leaves of that tree : bloodred : yet that is what your head tells you : you shake it : worry you’ll break it : it’s all a toxic shock of neon colour : & you’re brain’s in pain : & you wish your mum : would come back to life : again : or that it would rain : not necessarily in Spain : but on this astral plane : it’s no fun guys 

& as i start : to understand : what’s happening to me : Stella has thrown : a shoe full of water : in my face

thanks i splutter : as my thoughts : stop rhyming : resume some sense : some ability 

i think that dust : is a drug : like LSD : or magic mushrooms

you don’t say : i snake bite at her : even though it’s not : at all : Stella’s fault : suddenly feeling hungry 

Los Angeles

I actually thought
the streets would sparkle with
twinkling light and diamond sunshine,
boundless possibility and joy in this,
the City of Stars.

But now I see
there is no sparkle here,
only lost hopes and broken promises,
a world of deep darkness in this,
the City of Stars.

And I am an angel without wings
picking my way
down uneven pavement,
trying not to breathe in the
forgotten dreams of yesterday.

And I am an angel without flight
resting under tall palm trees and
listening to the parrots overhead,
chattering and screeching as
they fly in groups across the sky

And I am an angel without spirit,
pulled down deep into darkness and
unable to lift my wings to fly
toward the light
of the real stars just above.

Old Plank

It's always summer, always
hot. The sky is always blue. 
There's a barn.

Behind the house, back
of the garden were the
fields.

My cousin Barbara and I would walk
through the grass, never quite 
reaching the woods.

We are always young. So
much of our
lives yet to be lived. So
long, long ago.

Crown Poem 2/Hour 2

Crown
By: LuvMiFreely

Freedom pours from the roots of my scalp
Expressionism, free formed from the creativity of my Black mind
Folks try to dictate how I grow, wear, and style what’s rightfully mine
They claim it’s lacks professionalism, it’s unkempt
Untamed
But what grows from my head isn’t your right to claim
They find ways to strip away our Black culture
Wanting us to cut our hair, abide to their rules
They copy our style and treat us like vultures
We can’t even wear our own hair while playing sports or even at school
Freedom isn’t free when it comes with regulations
Rather it’s natural or loc’d
How I rock my crown isn’t up for debate 

Hour 3 : Blossom

Standing naked through out

Capturing the winter gloom

Enslaving the chilly winds

Not tired of waiting for the brightest star

Raising her brittle arms up in the sky

As she silently suffered in pain

A day came when she played with the breeze

With the earthy scent of dirt and fertility

Caressing her blushing cheeks

Swaying slowly, giggling with mischief

Her beauty now flourishes in pink

Tiny petals resting on those heavy branches

Softest blanket covering her world

That glittering smile as she glows

Like a princess amidst the pink pasture

Wearing a crown of fuchsia flush.

 

 

Dark Clouds

Darkest clouds horizon blast split

Arid creek dam explosion arroyo chaw wind blowing

Scary to see with the naked eyes

Part of life to take one breath

Dance with the Wind -Hour 3

She dances for the moon
A flowy dress
Her body does caress
The wind howls eerily
This night a cool breeze blows

Her feet kick up sand
As she floats
Through the air
Like an acrobat
To the rhythms of the drum

On lookers feel
Her melancholy
In her every step
Every curtsy
Every bow

She serenades the moon
As she will soon fade away
Into the night
Until the cycle repeats
In 28 days she’ll dance again by moonlight

~Rebeli

Hour 2 (2022)

The Darkest Evening

Tonight feels like
the darkest evening.
The swing of a gavel
setting the sun
and taking all hope with it.
They think we don’t see
the things they do
in the darkness.
They think that if
they keep us here
we’ll forget the warmth
of light on our skin.
But what they don’t know
is how we turned the darkness
into a gift.
The fear was a gift.
The anger was a gift.
In the darkness we rest
and we plan
and we fight.
The fire in our bellies
will light our tomorrows
as we burn their everything
to the ground.

“The darkest evening” from Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.

Hour 2: Post 2: Grass is Greener

The grass is always greener on the other side, so I always get told.

Yet my opinion is that the grass is only green on the side it’s being cared for.

Sure, your side may be more beautiful, but it’s fake.

Spray painted and plastic- just like the life you try to push off as your own.

I would rather tend to my own dying grass than ever spend one second making it resemble yours.

Prompt Three