The Poetry Marathon

Prompt 1 (image)

Words Prompt 1 

Write a poem about being in water. It can be about swimming, the shower, a bath, the rain, etc.
[edit 10.7.2022]

The Call of the Sea

When shall I go down to the sea again
To the salty sea and the waves
When will my desire be fulfilled
To taste the air I crave

When will I answer the questions
Waves ask lapping at my feet
What is the draw of the ocean
And why does my heart miss a beat
When I hear the cry
Of the gulls on high
As I watch the water play
And wonder at the tall ships passing by

Will I ever go down to the sea again
Taste the salt and smell the breeze
When will my life-long desire be fulfilled
And my soul once again be at ease

Image Prompt 1

WHY

They came
From where we know not
For who … we have no clue
But they came
With no warning

They wait
From the depths of the forest
They give no clue
They simply wait
Do they want us

All is silent
No indication of life
How did they get here
What do they want
Why are they here

WHY …

 

 

 

 

Final Dance – Hour 1

Her feet swiftly burrowed
In the depths of warm sand

As she sat in admiration
Of the creation at hand

Every grain a reminder
of the great “I am”

Surrounded by a beauty
The expanse of the land

With a quickness it wrapped her
In a ferocious embrace

In this dance as she dipped
It covered her face

Arms flailing unable
To utter any words

She drifted ever so gently
This dance never rehearsed

She succumbed to place
Of submission and surrender

Never once for a moment
Did she think this dance would end her

~Rebeli

Hour One – The Poet’s River

Hour One – Write a poem about being in water. It can be about swimming, the shower, a bath, the rain, etc.

 

The Poet’s River

And so, it starts. After being poised, quivering
in nervous anticipation, shivering.
Prompt on the hour, the claxon sounds.
As one, we pinch noses, dive in, from separate grounds.

Safe. Knowing as I do, I’ll be underwater with you
for the next 24 hours. The day (and night), only ours,
to gently swim together, or race.
To frolic, glide, discover – at our own pace.

We will cast our nets and catch the words
attached to everything everywhere like seaweed.
We will string them together into verse,
which we will wonder over later as we read.

I will remain fresh, calm, joyous and still.
And when I flag, for flag and flail I will,

You will nudge me. Not judge me. Or let me bail out.
I’ll waken from exhaustion as I hear your shout.

As will I, for you, my brethren, my tribe so dear.
I’ll say bravo as often as you want to hear.
And together we’ll string the pearls of words into verse.
And send them out bravely, into the universe.

Once the day is done, then the night, then the day again, bright,
we will start swimming up towards the light.
Reach up. Break water. Gasp at the shock of the glare.
Shake off the droplets of exhaustion. Breathe in air.

Carrying with us for one whole year
the exhilaration of swimming in the poet’s river.

 

 

 

 

 

Vanishings

The judge was tossing out pills
when the stewards found her
No turtle ever slept sounder

In mortal Kate Bush territory
apartment rangers and Louisianans for Luftwaffe
in matching camouflage mimicked the scepter

Five houses from Ginny’s horoscope,
His Royal Retired Flea was finally happy
whose ass he had found his larder

No one talked about the economy
but knew the price of what herbs
to induce before the first trimester

Whole text conversations
with comic fuck yous interrupted by poop emojes
were saved with street photos in the drive forever

 

 

 

snot nose

me, 30, perpetually congested

bloodshot. spotty. under-cautious

cottonmouth foggy too much

air in my brain- teary, fearful

of the future

Hour 1 – Your hate is our greatest weapon

You cannot drown a fish.

Barrel by barrel
You fill their tank
But still, they swim

Because you cannot drown a fish.

This is what I tell myself
As my lungs fill with
the salty flavor of grief

Your gavel may crash,
tearing my skin with
waves that have teeth

But you cannot drown a fish.

The sound of bullet holes
ripping through ebony futures
pulls me deeper beneath the swell

And my legs are sore
from jumping off boats of those
who choose platitudes over protests

But you cannot drown a fish.

I laugh when I see the wet
signatures sign hate
into law because I know

You think tears can choke us
That rising tides will swallow
our growing resistance

But you cannot drown a fish.

So keep filling our tank
by the barrel and watch
as we rise with the swell

And don’t be surprised
That our waves
have teeth too

Because you cannot drown a fish
But you can drown a pig.

Chlorinated Cloud

My very own

cloud shaped ~ concrete hole

filled with chlorinated

sparkling water

 

painted toes

sun-kissed skin

oiled up and set

 

to float

 

a quiet

serene place

 

to Be

 

unique diamonds

through movement

looking deep within

 

crystal clear

shadows cast

in the shell

of blue below

 

 

Helion Intrigue: Hour Two

You cater to my darkest inclinations,

proud and thoughtful in unholy intent.

Perhaps on sinful lust serve ferocity’s menace?

 

A different course of action may pay penance,

exsanguination as vampiric essence spent?

You cater to my darkest inclinations.

 

Perhaps united by natures electric divinations,

powered by skies spectre and bodies dismemberment?

Force of mother earth could birth a hulking menace.

 

You forget memories soul and blades consensus,

Upon savagery’s beauty and steel’s resentment.

You cater to my darkest inclinations.

 

Thoughts of loved ones renewed from hell’s nations,

Once more given licence to occupy living continents.

Devouring our victims flesh with relish and menace.

 

The undertaking proposed utterly tremendous,

my appetite is a flame, our becoming truly transcendent!

You cater to my darkest inclinations, however,

Where to begin this burgeoning menace?

Dream of an Ex-Friend

Dream of an Ex-Friend

 

Your face beneath my eyelids,

contorted. I try to remember

 

your words: sideways mouth,

rage erupting in whirlpools.

 

In the morning, all that remains

are your eyes and an empty coffeepot.

Familiar sizzle: hiss of water,

steady drip towards wakefulness.

 

I wonder where you are now,

two time zones ahead, stirring

 

in your own small bed. That photo

of you and your lover, his hands

 

protecting your shoulders. The book

of poems you sent me. My final

glimpse of you, face half-covered

in a surgical mask, pushing it aside

 

between sips of beer. Why have we

allowed thirty years to be trampled

underfoot? It wasn’t me,

or even you. Though I tried to listen,

 

my dreams offer nothing,

and consciousness only brings spite.

Float Tank

Float Tank

 

I am floating in the dark,

incapable of sinking.

I almost think I like this.

 

Water has never really felt like a friend to me —

bodies of water, that is.

Water in a glass has been a mentor, a

therapist, a best friend.

 

Bodies of water – even the shower,

the tub – have sometimes felt like a threat.

 

I remember being in a boat –

all of us, with our most fun uncle –

on the St. Johns River,

before good sense dictated life vests,

and before any of us could swim.

Dusk came on.

My dad and his brother laughing at the alligator

bumping the bottom of the boat

while the outboard motor stalled again.

My mother’s terrified face set in a grim, angry line.

I was six; I took my cues from her.

If she was afraid, I should be, too.

 

But this, this floating in the dark,

Incapable of sinking,

this is different.

I feel safe.

I feel nurtured.

I feel calm.

 

This. Is. Safe.

 

I am separate from the world, floating in time and space.

There is nothing here but me.

 

This is a meditation.

 

There is nothing to see.

Nothing to hear.

 

Me, without the world.

 

The world is still out there,

but it is not in here.

 

I, only I, am in here.