The Poetry Marathon

Prompt Twenty – Dugga Dugga

Hour Twenty – Text Prompt:

Write a poem about a routine or ritual that is part of your life. It can be something like making coffee every morning, or something like attending religious services once a week.

 

Dugga Dugga

 

Not sure how or when it happened.

The exact moment I metamorphosised into her

is lost to posterity now.

But I cannot leave the house,

or start a journey,

or indeed any project

without saying Dugga Dugga.

She did that, all her life.

Invoked the blessings of the goddess.

Durga, the God of Power.

We laughed, tutted,

got embarrassed when friends were around.

It wasn’t cool to have an uncool mother.

 

And now, I’m her.

 

Chant it out loud when I’m alone.

Whisper furtively when I’m not.

No matter what, though…

I can’t begin till I feel the cloaked in blessings.

 

Just one unanswered question,

Is it the Goddess, or Ma

who protects me?

Hour 20: Hindsight

Every night before I go to sleep I replay every mistake in my head

Hindsight is 20/20

All the should’ve, could’ve, would’ves on instant replay

What could I have done differently?

As if I had the power to change anything

Maybe if I was more of this or maybe if I was less of that

Maybe then you would’ve wanted me, maybe I could’ve made you stay

What was the right thing to say to stop you from walking away?

As if I had the power to change anything

I couldn’t change you, you couldn’t change me

Oh but I tried to change me

I twisted and contorted myself to try and fit into something that you could love

I bent myself into something I no longer recognized, someone I no longer was

It did not make you want me more, I could not be what you wanted

As if I had the power to change anything

Every night before I go to sleep I replay every mistake in my head 

Hindsight is 20/20 but it changes nothing

As if I had the power to change anything

H20.P20

Time always seems to be still in the dawn.

         I stand above the shore, waves dance in,

sometimes a waltz, sometimes a funky chicken.

Light ripples across the horizon, shades of summer

mixed with a winter storn, or blue skys, a sea mist.

My heart slows, my breath is singing goodmorning

to the new day.

The sun slides above the distant line between sea

and sky, spreading into my peripheral vision.

My soul replenished , my spirit high on nature.

I retrace my steeps to civilisation, my cups filled.

 

Hour 20 2023

Morning Ritual

First thing every morning

I pick up the first book

and dive in. In the bathroom,

it’s probably poetry – Peter Meinke,

Maya Angelou, Billy Collins, Pat Parker.

Music will substitute, if driving

(Roseanne Cash, “Miss the

Mississippi and You,” most recently)

but even then, it’s good to have Eudora

Welty’s voice, reading her own memoir.

If I ever go blind, I’ll have to have somebody

around, reading to me on request or else a button

to push, and have instant nutrition of the mind.

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 20

Progress is progress – you’ve got this

and you truly are capable of so much

more than you ever seem to realize;

but that said, you owe me a salsa

with time and a tango with potential –

 

don’t put me on hold again, I know

you’re waltzing with memory and

you wouldn’t even have that power

if it weren’t for me. And yes I know

now that I’ve written about you and

used your name in a way much more

directly than your song scavenger hunts

and unoriginal bastardized codes –

 

which I suppose also isn’t saying much

I’ve been cast into the eye of forever

by many a drunken artist – a want to be

promise – a story that never dared to

grow into anything other than what-if.

 

And before you say it – I am not a calmaity

I am not chaos or order or anything worth

defining in such ways but I am also far more

concrete than anyone seems to acknowledge.

 

I am certain someday you’ll taste paradise

and realize you’ll never get so close as me – again.

 

But also you’re far too interesting for the world

to be rid of completely when age comes

swooping in for not just one dance – but eternity.

 

-M. Rene’

Abstract sanctuary (19th Hour)

surrounded by the carpet

and the pillars and the Köts,

cats, cauts, kittens.

No cats.

When- win,

Wind- does,

do’s, doe’s

Windowes

,win those.

Pains,

window pains.

Enclosed white walls,

The kitchen,

Re-frigerated ice box

With the built in meat preserver.

 

Frozen watermelon chunks and tidbits

The books,

a molin Rouge,

Falcon mosaic balcony

The view of pch

on pcp

PTSD,

ADHD,

An STD or two.

 

My study,

Red oak

soak smoke

Red thread spread

of

leather lathered scent

Brunnetted Bloke.

A Gamer chair,

horrendous mess.

incredulous dishes unkept,

unsweetened, unswept.

My bed, unslept.

The epidermis of

our poverty is

Just the tip of the

iceberg lettuce.

 

I am manicured letters,

bad wheathers-

Squirting bedwetters’

bedwettings,

Are better than

weddings.

All this, orbits,

motorists, Otis Reddings

Poetry readings every night.

In thee ghettos, all is bright.

 

Not quite right but rype,

I am now inside a space. I write-

And

Race

Mirrors paste a clearer face

Than what equates approximates.

6 by 8’s,

Impersonate your prison mates.

Inspirations instigates,

These our quarters,

In accordance

With incorporated laws.

Glimps

of my

abstract sanctuary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a short delirious stream of thought interupted

Blue skies suck out my eyes

these summer days make me blind

a late night heat hears my cries

my painting come out undefined

blobs of paint on a canvas

dropped to the ground

the concrete makes it sizzle

the fumes rise up

to hit my cheeks

the gas burns my flesh

and the night sets fire

shooting stars launch across the sky

lasers born of a billions years

to end humanity in seconds

Poem for Hour Twenty (20/24)

Common Raven | Corvus corax |  L 24″ (61 cm)

Large, with long, heavy bills, appearing on a bracelet I lost that very same road trip, but I didn’t stop thinking about ravens for a single day after I first time I saw them. Shaggy throats, I noted, but didn’t know what it meant, as I kept squinting at every black bird with a pulse to see if I could identify the bird to which I was newly and wholly devoted.

Voice: I learned to hear, that trip, what a raven really was. It wasn’t just the croaks and caws, it’s clacking and clicking and contemplative calls. I bought a DVD all about ravens and that narrator, too, had a voice I could listen to for hours.

Range: Found in a variety of habitats– hey, me and you both, great gothic bird. Can be seen from mountains, to coasts, to deserts. On occasion, a mated pair will nest and pass on their stunning genetics in the middle of pandemic and give you a reason to get outside every day, just to see if their little one has made the great leap from the government building’s window ledge.

HR20 – Prayer

Putting aside my ego, I

Recognize that You Are.

All-seeing, All-knowing, Always here.

Your Kingdom come, Your will be done, on

Earth, as it is in Heaven. I

Rest and leave the rest to You.

MMIW: Sacajawea

MMIW: Sacajwea

 

Another name that was lost in time.

To be honest,

the only time I’ve heard

of Sacajeewa was in a book

“Streams to the River, Rivers to the Sea”

By Scott O’Dell.

 

It was in her point of view,

but it was watered down,

because Scott O’Dell

is a children/teens author.

 

After that,

it was the dollar coin.

A coin dedicated to her,

for her voyage with Lewis and Clark.

 

But again,

her story wasn’t told.

 

She was only in her teens,

forced into an abusive marriage.

Having kids during the expedition.

She gave her last child to Lewis,

left to live her last few days alone.