The Poetry Marathon

Perks of being of the female gender,

So many, it addles my brain.

Not being able to take a walk at night,

Just one of the very many.

Do everything in our power,

To make sure we don’t feel powerless,

But powerful, oh I haven’t felt that ever,

Definitely not enough to stroll at night.

Have to look behind my back at all times,

Remain alert, my ears perked for sounds,

The peace of the moonlit night,

Ruined by the chaos of the night.

So I admire the night from a distance,

Looking at the moon’s craters,

Remaining indoors,

Trying to grasp tendrils of power…

~thryaksha

After Midnight

Patsy Cline sang part of the story,
longing welling up from a lovelorn soul
and yearning to connect.

Eric Clapton related yet another side,
the wildness of the hellraiser within letting loose
and abandoning all control.

Yet there’s more, so much more,
to entering the wild night, beginning as human
and ending as another animal.

We strip away the extraneous and become primal
when we walk the world after midnight,
sound and scent then more reliable than sight.

The rhythm of bootheels clocking down the road
becomes syncopated with a heightened heartbeat,
nostrils flaring to breathe deep scent released by night alone.

We are truer versions of ourselves as we feel our way
through the dark, only to feel the sweet relief
of being welcomed by the beckoning lights of home.

Before the blast and takings
we had a little place in Paukukalo.
It was hotter indoors there
less breezeway
but so close
the chatter of cartwheeling shorestones               told all their secrets
so close
I could walk down on sleepless nights
to join them in their sharing.

Only the Moon listened in
and a few helpful fish and
of course the stars
who could always be trusted anyway.

Neighborhood cats walked me home          protecting my tell-alls
from nosy minah sunrise gossip.

Nights were good in Paulukalo                           before the blast and takings.

with
darkness
my cloak
i walk
smooth
satin
sky
flecked
with
stars
swiss dot
fabric
enrobing
night
in
this
expanse
all
is unveiled
and
the smallest
frog’s
throaty song
resounds.

My sleep juice is slow.
I feel it pooled in my knuckles,
soaked into supposedly
dexterous tendons.
I see it fizz in my eyes,
a clinging veil just
vaguely frosted.
It takes a few minutes
of clenching fists
and wiping glasses
for the sleep juice to retreat,
sucked back to brain
through waking nerves.
I hope my sleep juice
doesn’t weigh down
my face into basset hound
eyes and jowl like
I see it in my sister,
always betraying
when you’ve caught her
after an oddly-
timed nap.

She came at the door,

With the eyes, where all my secret lies,

you may write down all,

beloved, are you still mine ?

I noted the obvious differences,

shadows on the wall,

the dark sadness,

beloved, are you still mine ?

When you come to me,

You declare you see me dimly,

that night went long,

and I keep on dying again and again….

(Source : Remix from the first line of poems of ‘Maya Angleou’, source text link : https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YuEZ2gcTQw9SCJr9Gr7TjxA7FfdhXArD1CHJxVvvrVE/edit?usp=drivesdk )

look up, my friend
at the blueberry sky
connect the dots
and discover new constellations
that you can name
after your guinea pig
or your first lover

look down, my friend
and see that the moon
casts shadows too
as it dances
around the body: you
walking in the night
two by two
shadow and you

look forward, my friend
in the direction you’ve chosen;
when you walk at night
I recommend
a destination of darkness
that harks less
than a daylight stride
may you abide
in a sacred womb
not tomb
though both prefer the holiness of darkness

look beside you, my friend
as the poems walk with you
disguised as song
humming wordless verses
like the owls do
all night long
neither you nor she can be wrong

look behind you, my friend
not in fear
but in faith
at the road already taken
that the ancestors paved
a communion of saints
leaving breath for today
a shared bouquet
of flowered inhaling

look within you, my friend
and tenderly see
the gobble-de-gook
that has you up
and walking
at night
looking for reasons
not to sleep
but to dream

Light is absent as l meander along the cliff top track, my mind absorbed in thought, work, children, poetry, art, every now and then my heart jumps at the loud thump of a startled wallaby, l stop at the lookout the white peaks of waves florescent in the distance,  l turn and make my way back, relaxing into nature’s song.

That thin line
between the full moon
and insanity…

That ribbed edge
of the flower bed
where only weeds grow…

That gold brocade
of the wedding saree
I never wore again…

That flicker of light
caught in a raindrop
poised to fall…

That quiet chirp
of the songbird that sings
long before it is dawn…

That peaceful glow
of a million stars
on a moonless night…

That dark hedge at the end
of the garden
where only glow worms go…

That corner of the room
that feels somewhat colder
as if someone just passed through…

That is where we walk together
father and daughter
talking, seeing, not-seeing…

…questioning my answers

restless in my sleep

dreaming when awake.

Owls hoot on huge trees

along unlit paths of unpopulated roads.

They send chills down the spine

of the inexperienced night walker.

Their frontal eyes mean and cold,

they are supposed to be evil terrorising humans;

tales handed down from generation to generation,

tales my pen is unwilling to scrutinise.

Yet, they are creatures too, like the rest,

perching on the wings of survival.

Neither their adventures nor their fate

will stop my poetry ink from flowing,

these night owls and night walkers!

Written from the text prompt of Hour 20.