The Poetry Marathon

Selfie Filters (Hour 19)

Your body's story slips 
from behind the words you want me to see.

The folds of skin pulled tight, 
angled in the hand held mirror camera lens, 
transparent as the plastic screen saver you project.

Your body's story is a nest of hornets 
burrowed in the hollow tree behind the pond.

Your art betrays you, 
like school children who cant keep a secret, 
each crimped curl, each curve of mascara, 
every striped line that accentuates the center of your figure,
All are wailing birds of night, 
crying for companionship in the dark.

Your body's story is a scavenger 
that rides the high cross winds, 
carrion eater soaring like an eagle.

I look for your hidden blemishes, 
shaming jewels whose crown can never be undone, 
the real treasures that reveal you, 
the imperfect nose ridge, 
the wilting petals of your cleavage, 
gravity's touch not so obvious 
when you pose with your arms above your head.

Your body's story is the trampled ground in early spring, 
snow thawed earth, crevices, and sediment 
sliding  into creeks and ponds.

The story of your body is the truth of your beauty, 
yet someone taught you not to lead with it. 
To hide it until you can trust them not to hurt you with it. 
As if anyone could hurt you more than you.

Poem #19 — Haiku

Delirium grows

Sleep deprivation sets in

Unfiltered writing

Dear Future Love Hour 21

Dear Future Love,

Why do we always meet in this way?

You on the other end of this page and I wondering if and when and where we will meet.

How will I know it is you? How will you recognize me?

Will my mind intrigue you, or will you be enticed by my looks?

Will our connection be forged in fate or pure chance?

Will your eyes envelop me in your gaze, or will your smile tell me everything I need to know.

I am patient as you are kind.

I am as daring as you are loyal.

I am as passionate as much as you have faith.

Will I design and you create?

God knows I believe in fate.

We share something that not everyone can see and yet when our two souls meet everyone will see what was once hidden.

I will not store you away like a precious pearl, not would I want you to keep me for yourself because I am free.

For you already know, I choose to be with you.

HOUR 20 The Caged Bird’s Aria

The Caged Bird’s Aria

Dependent on the doting demon that enslaved me,
Crippled by his steady hand, pain thwarted,
By that which he administers cautiously,
Ensuring perpetual imprisonment.

Dyer-Bolique removed an unwanted lower limb,
Chaining body and soul indefinitely to him,
His silent whispers mouth ‘no pain.’
Singing in his steel cage.

In his sights before I knew of his shadowy existence,
Targeting his kindred spirit, only to cage her,
That was always YOUR design!

Words of surrender no longer pass my lips,
It is given wordlessly, and enforced aggressively,
Duplicitous Dyer-Bolique; protector and prison guard.

Still, he shares his torture of others with me,
Still, he touches me with rapturous passion,
Driven by the thrill of my defeat.
Swollen with my suffering.

I do not speak, but I sing to appease his fervent ire,
The dulcet melody disarms his fortifications,
And I please him with my passionate tones.

Day and night merge, submission is a waiting game,
And the opportune moment arrives,
As he descends to our basement,
I try to flee.

Thee chair so thoughtfully given, drives forth,
Towards the unguarded portcullis,
The key is turned quietly,
Handle pulled down,
Door manipulated…

As freedom calls to the caged bird within,
His shadow looms behind me.

Hour 19: A Snapshot of Me

Through the years I have been many things
A child, teenager, adult, daughter, sister, mother.
As time has passed, I have dipped my hand into
Many different tasks, learning from each.
I have worked hard to make others comfortable
Using my voice and gentle wit. On the other hand,
I tend to keep to myself, only the thoughts in my head.
If someone were to see me, they would see
A sense of humour, laughter, a touch of weariness in the eyes.
Mixed in with the slight weariness is a gleaming light
A light that shines out to make others smile.
For ten months out of my year, I work with kiddos
Who need that little extra to be set up for success.
I block and laugh and cry a little, as I see them struggle
I cry a little more as I see them succeed. With each syllable
That flies from their mouth, my heart overflows a bit more.

dance

your feet fly

over the stage

in the rhythm

of

sacrifice

arms linked, there is histroy here,

there            is pressure on your          toe

but               also pressure to            succeed

and                    you must believe                  you

can             or all is lost, the       rhythm

leaves no space for

weakness, formation leaves no room for doubt,

you lift your feet and twist your head to the side like there is

something there

is waiting      for your

attention                 you spin

in place              then reach

to    the            sides

as if to   drown

             in the app-                    .

lau-                .

se.          .

Hour 19_3:05am, Hour 19, Poetry Marathon

Grabbing snippets
of wakefulness
then sliding back
to wide-eyed oblivion.
My spiritual teacher says
when the mind lets go,
or in this case,
can no longer hold –
there is an opening;
much is revealed.
May it be so!

Self—Portrait

I smile in the wee hours of each day

In my self, I speak to the Holy Spirit who makes

I listen

I meditate

And take a deep breath to the music that defines my journey.

A whole journey of bees and honey and bile and roses

My helper is the champ of my crossing path

I’ll leave you here for air to preserve a part

Within

photosalmost realnot quiteshameless plasticshonest wordsnot quiteelectricityalmost mindnot quite
deathalmost certainnot quitelifealmost thrivingnot quitetruthalmost fictionquite

Housewife-Hour 18- image poetry prompt response

I fold the bed sheets, thrice. Lining them against the front of the bed, i look at the corners of the bedspread. I tuck them neatly in. I need three more hours to dust every nook and corner and plunge the dirt out

Of the soul.

Purge it and broil it in guilt and spasmodic pangs of breathlessness –

sweat beads traverse my bodyscape, hovering over my forehead,

Waiting to be channelised into tear drops.

As my family slogs the day, i dance around with a broom in hand, passively living, barely thriving, like a dew waiting to drop from the edge of a grass blade.