The Poetry Marathon

Be still- Prompt 18

Sit with yourself
in quiet stillness
sprinkle negative thoughts with glitter

embrace the fullness
of humbleness and charm

I never cared to be the prettiest
just to be
a simple different
with a calm settling beauty

some version of inspiration
to the least noticeable
ones

I carried myself as solitude
slow to react
nearly delayed

untangling myself
from mirrored disappointments

hydrating my hollow
with poems and creativity

I dug out

Collaging the pieces of what
was rinsed away in tears
cleansing my transition from darkness
to light

Lifting images from the roots
of who I was born to be

There is more to me in here

Isolation and layered trauma
creates the the best mixed media
portraits
of the person that was always
right here

Me

Boastful Wisdom

Leviathan— scales of pride

A Serpent of Wisdom

That one can bind

While loosening his freedom

 

Tugging a sea serpent along

Boastful wisdom he reveals

Sometimes in a small song

Showing exactly just what he conceals

 

 

 

Poem VI: Personifying Death

There have been nights when the darkness was not dark enough to exhume my soul
but I prayed it away
because life was too consuming.
When the fingers of Death
pried me open to remove the oyster of my soul,
I did not feel the fear paralyze me
because I have been ready to go on
the condition that I am granted the
highest level of heaven.
Death carries me in his limp arms,
prays over my fading scars.
Hymns— that were supposed to put the dead to rest but have brought me back to life.
I suppose strife has a strange way of
wrapping itself within your genes
that even the nimble fingers
and remorseful lips of Death cannot undo.
I feel Death’s gaze peruse my skin;
trying to find the eye of the needle to
remove the thread of grief
but I will be buried with grief
as my only heirloom.

 

More poetry via instagram @anjaanography

It’s out there (hour 7 prompt)

Somewhere
it exists.
In-person if not
in perpetuity

Sightings as
ubiquitous as those
of Sasquatch
similar levels
of proof

As elusive and
mythological as your
typical
four-hoofed
unicorn
possibly as extinct
though
reliable sources say…

It’s out there
somewhere

I know it
and want the proof
not some grainy
old footage
not a
photoshopped
meme

I need actual proof
in the wild
captured and caged
no longer
matters
I know
know in my soul
someone can find
it.

Set a trap
pretend you are
Salome
and bring me
on a platter
silver or melamine
one
good old fashioned
run-of-the-mill
normal.

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

What If?

How would things be

If

There was no rain?

Parched and cracky and dusty

Pleading for mercy

And all their tears, wasted and dry

Would fill not a babe’s mouth

Not all their shrieks and suffering

All ribs splitting and cracking

And lips cracked and dreams

Cracked and shattered

Would burst open the clouds

Or bless them with mercy, with rain

And all the water flowing and wasting

Smelly and dirtied

Coloured and sullied

With leaves and flowers and corpses

With ash and bleeding starkness

All the waves raging and breaking

Will not grant a gentle wave

Of liquid water.

EF6

EF6

Whirling winds come tear this place apart.

Set us straight by making us hold onto each other.

Fix this family with a disaster.

Let us learn true gratitude.

Have us marveled at your power.

True destroyer.

Rip the roof off.

Expose us huddling.

May you find us grasping each other.

Saying a million apologies.

Hour 18 – Ghosts

She lives in the wind,
So she might run her fingers
Through her beloved’s hair.

They live in the trees,
So they might lift their daughter,
Strong and bold, climbing to the top.

He lives in the doorbell,
So his songs can ring through
The quiet house and spark smiles.

They live in the birds,
So they can greet you every morning
And wish you a wonderful day.

He lives in the handkerchief,
So he can wipe away his tears
And offer comfort in sickness.

She lives in the gloves,
So she might guide her choices
And ensure they are hers to make.

They live everywhere.
It is their love that tethers them here.

Hour 18 – Minimalist (image prompt)

They say cleanliness is close to godliness

But I think they mean

Minimalism is closer to death

Because that’s the only way to get close

to perfection.

The Traitor and the Spy

Night

The night has been long,

the eye follows, the land

Curtains forcing their will

Give me your hand

 

The night has been long,

Lying, thinking,

It is true,

You may write me down in history.

 

The night has been long,

When great trees fall,

When you see me sitting quietly,

I keep on dying again.

 

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