The Poetry Marathon

Hour Seventeen, Quote Prompt

Abandoning the Dark Side

“I stopped thinking about extreme grief as the sole vehicle for great art when the grief started to take people with it.” – Hanif Abdurraqib

Of grief, I have seen my share,
for years it was the vehicle that drove my writing.
In despair, I literally wrote the book,
thinking that was all of any worth I had to say.

No one would want to read
anything less worthy,
anything homely, simple, uplifting
or kind. Would they?

I hammered home with bludgeoning words
abuse as a child and an adult,
the death of my baby, divorce,
and sickness in mind and body.

Yet gradually, through love and time
new writing began, new themes clarified
hope, life, and light, beacons in the dark,
warmth, kindness, and home, always home.

I discovered a stronger voice within,
that dared to be happy,
that refused to despair any longer,
invited others to join, and to my shock, they did.

#17- L (I) FE FOR A/N L (I) FE

Tragedy always celebrated,

In all forms of art,

Pain glorified,

Accepting with open arms.

The fuel behind the artist,

Bringing the art in them to life,

Lives of real people,

In exchange for the life of art.

But what about the tortured,

But still alive,

With no lives to pay,

In exchange for art.

Living a constant double life,

But living in neither places.

In an in-between state,

But at least you’re alive…

~thryaksha

 

BASED ON THE QUOTE: “I stopped thinking about extreme grief as the sole vehicle for great art when the grief started to take people with it. And I get it. The tortured artist is the artist that gets remembered for all time, particularly if they if they either perish or overcome. But the truth is that so many of us are stuck in the middle. So many of us begin tortured and end tortured, with only brief bursts of light in between, and I’d rather have average art and survival than miracles that come at the cost of someone’s life.” – Hanif Abdurraqib

As you were saying? (hour 9)

‘Yer mother wears Army boots!’
a common insult
tossed around with impunity by
young boys of another era
playground epithets
meant to insult, sans vulgarity
or other references
that might get you a fat lip or
blackened eye

‘Yer mother wears Army boots!’
also served as
group-to-group affront
kids you didn’t know or
wanted warned off
same methodology
as one-on-one slur usage
though with more derogatory
tone to group shout-outs

‘Yer mother wears Army boots!’
a screed lost on
my kids generation who
all grew up in an era
where mom wearing Army boots
was nothing more
than factual statement
to a generation wondering why
footwear would be insulting

For Mother’s Day
my eldest son
Army reservist visiting a base
with ample shopping
gifted his mother a regulation pair of
genuine U.S. Army boots
fulfilling her wish for
hiking attire, and allowing me
one more, later in life
opportunity to toss out one more
‘Yer mother wears Army boots!’

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

Manipulated

Manipulated

Day did its job well,
the chore of lighting alleys,
brightening dark corners,
moving clouds and pedestrians
through their errands and obligations.

Sometimes, the day drizzles
a suggestion to focus on the task
at hand, sometimes downpours
a warning to step up, keep up
with your prayers.

In winter, day reminds us
of all we push aside, almost
forgotten, moments banked
in silence as flakes fall,
introspections, reflections.

Night flexes in the wings
waiting for a chance to shroud us
in dark despair, reveals that day
will never shine again, kidnapped
and wrapped in black velvet.

Stars know where Sun is hidden
but they won’t shine an answer;
they can rule beside Moon both
night and day. They’ve threatened
clouds to stay quiet or else.

Day manipulated by night,
Sun spurned by Moon, the planets
out of orbit, the galaxies tipped
off-kilter, darkness reigns the world.
We are imprisoned on our own planet.

Plants wither and die, no crops to feed
the world; children pale, restricted to
stay in, too dark to play outside.
Humans become ghostly apparitions,
traveling in flashlight beams.

Mother Nature appeals to Moon,
to stars and clouds; Father Time
chimes in to propose a compromise.
Sun will reign day but Moon will
gain extra time each cycle.

Night is delighted to hear this plan,
agrees to release Sun in the morning.
Mother Nature and Father Time
rejoice, secreting that there will be
no extra time for a night.

Moon is manipulated by an empty
promise but he doesn’t care. All this
shining 24 hours is too much work.
When day breaks at dawn, he’ll settle
in for his much-needed beauty sleep.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 17

Life

If I only had one day.

How would you live it?

What would you do in a short period of time?

To live out your last hours,

And in a run of a day.

 

 

 

“Books were safer than other people anyway.” – Neil Gaiman

They told stories
That lived in the minds
Of those who told them.
Their pages laden with details
Of love stories and broken hearts
Of mysteries
And works of art
Of music
And sing alongs
Of intricate things
That sometimes
Made no sense
Yet still belonged.
From front to back
The spine held stories
Long ago left behind.
But not mine.
For mine was one of struggle
And triumph
That carried its own weight.
A fresh and intentional perspective
A story told
On a leap of faith.
Today it’s a story that deserves
To be heard.
A story that seems so incredible once it’s heard.
But the scars
prove it’s a validity
No need to remain hurt.
Forgiveness is the key
And understanding
What it’s worth.
No matter what you believe…
God comes first.

Hour 17 – Other People (text prompt)

“Books were safer than other people anyway.”  – Neil Gaiman

I was often bullied for this but

I liked stories and sad music

And maybe I was bullied

for being weird

More than my tastes in literature

But at least with a book

If it made fun of me

I could put it down

And walk away.

Putting down a bully

Was heavily discouraged

And thus impossible to walk away from.

At least with a book I could travel

And visit far off lands and times

With people I’m stuck here

As me

In this time alone sometimes.

At least with a book comes a warning

Foreshadowing this dog may die

The pain hurts just as much

But I was expecting it

So it’s half over

When it starts

But people

People are so

Complicated and

They don’t telegraph it

When it’s almost over for them

Books were safer than other people

Anyway, that’s how it feels.

 

Iron Orion

 

Heavens formed of brass

Earth of iron below

As his belts stars do pass

The words which now follow:

 

Immortal gods centered in the cavity

Powers formed and some less known

For their shield of invincibility

As words that have prolonged their lives have shown

 

For if the time is of future place

And known they are to yet be

Fates must obey and even erase

Others fortunes and desired destinies

 

Iron then must sharpen iron

As a countenance must be raised

As we search and find Orion

Holding stars upon which we’ve gazed

The sense of touch… butterflies Hour 17

Do you remember the last time you experienced the butterflies?

That sweet moment when your stomach quivers from anticipation. Just the thought alone elicits…

A feeling of bliss. Light as air. You float. You don’t know how to walk anymore.You glide.

As elusive as a butterfly, it does not even need to be brought on by a tender kiss. This only intensifies its effect.

Is there any question that love takes place first in the mind, or does it, this is visceral bliss, joy personified.

 

HOUR 18 The Trickster

The Trickster

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
Attended as my patient, faking closure,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Scales fall from my eyes, blinded by vanity,
Arrogance’s pride.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
A mask of irony worn to our first supper,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see,
Yet guided my culinary feast, my plan anticipated.
Hubris’s guide.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Turning feigned paranoia into trust,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Manipulated the hunt, but his cold heart chose me.
Desire’s disdain.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Fogging my mind with self-doubt and fear,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Twisted my hand, forced the game to proceed yet still,
Chose me.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
Embraced the test, for his friend he had no heed,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Pushed my weakened limits, possession his intention,
Tricked me.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
‘In honor of a game won fairly and played well,
I surrender my life to my now captor’s hands,
And only ask that the mercy in your heart does swell.’