The Poetry Marathon

HOUR 15 The Fall of the House of Cards

The Fall of the House of Cards

 

I watch on as Valkyrie fails, quivering as she laments in the cruelest of tasks given,

My unholy command for the blood of her untainted brother not forthcoming,

Resolution now guides my form, smirking in shadowed ecstasy,

I retrieve her dropped farming implement with steady hand,

The sickles hilt firm in my practiced and unforgiving palm,

Silently I move to end her undying, fraternal love,

For I grab Jon’s head with a menacing grip,

His widened eyes betraying realization,

A brisk stoke, a deluge of arterial spray,

A second stroke coats Valkyrie further,

The shrouded air cerise in hue,

A third severing silky sinew,

Forth ripping cartilage,

No fifth produced,

Rapid hand tugs,

Decapitation

 

Screams, cries, and a veritable cacophony of sound to greet me

For I am victorious and ecstatic at the true joy soon coming,

Now the Mistress of Macabre, Valkyrie is totally mine,

Subservient to my will in a game she introduced,

If fate were my ally, its smiles on favorably,

Her ensuing slavery no commencing,

The head of her brother gifted,

Booming shrieks retreating,

She whimpers as broken,

Her power depleted,

A victim self-made,

Now surrenders,

My  true power,

My iron will,

Her life

Mine!

 

 

 

A Work of Heart

A constant moving canvas,

always a masterpiece,

but never quite completed,

a lifetime of work

that keeps building

and growing.

Family moments, and memories,

loves lost and found,

mistakes made and lessons learned,

each experience another brush stroke,

adding more beauty,

colors intricately blending

into a powerful portrait,

unique and personally made

by the artist who breathes it into life.

Hour 14 – Dear Christopher Robin

Dear Christopher Robin

 

I wish I had been stuffed and left in your gentle hands. 

That I was raised like Eyore or Piglet. 

Unafraid to tell you when the darkness came.

 

Fly

fly that wheel

cast your reel

see who bites

better than the line you used to walk

on grease and service fatigue

 

so happy you found home

sing to the mountains

dance to your tunes

give wisdom when they ask and silence when they don’t

 

I’m so happy my friend happy you’ve found home

My Star

I couldn’t do anything
I saw her laying there
Her spirit had ascended
To the heavens
Where the lord awaited her
With open arms and forgiveness.
As I saw her lifeless body
Under duress being resuscitated
And shocked back to life
But she was no longer
Among the living.
I had to release her
I asked God to take her
If she was suffering
She didn’t deserve
To suffer anymore
The Lord awaited her arrival
With forgiveness and grace
It was the last time
I saw my mother’s lovely face.

Rebelí

What I Cannot See

Moody cloud’s

Moonlights to shine on in.

Darkest times.

Of the year.

To feel,

The sunny heat.

From ozone Ray’s of chaw.

Scares eyes that can see.

 

The Language of Music

I replay melodies
Over and over
Until my mind
Takes over them
And memorizes keys
Signatures
And the elegant way
It trickles like
Raindrops upon a windowsill.
Through my veins
Stirring within me
Emotions I never realized
Hiding within.
It scurries me away
Into daydreams
Inspires my senses
And drives me to write-
It finds the words
That eludes me
Yet none
In the language, I speak
Other than song
Even when my voice
Cracks like a snapping whip
My vocal cords resound
Within the chamber of my lungs
Each note held
Like my breath
Waiting to feel it catching
Snagging on diction
Hollow tones haunting
Luring me into
Yet another set of lyrics
that makes me weep
laugh
and elicits wistful dreams
of things or those out of reach.
Music does not tell me to quiet down
And sometimes when no one listens
or when they do-
Music understands
And doesn’t adjust the volume.

Poem 11 – Cityscapes and Juxtaposition

The skyscraper storefront selling sourdough,
Reaches up into a cloud, that when pricked with a needle
Sends a deluge to spread raindrops, making
A neat beat to beat the ground with gumboots
Stomping periwinkle puddles like a forest ranger

A Thousand Blue Lights

POEM 14

They only give glimmer of light. The thousand blue canisters housing a thousand lives.

Sacred hopes and dreams sealed and labeled filling a thousand slots of stored space.

Don’t search for their catalogs the information is kept in digital files in that singular electronic eye that is ever on them.

Don’t wonder who they are, don’t envy them their lofty nests.

Like a honeycomb of lenses waiting to shine out to the world.

Don’t approach the glimmer wall. The eye will capture your intent.

You standing before it like a captive sentenced to a firing squad.