The Poetry Marathon

Without a Backward Glance

Our appeal went on heeded

Does it matter our sacrifices at his shrine?

Does he not recall the number of times we visited him?

Poured libation to his homage?

Yet, he would not leave without mom

 

Upon the buckets of river

And baskets of kolanut

And thousand of cowries

We offered him

Mr Death insisted on leaving with mom

 

Is he just callous?

Or is it his nature?

Is he cruel?

Is it what he treasures?

To turn deaf ears?

and walk away with loved ones every time

without a backward glance?

 

Hour 13, let me sleep

i close my eyes and watch death in the half light

she loiters at the end of bed

i struggle to make eye contact

my breath is shallow today

i wake later as the sun warm my bones, the air

my lungs fill and death has left building.

Anxiety

Scratching the bottle neck

and fiddle head

reaching into the thistle

reaching past the thistle

 

to pull out the neck of something

that was still alive

 

Yes I have self abuse

SCARS

The ones on my flesh

HEALED

 

I swallow the thistle

while scratching

my fiddle head

and bottle neck.

Philip V. Coombs 9-10am

 

To Nili #thepoetrymarathon #prompthourthirteen

Grace and poise and beauty in unison

The dance of the cygnets on ice.

I recall the Royal Albert Hall, where you took us.

Almost the last time we met.

When Death came calling you were sleeping

Or I like to think of it that way.

For your body lay unidentified for days,

The news came much too late.

Shorn of the grace and poise and beauty

That kept you dancing in life.

 

Hour 13: Intoxicating

Someone gifted me a rainbow

To hold up the sky

It carries the clouds on its shoulder

It keeps the storm above the mountain

Letting in sunlight beyond the hills

 

Someone planted me a field of dandelions

To feed the dragonflies

It cushions my steps

It allows me to pluck its blooms

Letting me make wine to drink in delight

 

Someone watches me

Dance on the winds

Slide up and over rainbows

Land on dandelions

Stumble drunkenly on my way

Ready to catch me if I fall

 

Cranky Pants

Cranky Pants

It’s what we call you, Snickers
when your lips twitch with impatience
at the two puppies that hover over you,
them giving kisses and invitations to play
when you have zero interest in them.

Cranky Pants, we know you’re old
and tired, but these two need guidance
from a good boy like you. But still,
you snarl, bark, even nip at them
to get lost, leave you sleep.

They don’t understand your reticence,
race you to your food bowl and win,
easy enough as you take life slow and
languid; there was no need to rush
before these naughty boys got here.

You’ll be 13 in July, same day as me,
and I get it, Snickers; we share a disposition
for impatience, a desire to savor every morsel
gifted without constant frolicking, or singing
a song of glee all hours. But, in all fairness,
I understand their jubilation of a new day,
their celebration of play and exploring,
their need for your love overriding
a common sense they don’t have.
Their smooth tongues on my face,
their metronome tails wagging, lips
curled in smiles bring me joy.

Perhaps in time, you will accept them
as siblings, teach them the ropes you
had a tough learning from older siblings,
help them ease out of puppyhood into
the kingdom of dogdom. But until then,
Snickers, we will continue to call you
Cranky Pants.

~ J R Turek
June 26, 2021 Hour 12

Empty Shells (Hour 11)

Empty shells scattered along the beach,
Insect skins stepping down from the trees,
Walking in the streets, looking in shop windows.

Houses constructed from perfectly processed elements, 
modified, manipulated, artificial dwellings, happy homesteads. 

The populace infestation, 
droves of workers falling in line, 
moving along asphalt canals 
filing the progress into channeled surges.

Advertisement mindsets, 
Fearful of strange polarity. 

Hollow enclosures of skin, 
thin as a dry leaf, 

colors disbanded from their boundaries, 
bleeding stains on the world.

Teaching After the Pandemic: The New Normal

Teaching After the Pandemic: The New Normal

 

Day One of the 21-22 School Year

In a Hybrid Model Classroom

Where Virtual and In-Person students are taught as one.

 

I address the Virtual students,

Also known as The Zoomers.

Everyone gazes at a screen

While I attempt to engage, but

Nothing but black boxes stare at me.

Silence.

I type a question in chat.

No one responds.

 

I turn to the In-Person students.

“Class, today we will…

Thomas, stay in your square.

Now class…

Jan, stop twirling you’re your mask and put it back on.

Okay class…

Alice and Kate, you can’t sit next to one another and, no, you cannot share crayons.

Class…

Johnny, you cannot use the restroom until your assigned time.

Class…

BRRRING!

Um, class dismissed.”

My Friend Death

My Friend Death,

I am becoming you.

For, you are everything I want in life.

When you approach, I will look at you.

I will see a better me looking back.

You will present a charismatic appearance.

I will see in you the beauty that I have only dreamed of for myself.

So I know that by emulating  what is beautiful and true in life,

You will embrace me like your beloved sibling twin.

 

 

 

 

 

HOUR 14 Nostalgic Whist

Nostalgic Whist

Exhilaration flares in his own anticipation,
Unaware that I have completed a thorough investigation,
Located the weakness, identified my trump card,
And am eager to play.

Enthusiasm for the game’s degradation,
Unwittingly suspecting my abject failure, poor stakes indeed,
Nostalgia, his only childhood friend and confident,
Succulent in his ignorance.

My hand is played, the aces polished and laid,
Only friend, aside from our strange dalliance, only friend.
Lost in time to sentimental memories, but still treasured,
Chris’s chips are down.

Driver by trade, effortless to entrap in the merciless snare,
Summoned by a phone call, self-employed, others unaware.
Innocent by no means, a secret penchant for the bottle,
Accidents in the rear-view mirror.

I hand my beloved enemy the number,
‘The punishment must fit the crime,’ I remind,
‘In the wine cellar below you will find a wine press,
This must be the tool of his demise.’
I quell my urge to laugh, sweet is my revenge!
Surely Dyer-Bolique has not been so thorough,
Surely my aces have trumped his hand.