Prompt 12
The words got stuck in my head today
But I have let them out to play
Fear can hold me in it’s grip
and take my thoughts away
I knew this would hurt
What could I do
live in fear?
No I
can’t
Cubicles – hour 10
Those cubicles down on highway six
how do those people fit?
The doors are oblong
surrounded by
four-foot cubes of concrete split.
Picasso, I thought
had inspired this lot.
No door on one –
how shall they come home?
Inside, imagine there,
cubes every which where.
Even what’s circular,
is the form of a square –
even the glasses
and crooked rocking chairs.
Just a wee bit of light
from small rhombi, not bright.
The chandeliers – they’re diamonds
no ovals in sight.
Even the outlets
look like robots not faces,
and shoes with no laces
with Velcro and heels
all 90-degree angles.
Living here,
you’d surely fear
children born with
Pikachu ears.
All words in CAPS locked
in each book and magazine
stacked, blocked
and every word is shouted
even the whispering.
Never could live there
or I’d find myself mumbling, scared
inside cell with square pads
in a straight jacket plaid.
– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21
(from photo prompt – hour 7)
Hour 12
Damn counting is hard sometimes.
Nonet
These feelings swell deep inside of me
And yet I try to ignore them
Fore why would I want them here
At all when I alone
Have all of these thoughts
These must go far
I must make
Them all
Quell
There Once was a Boob
There once was a Boob
There once was a boob
created at pubescence.
There once was a boob
sore in certain places .
There once was a boob
measured to cup sizes
strapless, wired, and all.
There once was a boob
compressed, examined, and torn.
There once was a boob
with a lump, my left
not favored anymore.
There once was a boob
Chemo, radiation, BRCA gene negative
still scorned.
There once was a boob
surgically removed that cancer caused.
There once was a boob
my life more important for sure.
There once was a boob
please respect my living wish.
There once was a boob
now men must resist.
There once was a boob
I never replaced.
There once was a boob
now you settle for…
my pretty little face.
Poem 12 : A Tribute to Robert Frost “The Attachment”
I have been one acquainted with you
I have seen you, and dreamed
and when it rained, your sad face seemed new
I have looked upon many faces
and it seems yours changes in the sun
I will embrace it, and take it many places
I have tried to stop you from running
and have heard the beckoning cries
Do I gather a stylish cunning
Do not say good-bye to me
because, some of my actions are yours
and your actions are good for me
This familiarity is ours
You came to me and I came to you
yet we have not shared flowers
Do you hear me, are you true
Your heart beats as mine
I am one acquainted with you
NONET #2 (I THINK)
Nonet #2 ( I think)
Could it be, that the end of the line
Is not close to what we believe
Victorious from the start
Twelve Hours completed
Till the dreaded form
She Prompted
At the
End
Church
Water to bless from child to elder,
Wooden pews,
Kneelers padded,
Beeswax candle’s soft glow.
A place of quiet in a world of noise,
To think, push worries forward to the I Am.
Comfort in familiar, to touch, to taste Infinity.
The Birth
A call I hear from inside of me
Wrapped in my warmth, someone arrives
Celebrate a new life, Life
distinct in divine light
Doors of horizon
Welcomes the birth.
Love and Hope
Ushers
Joy!!
HOUR #12: (Family: Nonet poem)
I dream of these faraway places
Exotic remnants of the past
Where I ran, unencumbered
Past ghosts of other lives
My parent’s story
Bled into me
Their story
Becomes
Mine.
It Was Written
Surrounded by notes
I write on everything
About everything
Here are notes from the important phone call with a friend
Here are notes for the next call with another friend
Notes of people to call
Things to do
Bills to pay
Bills paid
Scraps of sentiment
Pieces of inspiration
Poems
Love
Hate
Priorities
Things I meant to do weeks ago
I am aswirl in paper with writing
One sided paper for writing/recycling
Small pieces, big pieces
Show fliers reused
One day
They will all swirl together
And land
In a way that tells
The Whole Story
For someone else to piece together
In a fireplace with ashes
(Thank you, Poetry Marathon!)
Half-marathoner Martin Webb