National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[Lecram06]

I will be away for the last 3 days of the Poetry Month Celebration... a sudden trip is occurring.  I hope to have finished my last three offerings before I leave in the wee hours tomorrow morning so I can post them.  I wish to see this through.  
It's been an honor, a privilege and pleasure.  Thank you all.
I'll look in when I'm back.
Aj 

Day 27
 

Flog  

Several years have passed since I last played
old and new injuries and ailments
conspiring with innate laziness. 

Nonetheless I've been recruited by a merry band
of mid-life crisis approaching men-boys
generationally sounder than this septuagenarian
recruited to fill a vacancy in their revelry
in southern sunshine warmth of Hilton Head
where I'll be expected to swing clubs
for four fore days. 

And    ah    oh yes    lest we forget
cough up the missing one eighth freight.
A dubious privilege at best. 

A questionable friend yesterday
convinced me I needed a pre-trip practice round.
Today, in addition to the humiliation
my pathetic flog lavished on me,
I hurt and ache in places long since forgotten. 

We leave tomorrow

Wish me luck  

FORE
  

And now you need to write a post-trip free verse poem. Marcel
 

[Lecram06]

Day 27

The Culture Into Which I Was Born

I see that barefoot girl covered with freckles, with white hair and blue eyes,
not really fitting in, but trying to.

She isn't white all over, nor brown all over, liked the kids down the street.
(After she turns six, she can't play with them anymore.)

She feels ugly, stupid. Arithmetic is awful. She'd rather draw or look at the pictures
of the kids in books.

Kids who have red wagson, bikes, dogs, cats, brothers, sisters--
and a mom and dad who look at them with love shining from their faces.

Do the moms and dads in the book ever beat those beautiful children with belts,
or yell at them once the page is turned?

She learns to smile, say, "Yes, Sir," and "No, Ma'am." She hides her bruises.
She is careful of what she says.

At home, she hides under the bed, draws pictures in her Big Chief tablet,
writes love poems to herself.

Von, You paint a portrait that strikes to the core of cruelty and compassion. Marcel
 

[Lecram06]

Day 29

Pauvre Albert  

Trees unfurling new leaves
Dancing in the warm breeze
Birds caring for their young
Flowers nurtured by the sun 

Living life with such ease
All ahead will surely please
Times of wonder have begun
For Albert and everyone  

Everyday fun and joy
Lots to do and enjoy
All is bright burdens light
Walling off the cruel night   


The ruling fist of fate
Strikes hard there's no escape
Blindsided by the blow
Slammed down into shadow

Youthful pleasures dashed to dust
Teen adventures wilt and rust
Watched the world passing by
Lousy life for Pauvre Albert  

Cast aside     sent away
Needs and wants kept at bay
Never even had a chance
Never even had a dance 

Locked alone desolate
Had no say in the debate
Could only watch and wait
A pawn nearing checkmate 

Youthful life left unlived
Cannot take and cannot give
Twilight's shroud mocks the sun
Gone away never begun       


Cold wind dries falling leaves
Birds chase the fading sun  

Never even had a chance
Never even had a dance 

  

The short lines give evidence of so much pain left unsaid. Marcel
 

[Lecram06]

Day 30

Echos Of The Divine  

What the hell is it all about?
Is there a point - does it really matter?
Days shorten in December
Inward focus takes center stage
The darkest night lingers near.
Comfort of religion the answer?
The guilt-filled solution?
Let Him drink from that stained cup
Let Him save Himself.
Sought enlightenment thru Karma-Sutra
Ate the apple from the Tree of Knowledge
In Adulthood, sought Sainthood thru Manhood.
It's all a big jumble.
Echos of the Divine touch my agnostic mind
What is the point?
I just want to know
But He's not telling. 




I'll check back in May 3rd - I don't want to miss any of your works.
Aj
 

The search and the not finding where we are looking. . . the universal plight or destiny. Marcel
 

[Lecram06]

30 ways to die.
#28

From cradle to coffin
we're measured.
Traces of us
stick or spread,
trail behind
in novels that last a century 
or pamphlets
barely read, or just used
to scoop poop.

I'm running out of pages
many of which I'd rewrite
or remove, but
that blood can't be unspilt,
it holds permanent.

We begin as a blank canvas
tiny, but full height.
The longer we live
the lower we sink,
inches, dropping
into graves
before the digging.

Your last stanza could not be any darker. Yet, I picture myself rolling in the grass. marcel

[Gyppo]

NAPO 28 - 2019 

Tripod

There's a three-legged old tomcat
who lives just across the road.
Every morning he patrols his territory,
moving slowly but with determination.

Occasionally a newer and more agile cat,
especially the big white bugger,
will charge at him, chest to chest,
and knock him off balance.

But Tom can move fast at times,
running with hardly a ripple.
But never quite as fast as yesterday
when a little female tabby came visiting.

He chased her away a few times, 
but each time she came back,
settling closer than before,
whilst he looked the other way.

Then, in a flash of back and white,
he was on her.  Doing what tomcats do
to receptive females who won't,
despite warnings, leave them in peace.

Now he sits on his step, 
concubine curled close alongside,
and stares his defiance at every passing dog.
If they weren't on leads he'd fight them all.

Just out of sheer feline exuberance.

Gyppo

[Dave]

27

Being someone

 

A rose without a name would smell as sweet

So I adrift in a sea of namelessness

would still not eat meat, love my neighbor

and count character over skin colour,

have sex with those I prefer, believe gods

are chimera and the label liberal is bullshit

invented by those who keep their doors

closed and locked at night. I don’t drive

but who knows what this called. I pick

up litter from the street but no one

has ever accused me of anything. I

subject to myself, quietly breathe,

eat and talk a life free of identities.

 

[Dave]

28

balcony Flowers

Lucid pink veins caressed into pink

silk stars, wheel around light,

gentle nods to the east head

westwards second by second

as subtle as stick insects they trick

the eye into non-belief in god and nature.

[Lecram06]

Triolet 28

In the thick air of indigo darkness,
A pinprick of light points the way
While we walk blind in our busy mind's brightness,
In the thick air of indigo darkness,
We stumble in our noon arrogance,
Sail on into the storm past the quay.
In the thick air of indigo darkness,
A pinprick of light point the way.

[Lecram06]

28

balcony Flowers

Lucid pink veins caressed into pink

silk stars, wheel around light,

gentle nods to the east head

westwards second by second

as subtle as stick insects they trick

the eye into non-belief in god and nature.

Dave, YOu make an argument for knowing instead of believing thanks to the "stick insects". Great line. Marcel