Word Picture… by Toni Cross

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Kooky… by Toni L.A. Cross

Photo Challenge from Charles Martin

 

I’m different, I’m odd, I’m a bit strange

But you needn’t stare, as if I have mange

Be a little kooky, try it out for fun

Make ’em look again, try a triple stun!

Smile cuz you’re happy

Forget that you look sappy

You wanna be a fashion clone?

Some boring pre-fab Prada drone?

Who say you’ve gotta be rich and old

To wear a red hat with purple and gold?

Trash the trends- forget the rage

Be who? Be you! No matter your age…

A Shirt’s Memoir by Toni Cross

 

 
I’m stuck up here, just flapping here- anchored to this line.
It’s sunny bright, with windy light- and I feel just fine.
My mood is right, at this desert sight- asymmetrical design.
A pretty plight, shaken, taut, tight- haunting wind wisp whine.

It’s sunny bright, with windy light- and I feel just fine.
A change in weather, sand blasted together- a wish for peace is mine
A pretty plight, shaken, taut, tight- haunting wind wisp whine.
Starched and bleached straight, long time to wait- tethered to this line
 
Drop a side down, hanging off now- flimsy grip abate
Pulling hands grab, falling free space-  lost my rope-mate
Slapped and  rolled, stuffed in a backpack-  sho’ is some date
Bump and a scuff, dumped out again- what’s with this fabric hate?

Pulling hands grab, tugging past flab- can you relate?
Long day goes on, sweat, rub, dirty grub- my stains match the tin plate
Bump and a scuff, dumped down again- what’s with this fabric hate?
Scrub and rinse, drench, splat repeat- start again with the wait


Pulling hands grab, falling free space- lost my rope-mate
My mood is right, at this desert sight- asymmetrical design.
Bump and a scuff, dumped out again- what’s with this fabric hate?
I’m stuck up here, just flapping here- anchored to this line.
 

Photo Challenge From Charles Martin

And the photo/poetry duel continues!

Check out Charles at: www.slpmartin.wordpress.com

throwaway… by Toni Cross

This is another photo challenge from Charles Martin.

i huddle in the refuse

part of excess and castoffs
and i blend into my corner perfectly

i am helpless and bare and somewhat ugly
pathetically needing your help

if i was cute
i bet you’d scoop me up and love me
i bet if I was darling, you’d maybe even feed me

but i’m awkward, dirty and wobbly
you don’t want to touch me

so all i get are kicks from hard shiny shoes
uneasy pitying glances
or rocks thrown by taller creatures

nothing to keep me safe
or fill my poor lil tummy

i’m not good enough for that
the world deems that i don’t deserve
anything at all

A Pitcher Full of Time… By Toni L.A. Cross

  

My fellow poet Charles Martin sent me this photo of his as a photo/poetry challenge. (Make sure you click on his name, to check out some of his work!)

Having recently watched the movie Inception, I’ve been thinking extensively about time. Thus, the two things have melded into this.

 

 

People ask how time as we know it

Began

And why cruel death stole into our world

They ask if eternity

Is a line or a circle, meter or a wheel?

But it is neither and it is both

Eternity is liquid

Within an endless, bottomless void

There are no lapping shores of time

There is no rocky bottom

Its ripple-rings spread out

Forever

Eternity cannot

Should not

Be contained

Then

Long ago in eternity past

Whispers of doubt and deceit

Filled the once untainted mind of man

Pride was born

And stretched itself

Like a cat awakening

What if eternity was caught?

What if it was compressed

Into boundaries and space?

Ageless immortal hands

That had never known disease

Dug into the earth from whence they came

And scooped up humble clay

Moist and soft

He flung it on a wheel

Spinning, spinning wheel.

Man shaped his own creation

Dampening his labor

With the sweat of his own conceit

Building and throwing down

Immense and elaborate plans

Grandiose schemes made of mud

Finally

Simplicity struck his tired being

And in that blasphemous workshop

A rude pitcher resulted

The surface he hardened

With the heat of his burning anger

To think that God had lied

That eternity was now his to control

Derisively

He grasped the handle

Reaching into the void

He scooped up eternity

Into his vessel

And held it triumphantly aloft

But some things are not meant

To be made that small

And unbeknownst to him

The essence within had changed

He grasped not eternity

But lost it altogether

And was left with a base extracted matter

Time.

Mortality.

Death.

But generations lauded

This failed attempt of man

Raising a temple of sorts

On an arid desert plain

Guarding the pitcher

With great blocks of sandstone

Until time was lost within itself

To evaporate slowly

Forgotten

In this sepulcher of independence