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zackaryjohn
10 Posts • 16 Followers • 23 Following
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Challenge
Challenge of the Week CCXXII
Write a poem about America.
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zackaryjohn

Democracy Dies by Suicide

Democracy dies by suicide,

Not in darkness or despair!

But at the sounding of the trumpets

Strewn with pomp and flair.

It marches right up to that golden altar,

A gait turns to a prance upon the steps.

It’s tickled as its inhibitions falter —

Orgiastic anticipation just before a

Sanguine mess!

Ah, it seizes firm that dapper dagger

And plunges deep into a stately heart,

Sending fast a simple mandate

For its spirit to depart.

The marinated meat is quick to spoil,

So it’s handed out to please the crowd

And alleviate some earthly toils.

Some parts still might be tough to chew

But at last the glory of the day

Belongs to you,

And you,

And you.

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zackaryjohn

The Hunt

Down, around,

About again,

The hare does leap

to save its skin!

The hunter sweeps

and sneaks and

grind and thus

the hare has

met its end.

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zackaryjohn

A captain’s best

Upside the bow a roarer broke

The windward wave did stave the stroke

Shuddered cross the hardest folk

And loosed each cannon free.

The lurch had swept some men below

And stressed to taught the raft and rope

But pilfered most the Deckhand’s hope

To save the blokes at sea.

“Save it boy, the rage you feel

Turn your strife to stern and steel

Guard your step, now take the wheel”

The captain boomed to he.

A cannon lodged the sailor’s chest

And soon would come eternal rest

But he last recited a captain’s best

To turn the tide of misery:

When all is once

And once is done,

I’ll set out on

A setting sun.

Ahead the glint

Of crested waves,

Behind the cause

Of Death invades.

Ahead the churn

Of strident seas,

Behind stand still

The deathly trees.

The captain then fell closed his eyes

Unmoored at last without reprise

His final words relit the skies

And cooled the quaking sea.

The Deckhand’s grip was at the helm,

A novice made in a master’s realm.

Adorned now in steely brave,

Tempered by the mast and the grave.

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zackaryjohn

They parted the day

They parted the day

A thousand black feet

Track ahead and trail behind

Each wretched gait to

the rhythm of dirge

Each hand swept high

to carry the rain.

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zackaryjohn

The Dead Trees

In the shadow of the wighted groves

And the earthy ferment of ashen wound,

A lonely dogwood tree had rose.

On the branch a snow white bloom

To sing the mending of the doom.

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zackaryjohn

Summer lingers on

Summer lingers on,

A feint respite in cool rain

Dies like crackling grass.

Challenge
Challenge of the Week CXXVII
Therapy Session. Write from the perspective of a patient or therapist in a therapy session. Fiction or non-fiction, poetry or Prose.
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zackaryjohn

Five O’clock

A sigh affixed her notion of the afternoon. The drab green walls, the desk preoccupied with loose papers, the light sifting lazily through curtains of faded white—all of it was awfully boring. The lumpy chair beneath her was more melted marshmallow than cushion, and her back ached from the lack of lumbar support. The only things moving were the hands of the clock running circles around each other. They were slow to get to five o’clock, when she could race home for a meal and a smoke, but they’d make it. Clock hands were reliable like that, always right on time.

Words were spoken by that funny little lady across the coffee table. Tick. The woman had such silly problems. Tock. The husband wasn’t interested in her anymore. Five. She should have left the drunk years ago. O’clock.

The session ended, and her time belonged to no one.

Challenge
Challenge of the Week CXXV
Attachment and Fear. Two sides of the same coin. The desire to control, to grasp, to cling. Write about attachment, or fear, or both. Fiction or non-fiction, poetry or Prose.
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zackaryjohn

The Grass Parts for Her

The grass parts for her,

A doe in the field.

She honors it and bows

Low to the cool earth.

Claws catch a twig nearby.

She snaps to sight,

Light and tense--

But the grass parts for her.

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zackaryjohn

Nights like this

On nights like this

I reach into the sky

Trace my lineage to a point

And I hang there

Fastened as a gossamer

Clinging lightly against

A shifting breeze.

Challenge
Challenge of the Week CXXIV
Write about having a beer with your favorite dead author.
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zackaryjohn

Nietzsche

I ordered a gin and tonic, on the rocks.

He ordered a cup of ice.

We sat for a moment and then left separately.

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