Sometimes, in uncertain outcomes, as life agitates,
It can sway either way, maneuvering on the edge,
For a difference rather modest, makes the final call,
When a narrow margin determines a win or a loss.
If a win we choose to celebrate, or defeat we deride,
Prudent to bear in mind, that it wasn’t a landslide;
When results are so close, why not cheer them all,
Cognizant to recognize~ distinction is awfully small.
Slender is the layer between eve’s dusk and twilight,
Between dark of dawn, and luminance of sunrise;
Between safe and danger, there lies a narrow divide,
Where, between cliff and fall, life’s border resides.
Mementos of love embraced, and love sadly repelled,
In albums of beloved, or memories forlorn dwell,
Clamoring from corridors of good or bad choices made,
Between narrow margins of hope, and contours of fate.
O, a narrow margin can be of mighty consequence
Inhabiting elation of success, or anguish of regrets,
When death lingers in the clutches of final moments
Stilled between breath inhaled, and breath exhaled.
By a narrow margin, I lost
Too many times in countless plays
For many times, I was like ghost
Falling short from the light of days
I dared the mountain top but fell
Just before I could raise my flag
The storms I dared, I could not tell
To pitfalls and graveyards I dug
I lost some games by point or half
And felt bad that I fell so short
My thoughts had none but muffled laugh
And crazy feelings of such sort
But God, I was a second best
I lost the crown by thin red line
Maybe someday, I'll make the rest
Though, falling this short can be fine
This or that poetry contest
4th place
- in those moments, it shines.
The nostalgia of an upside down
world glinting up through hourglasses of years,
a mark impressed upon flesh; a scar harbouring
simple childhood games inside a jagged
line now faded. Occasionally it flares,
reddens from a twist of skin uncomfortable,
or in the tightness of early morning dressing;
the twinge acts as an echo, a ripple, a call from
back then, years ago, an era lost like sand
through fingers sweaty from summer heat,
lemonade with ice cubes clinking. The scar,
the mark, that narrow margin of error, a
Faultline physical memory running like a border
along my skin. And you were there, holding my hand
- in those moments, it shines.
Narrow Margin 2-12-24 This or That Vol. 23 Poetry Contest - Edward Ibeh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Narrow Margin
Between finite and eternity
A thin sharp wire divides,
Footsteps that often stumble,
Arms flailing,
Grasp for balance in pockets of sparse air
Staggering in storms, battered by choice,
Between the lines of saint and sinner,
Wild things or all the power of forgiveness,
Time challenged and eternal.
Between dances lightly on the razor’s maxims
In teetering seconds born in “or”
The narrow space between mayhem and peace
Superstition and shoulders of faith
Waking in the whisper between ebony shadows
And resplendent shouts of advent -
Margins between ambivalence’ bruised flesh
Or wide balms of equilibrium
Between fragile borders of mortality and spirit.
I'm the part that exists
That you think nothing of,
A gap to keep neat your work.
I'm the part that exists
To remain clear, to be filled
On every single text filled page.
Consciously or not, I'm put in place.
And by so, I give you a chance
To note down something important.
I'm the part that exists,
That nearly gets a look.
A look inside your book...
You may say, "That was close"
Or, "This is small but it is
Our only opportunity!"
Or if time squeezes tight,
In anguish you fight
To meet a deadline set.
Seen and invisible,
Literal and metaphorical.
I am...
I am the
Narrow Margin.
The sun will rise like a golden fish
over the far bank,
but for now
a cobwebbed sky
clings to the curling water.
This is the margin
where dawn issues
through nights last gleam
in ghostly drifts.
The dewy daylight arrives
a veiled lace flecked with gold.
Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud
into green ripples.
Dragonflies climb stems
to dry damp wings.
A standing heron appears,
its eyes are star-bright.
Mallards and Coots,
pluck mist from their plumage.
The day floods up
to paint itself
beneath high flying feathers
the hunter waits, gun at the ready,
but he will miss,
for the margin has hidden his aim
and it always will
in such magic moments.
Margin of Error
By Mark D. Stucky
If, statistically, Adam and Eve
hadn’t exceeded Eden’s margin of error,
would lambs now be lounging with lions?
Would toothy T-Rexes have been vegan?
Would we love our neighbors and enemies
as we love our less-than-perfect selves?
Would we make war no more
and have peace on earth?
But, certainly, mistakes were made!
And now, we should wherever possible
correct for past and future errors,
across centuries of commissions and omissions.
Like the trembling woman sprawled in the dust,
“go and sin no more” is also meant for us.
(First published in Agape Review, 29 May 2022. See also my poems “Words in the Wind” and “Hate Vacuuming?”)
(Image by Engin_Akyurt on Pixabay.com.)
Can this really be called poetry?
If it makes absolutely no sense,
A plea for someone to notice you
Really, I don’t mean any offense,
But if it has neither rhythm nor rhyme
The stanzas are without a theme,
Speaks to no specific event or place
As generic as a boring meme.
Away with that well-worn thesaurus!
Try describing a seasonal scene
Maybe, tell an interesting story, but
I need to know what you mean.
Whatever you do, don’t impress me
I’m giving you an edit, a second chance,
Write from your heart what you know
Before you turn it in, try to read it, Lance!
written March 12, 2022
Do you know how many times I have been shown the exit route?
Countless times but I ignore the clue.
Do you know how many battles I have won with my naked hand?
None, except the one I won when I stooped to conquer.
I don't know why the entrance porch is so inviting,
With its thick array of uncommon cobwebs?
Today, I am at the border line,
With the multiple crossroads.
The exit beckons,
I must not resist.
I am at the margin after all.
I think it is time to say goodbye
And I'm saying goodbye in my worded silence.
I have been on the borderline for long.
It is time for quiet goodbye,
I am the girl at the margin
I now have the nerve to say goodbye.
But again, goodbye might be a loser's dialet.
Maybe, I should tarry for yet a little while.
Yes, I am the girl at the margin,
I think this isn't the best time for goodbye.
The sun will rise like a golden fish
over the far bank,
but for now
a cobwebbed sky
clings to the curling water.
This is the margin
where dawn issues
through nights last gleams
its first ghostly drifts.
The dewy day is ushered outwards,
a veiled lace flecked with gold.
Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud
into green ripples.
Dragonflies climb stems
to temper damp wings.
A standing heron appears,
its eyes are star-bright.
Anhinga and coots,
pluck mist from their plumage.
The day floods up
to paint itself
beneath high flying feathers
the hunter waits, gun at the ready,
but he will miss
for the margin has hidden his aim
amid glittering shadows.
Hold out arms, hands and fingertips,
spread shoulders…shake loose.
If you’re not clouded by flesh
you’ll feel it - your verge shifts,
sometimes an inch,
sometimes a million miles.
A bright brim begins to look at the stars
as if they were your own eyes looking back.
You might even shoot inward
into your own glitzy center.
Maybe Her tulle skirt,
and sparkly, silver, magnetic panties
will draw you into Her cosmic Ferris wheel.
All this is just over the tip of a reach, the brink
of a fingernail, where you ride the milky cosmos
seeding worlds with the art of your mind.
Let yourself border on the fringe,
the hem, the flossy slip of Her short sassy skirt -
shimmy a while.
Elderly men have been known
to dance a step or two right there
at the glitter-edge of life,
as they fall for the same girl.
again, and again.
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