The Poetry Marathon

“In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us.’ ”  — Robin Wall Kimmerer 

Grandeur is neither in size or vibrant colors,

but the nobility of essence, growing from grains

into wholesome life.

Welcomed, peace, with its lessons,

finds its home

in the stem of our being.

Speak to the grounding spirits,

and sing then, the needs unearthed in its reply.

Feel potential,

in its blossoming birth,

describe a life always meant to be lived.

Surrounded,

I scan the area:

shelves full of disarray;

hangers tilted, the folds undone;

sparkling dust dancing in sunlight,

and setting atop smooth surfaces

and into nooks unused.

I am outnumbered.

I am called to enjoy the day,

but first – my space.

The space in which I breathe,

the space in which I carry my thoughts,

and the space in which I must find myself.

My space is sacred.

So no, I cannot leave it.

I fight against inertia,

to make room for me.

Sentence picked from The Essex Serpant, by Sarah Perry: “A young man walks down by the banks of the Blackwater under the full cold moon.”

Dark green waters take on nightly shades, and now,

Blackwater Bay, would make a fine name for such a scene.

Cold weather, river banks and a full moon strain the senses –

Is this repose calm?

Or is the night eerie in design?

A night for walks, is one for the imagination –

Yet alone with thoughts is full company.

Young is the night by and large,

But the spirit feels aged under the moon’s weight.

Down the road, a man, young, strolls along

With light steps, and placid shoulders.

For him, the shadows dance.

Therein lies all hopes of the justice due;

A space of hushed serene, wise equity,

Except for Greed, yet awaiting its cue

To sweep and strip good opportunity.

Beyond Arrogance’s strong hold, is a place –

Readied for the change of Desolation,

Stuck to  the crevice in the poor-led case.

It fears its first breath of premature exultation.

Distant yet fast paced in its new approach,

Arrogance could not measure the time left.

Downtrodden – now Players, Winners and Coach;

Though they will not leave anyone bereft.

Let us prepare for a world of unscarred.

Untouched, theirs will be a heart without guard.

Blessed to have the ears

to capture moonlight voices

and delicate strokes of a guitar.

Fortunate, beyond measure,

to have the mind ready to draw pictures

of words sung into eternity.

Proud, of my sensitive self

tied up in childhood memories

of the Creative spirit.

Blissful in knowing,

that perhaps music will never be so good again,

but the art of film was invented just in time.

If I ever lost my ears,

at least I have heard the deep tunes

of a spirited man.

If I ever lost imagination,

at least I have known lyrics

made to turn the ordinary, sublime.

If I ever lose my youth,

then there will be no worry,

graceful age will make the sunrise all the more beautiful.

Watched, the girl in the room

becomes specimen of strange forthcoming Doom.

She has firefly anguish, of having her light dimmed.

Propped into place, there is nothing to be fit or trimmed.

In the heat of unwanted conversation, her focus zooms into abyss,

returned only by a snap, fizz and hiss.

She drips of lethargy;

undone, by the crass pottage of city energy.

Taking to the bottle would be easy;

now she creeps alone in a cottage, breezy.

Once the city gossip, she retreats by the treeline.

Breathing unencumbered air – she is saved into time’s slow divine.

Shhhh!

Not yet.

We are but tinsels of opportunity,

waiting for the right occasion.

There is taking risk,

and there is being risky with an unguided attempt.

Change befalls those ready

for the transformation.

So we wait.

Days,

weeks,

months,

years.

For him,

for her,

for ourselves.

The Now is not yet as we want it,

but the air in our lungs fails to deliver a pulse.

So we wait.

Stillness reveals our pattern.

A deep self reflection

brings a change in the currents of our perceptions.

We wait, we are still,

and yet something is happening.

Puzzling truth dawns eventually,

that it was time well spent.

Light breeze,

hot sun, and the gut feeling,

that life’s just begun.

Cold drinks, soothing into the canals,

and eyes wide open – no glare.

Warmth and the satisfaction of good company.

No need for anxiety.

Peace of mind, felt in the lightness of the heartbeat.

The smell of fresh bread.

The humming noise of the outdoors

seeping through open windows.

Paced by the scurried thoughts apprehending me,

I only saw the decay of fallen foliage.

I felt my steps squander eyes’ appetite, before it could flee;

Without a thought I aimed to reach the bridge.

Fraught with impatience,

I did not notice the crackling of leaves,

Or the generous bounce of the floor’s bedding; – vehemence

In my schedule, a stroll was time taken by thieves.

Sudden, a sharp call resounds from the branches;

Jolted, my confidence subsides and I am aware of my crime.

Desperate now, I stop my race and pray for all chances

Of finding my liberator: the songbird who stopped time.