The Poetry Marathon

I used to know how—

But I quit remembering

So many years ago.

I found a dollar bill

while weeding the garden

and I think it was from you—

because the next day

you left another

for good measure

and that’s just something

only you would do.

I search for

the tip of your tail

to circle around my bed.

I listen for

your high-pitched chirp

as you nestle against my head.

I glide my

hands along

your silken tabby fur

as you

sputter and purr

and gently knead your claws

on the crushed velvet comforter.

I wait for you

to rest atop

the crook you carved

between my hip and thigh

only then and there

can we gently sigh

and bid each other

a sweet good night.

The first and only time

I sat through a musical, was for you—

and then, I heard that song, in that scene,

and knew you’d have loved it, too…

As I re-round to listen, so many times—

my chin began to crumble—

and my eyes immediately soaked

in the biggest tears—

tears so heavy and so hot—

that they cannot stay

inside the wells

and just slide straight down

melting tracks

against the cheek

and awash the neck

if only to prove

how much—

I love you.

Papa—

Awake before the sun

but after the Robins

have begun their songs

for the day.

Awake because I lay

in my thorny nest

of warmth—

Wondering if

you’d still enjoy

the Robin’s sing

knowing it’s the last Spring

you’d hear them —

and knowing

you won’t see

the sun make its journey

across the skyline

for you.

I wonder if you’re awake too—

And if you were, would you still go outside

to hear their sweet songs—

and watch the sun gently rise

over the horizon—

or I wonder,

If you’ve seen that enough.

You
must not
Think much of me
If you think
Pursing you’re lips
tightly
While holding your breath
hardly
As you kiss me
Hello
Keeps the
barley from bursting
out.

Dust mites

Still reside

On your side

Of my bed

Where you laid your head

Where your skin shed

Pieces of me

They are feasting on.

(Picture Prompt)

Laying, gazing
through the window
in the canopy covered meadow
with you.

The woolen blanket protects our skin
from the straw mountain grass
as our shoulders and hips
press against one another
while our heads meet at the temples.
Our hands naturally find their indentations
and crevices
that have melted into the other
over time.

The aspens rustle and sing a song
with their golden painted leaves
that flit with the air
while the eyes on their white trunks
watch us with wonder and
sweetly sway back-and-forth
to the rhythm of the wind
and dance just for us.

Blinded by your deceptive Neptunium haze
you caught my passionate Plutonian gaze
and you hypnotize me in the night
you silently seized my vulnerable light.

Irresistible, you’re sinfully sweet
with your honey-suckled laced lips—
tasted like orange blossom drips—
A most dreamy hallucinogen
mixed with a deadly neurotoxin.

My doomed fate, I already know
comes sealed sweetly with your gentle kiss
as your words enchant me
and bind me into your darkness.

My mind is paralyzed
and my heart:
becomes entombed in your glistening web
of silky, sticky suffocating threads
but it peers perilously through
if only for a moment—
becomes aware
of the real you.

And now I know
it’s far too late:
I’m already helplessly stricken—
with a million little deaths,
I’ll die.
And the only anti-venom
is to wait for you
to breath me back in.

The word Promise shouldn’t exist in any language—
For it allows an easy perverted manipulation of the heart
and subjects those who believe in it to be left open—
vulnerably desecrated to a point that is cruel.

A promise presupposes honor
and should dispose of integrity—
Otherwise: why make one?

A word that few know how to use with grace or mercy—
and a word that befalls out of liars lips so simply—
without conscious, without regard,
and just for the sake of sparing or conning another.

A simple word that hurts
the most when broken—
so it is just best
that it is never spoken.