The Poetry Marathon

(Note to reader…..this is a concrete poem. I was unable to render it as written, here on my page, but have provided the text to complete my 24 hour chapbook. Thanks!)

A doer of redundance

is rolls, and curls,

string, and orb.

Desperation is made of quick breath,

and wilted wishes.

There is no thing sadder than

expiration from emptiness,

except dying while alive.

I drove away and left

you standing there, staring.

I, resolute, right,

and short on sight.

It is the silent

information we miss

that later makes us long

for that forgotten kiss.

A mourning dove trills

above my window sill.

Memorial to a well-worn day

as it weeps and slips away.

Sleek and liquid as melted

chocolate it slips

through

my cells.

Enrobed in

delicious delirium,

I am

an unaware

time traveller,

prisoner to pieces of

yesterday

hurling into tomorrow.

Daylight spills over the edges of the mountain.

It is morning and I have not slept yet.

Seems I should let go, or be dragged.

This pen pieces prose, or poems almost by rote.

I struggle to determine it’s value or valor.

Seems I should let go, or be dragged.

What part of my human brain is responsible

for this stubbornness to sleep before

this deed is done?

Seems I should let go or be dragged.

The cows are lowing tonight

in the field below our

small, white house.

It reminds me of my babies,

many years ago, in their

small, white crib.

I would sit with them,

lowing, and rocking, and

giving milk to their thirsty lips.

We sustained each other

in our small, white house.

When the stars shine

they erase some illusion

and even the mystical

is included in this universe.

Too new to remember.

Too old to forget.

And yet, we do forget

to observe, to shine,

and reflect, and remember.

This is all illusion.

Our fabricated universe

is an assault on the mystical.

Is the wonder of the mystical

what we need to forget?

To appreciate the universe

in which we too shine,

what is the illusion?

Do we choose to remember?

Why would we remember?

We shroud ourselves in a mystical,

masterful illusion.

Is it time to forget

we were created to shine

and illuminate the universe?

It is only the universe,

a Source we must remember in order to shine.

To reflect the mystical

we must forget

the illusion.

A long dream is our illusion.

It exists outside the universe

where we forget

to remember

our mystical

shine.

Awaken from the illusion to remember!

The universe is our marker in the mystical.

Don’t forget to shine.

I tiptoe across

night, and broken syllables

I am a poem thief.

The Medicine Man in Hill City

rode in on a Crazy Horse.

While I struggled to hold his committee

I was swept into his light source.

Behind his golden gates

stretched across heaven and Earth

he told me of many fates

tied directly to my rebirth.

So then, a journey to the Wheel.

Miles of walking up the road

ripped away all I tried to conceal.

Layed out there, the way was showed.

While coming down, the raven called

to me, and Earth, on which I crawled.