The Poetry Marathon

Oh, Oaken Sentinel,  you alone know the secret of the heart

carved so deep within your craggy flesh.

As the blade cut into you,

did you feel the heartache for a love that would not be?

Was the pain assuaged by the passion you felt from his unrequited love?

Or were those cuts sculpted slowly with lovers’ hands held one upon the other

guiding the perfection of their loving signature?

We will never know the secret you hold so close to your heart

yet, it will live on for centuries, growing in mystery, growing in love.

Will other lovers choose you to guard their tales of romance or heartbreak?

Oh, Steadfast Oak, you above all others can be trusted to never waiver in this sacred calling.

What will you give to this life?

How will yours be spent?

When will you begin your journey?

Like heat rising from hot pavement

Our days here are fleeting

They are mere specks of dust on the clock of time

Reach out, touch the life you are meant to live

Respond to that stirring in your spirit

For it may not come again.

Act with love in your heart

It will guide you sure and true

To the destiny of your choosing.

I love to write poems with images that sing

with metaphors and similes and similar things.

But today, my heads aches and my brain can’t compose;

I need help writing poetry, not simply prose.

Is there some secret formula hidden from me

that someone can share to set my Muse free.

It’s hour number four closing fast, I’m forlorn.

Maybe I need a bowl of popcorn.

No, that would be silly and messy and yuck;

I just need to hang in and I’ll get unstuck.

So blank page, you’re no help when words won’t come

so you just keep quiet while I twiddle my thumbs

The relentless rain pierces the silence of my morning reverie,

mingles with the  pungent aroma of fresh coffee

and warm sweet smells of breakfast baking

while canvas, brushes and paint await my arrival.

My nose tingles with excitement

the bitter-sweet elixir touches my tongue

flows through my body

I sigh with delight.

My mouth waters with anticipation

I ever so gently bite into the doughy bread

its very essence nourishing every cell

I feel ready now.

My mind stirs with possibilities

I pick the brush that speaks to me

We dip into the paint that calls us

We are one.

The relentless rain turns rhythmic, lulling me into a still, silent space

I with the brush and paint draw together

The canvas responds to our strokes

Images emerge from beyond.

How is it that I feel connected to all that is
in these moments shared with you?

I no longer sense where I stop and you begin.

We dwell in a continuum of love.

It is here that I understand why science

has recognized love as a universal force,

for it is what holds us together

– all existence together.

From the smallest invisible life forms

to the largest creatures we know or can imagine.

It is the stuff that binds the astral bodies together

in a dance that we have yet to fully understand

and may never comprehend.

Love is.

It is that simple

It is so simple

Yet we do not understand.

Love is the answer to all the questions we ask

It is the solution to all the problems we encounter

It is the only way we can survive

Yet we do not understand.

Can we?

Will we?

Ever understand?

Anxious participants gather at the starting line.

The marathon begins with fervor.

Fingers posed, minds a flutter,

ideas spinning, twisting, swirling,

words clashing and smashing and coalescing,

mental muscles flexing, stretching,

drawing on every ounce of creative energy.

The minutes tick by

60, 59, 58, 57 . . .

Thoughts begin to take shape

then dissipate into the ether

30, 29, 28 , 27 . . .

Hour one drawing closer to an end

with only a disjointed collection of letters on a page.

15, 14, 13, 12  . . .

But there are yet 11 hours to go!

Can I entice a Muse to visit and inspire?

Who will join me in this chase to the finish line?

Calliope?

Erato?

Polyhymnia?

4, 3, 2, 1 . . .