The Poetry Marathon

A Cairn

the eggs have turned to stone,
the once warm nest, now turned cold,
nothing will hatch from their solitude.

a marker laid fallow
when no love or conversation
sparks the seed of life.

Pairings

Like a fine wine selected
to bring out the flavor of the dish,
you draw my deepest secrets to my skin
and bring a rosy blush
to my once pale facade.

With you, my power is doubled
as we walk the journey called life
up the hill, out of the fog of confusion
to find a simple peace in
holding your hand.

The Sweetness of Vinegar
credit to:The Vinegar Man by Ruth Comfort Mitchell

Thank you Miss Collins, my poetry muse,
your old legs bowed, with fist
pounding out each poem’s rhythm upon your brittle hip.

making us stand, alone, to recite from memory
Vinegar, vinegar, vinegar man,
face us and chase us and catch if you can

my seventh grade mind impervious to death’s approach or loss of true love
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Annabel Lee and The Raven, all
etched into my memory forever.

We were your children and poetry your gift to us.
Long live the balladeer, the seed you planted within me.
I humbly thank you venerable teacher of words.

Morph

ascending from the crumbling pavement,
heading skyward along the old clapboards,
knitting ones self into the oaken fiber of your being.

A lonely nail to hang your satchel of hopes and dreams
as the window frames starry nights
and the field of sunflowers bow their heads.

One hundred years from now
will we cry out at the ignorance of now?
plastic languishing in our bodies, our rivers, our sea.
the lingering melodies of mystics and creatives
who begged us to see.
some immigrated to new celestial stars,
trying to capture what we already had.

Will we be celebrating a new birth,
acceptance of all sentient beings
as equals, each playing their part
contributing to the whole?
mycelium’s web binding us together,
science and nature cleansing contamination
when hearts and minds can embrace the whole.

no time, no place
holding all as one.

no up, no down
but not without direction.

no launch, no finale
the now is omnipresent.

the pause between the notes,
the breath between the words,
the stillness in the dance,
sovereign over all.

Shedding ancient skins
to birth a new way of being.

My Snowy Woods

He gives his harness bells a shake/to ask if there is some mistake……but I have promises to keep/and miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost’s Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening…. a poem we memorized in 7th grade, I still hold precious.

Promises, promises, so many promises.
I shake free the harness of my thinking
as the ringing roar of memories and time
course my veins.

meditation bowl of forgiveness pulsing in my heart
whispers: ride the wave, love and letting go
will set you free

mandarin light of dawn floods the room
surprised and blinking,
I embrace the fire

descending down to slumber all to soon
colorless light of day fills the room.

fire of dreams, I hold you passion
tenderly inside, as the lull of everyday
will get things done.

My fist poetry marathon was last year’s half-marathon. I am upping my ante and joining the full marathon this year. I lean toward metaphors, contradictions, and imagines in short poems. I’m excited to read your poems and share mine with you! Carol

“What am I going to do? I was born when the gods had already died.” Pablo Neruda

“What am I going to do? I was born when the gods had already died.”
A time when indifference rode the sky and everyone felt alone.

My ancestral seed was planted in a different world and
I still have those longings. I will find others
and together restring the beads of hope and compassion.

If they are not to be found, I will stay the course –
alone and do no harm til my longest day has turned to night
and still silence is my final resting place.