The Poetry Marathon

1- The bells rang free on Stephen’s night, yet,
2- after the snow fell, their sound was muted.
3- Attendees had long since escaped
4- the oaken, wooden pews of Saint Bethel
5- and returned to hearth and home, relieved.
6- The service had children, rosy cheeked,
7- extolling the virtues of virtue in song
8- and elders smiling the remembrances of ago.
9- Stephen was there in his wedding suit,
0- held closely by Annalee and her wandering tears.

1- The bells rang free on Stephen’s night, yet,
2- after the snow fell, their sound was muted.
2a– Flattened tones rolled above the hills,
2b- alerting beast and man to his event.
3- Attendees had long since escaped
4- the oaken, wooden pews of Saint Bethel,
4a- they shook hands, exchanged nods,
4b- whispered the words of human bonds,
5- and returned to hearth and home, relieved.
6- The service had children, rosy cheeked,
7- extolling the virtues of virtue in song
7a- not knowing the meaning nor caring
7b- but understanding their importance to others
8- and elders smiling the remembrances of ago,
8a- when live was more than simply the next breath.
9- Stephen was there in his wedding suit,
9a- black tuxedo with satin stripes down the legs,
0- held closely by Annaleee and her wandering tears,
0a- as he lay grandly in the white pearl coffin,
0b- bearing the smile she swore she would never forget.

1- The bells rang free on Stephen’s night, yet,
2- after the snow fell, their sound was muted.
2a– Flattened tones rolled above the hills,
3- Attendees had long since escaped
4- the oaken, wooden pews of Saint Bethel,
6- The service had children, rosy cheeked,
7- extolling the virtues of virtue in song
8- and elders smiling the remembrances of ago,
8a- when live was more than simply the next breath.
9- Stephen was there in his wedding suit,
9a- black tuxedo with satin stripes down the legs,
0a- as he lay grandly in the white pearl coffin,

We fly about on fragile wings that frantically beat,
desperate in our need to gain formation,
to gather together those of likeness and temperament,
never quite understanding there is no direction home,
yet, once begun, we are relentless in our pursuit.

Warriors fighting against shadows and memories,
attempting to regain the knowledge lost
Soaring toward a sun too hot; a moon too dark,
we are left with our tattered self-remnants,
beating our chests profoundly, thrashing relentlessly,
deaf to the sound of the drum guiding our heart;
Blind to the mass of those that came before us
and those that will take flight through our significance.

We claim red as a color, as a soul, as a method to madness,
yet, it has no hue, no tincture of humanity, minimal gratitude.
Redness is not service played by lips on wooden flutes,
nor, pretended truths spoken through Eagle wings and ceremony.
Red is not a color, it is a state of being, becoming lost.

Red is the soul of our living Mother Earth, the source of our creation
Red is the spirit of our living Father, beseeching us to fly higher
Red is the Heart-drum that beats in shamanic rhythm to existence
Red is understanding birth and death are not beginnings nor endings
Red is living the Circle and the mystery contained within our placement
Red is seeking Cleansing for our failures and not salvation from sin
Red is knowing all creatures, all entities have purpose and life
Red is action taken before all the colors blend creating blinded spirits.

Red is and is not a color, it is balance, it is reflected light Before Darkness

~chowilawu~

I am the soul of war
a dance of angels cast down
for the purchased promises of tomorrow
I am the blood of the innocents
and the vanquished
and the victorious
sanguine sacrifices for change

I am the spirit of your disease
a trinket in your pocket thought valuable
withheld through greed
I am the dead transformed
into parables
into saintly memorials
sanguine sacrifices for change

I am the price of your religion
gold piece of thirty for redemption
and sought after forgiveness
I am your sons and daughters
reaping your fruit
reaping the spoils
sanguine sacrifices for change

I am the wisdom of death
a catalyst for redistribution
the rekindling of dreams
I am salvation’s whore
forging determination
forging the sword
sanguine sacrifices for change

I am the purveyor of fear
a seed furtively planted long ago
GMO eternally adulterated
I am the history of humanity
seeking homage
seeking sustenance
sanguine sacrifices for change

I am your submission
a prayer to oil and resources
feeding the frenzy of excess
I am the cleansing
remorseless
relentless
sanguine sacrifices for change

I am the soul of war
a windstorm of ingrained malevolence
unbiased and utilitarian
I am the consequence
the end
the beginning
the sanguine tomb of mankind

~chowilawu~

running away like children, invisible as the wind
running away like children, needing to pretend
running away like children, dreaming of anywhere
running away to someplace, never here nor there

The left side of paradise, where trains run all night long,
where people dance in frenzy to every too sad song.
We met in secret rendezvous, amid some spoons and candles.
Somewhere by the downtown stops, she lost her leather sandals.
Her heart was pure but beating fast, her pulse a fire alarm.
It came before she knew its name, she believed it meant no harm.
Her love was gone before it hit the ground, some say I almost cried
The locket lost was never found, the sinners gathered surely lied

The left side of paradise, hides secrets to make them grand
Breath is just an illusion and time feels more than sand
They played upon the treetops with mighty plans for greatness
and year by year their desire pushed them, unaware the lateness
Grasping straws and heaven’s orbs they so valiant struggled,
thinking they gained control, while godly devices merely juggled,
smiling rainbows to make them smile, but forcing life awry
The laughter sounded thunderous, as the circle had them die

running away like children, invisible as the wind
running away like children, needing to pretend
running away like children, dreaming of anywhere
running away to someplace, never here nor there

The left side of paradise, where rains bring only acid
from generations of humans whose fear bordered placid
They moved about as icons of beings once adorned
until fate delivered judgment and humans left were scorned
Ride about in dreamy cars and devour the claws of crab,
pick apart the mountains, ignore the sweet Mother’s scab
Play the games of livelihood and teach children to pretend,
the joke’s on us in Paradise as a beginning becomes our end.

running away like children, invisible as the wind
running away like children, needing to pretend
running away like children, dreaming of anywhere
running away to someplace, never here nor there

~chowilawu~

When the world is turning left, I look right.
When it’s waltzing, I tango.
I do them well. Just not always in rhythm.
I’m great at a party, if I’m engaged.
Otherwise, I sit and observe.
I do that well, too.

When the world is laughing, I cry.
When it’s being loud, I make quiet.
I do them well. Just not at the right time.
I’m a good friend, if I’m focused.
Otherwise, I’m thinking of other things.
I do that well, too.

When the world is flying by too fast, I walk.
When it’s crawling, I peddle faster.
I do them well. Just slightly out of sync.
I’m great to talk to, if I’m listening.
Otherwise, I’m at peace watching ants crawl.
I do that well, too.

Do I always feel comfortable in my skin? No
Do I see beauty where there is blight, and,
discomfort, when I could be smiling? Sometimes.
Yet, I know who I am. And, why.
Am I easy to live with? Yes, fairly often.
Otherwise, I’m always searching for another question.
I do that well, too.

I am a poet.

~chowilawu~