The Poetry Marathon

I will come upon the bower
where my muse resides
and citrus-scented flowers
of frangipani hide

a rivulet will wind its way
past this peaceful sanctuary
on the fronds of cattails sway
red-winged blackbirds tarry

the moon will rest above the trees
casting shadow dances at my feet
and words will flow more easily
in this romantic, veiled retreat

dancing under the moon’s shadow
chases the dark away

serenity bounces off the stars rendering
the canvas in light of day

slide the beams of moonlight as you
wander the night sky

dream your way to morning and a
future held up high

A lethargy of strange forced us to
take refuge at our cottage that summer.
We hoped that once we passed the treeline
we would find safety; a reprieve
from the pandemic
that rocked our world.

The mask of fear we donned
for months and months
came off as optimism
prevailed. But the longer
we were isolated in the
protective forest; amidst
cedars, pines and fiddlehead ferns –

in the sounds of downy woodpeckers
knocking at our door, hoots from
the boreal owl, and the piping of
bald eagles – the less we wanted
to return to civilization.

Fairy lights we bought en route, made
a firefly bottle we hung from two large trees
under which we placed our wooden chairs,
making a comfortable reading nest
as August turned to September. With a

resurgence on the verge, we stayed put, knowing
winter would be hard. But our resolve was
harder still and we found life, renewed. In
the forests of our temporary home, we made
our future – a future unplugged, unfettered,
our lungs full of mountain air

and easy freedom.

Oh, Captain, my captain; the wind blows high
and rocks the ship, but I know we will reach land.
Though the fight is hard — no bells to ring a death
knell — we’ve faith in your steady hand.

Against this storm you will keep us safe.
Though our hearts beat furious and fast,
the raging seas are not the cause. A virus with no cure
consumes us, even to the very last.

season of the bohemian waxwing

when i tipped my feathers with red,
and floundered in the forest of yellow cedars

stood shakily on the branches of the blackberry
bush, intoxicated with fermented fruit

thinking i had found a spruce for building
my nest and mating

but a winter of snow meant
road salt in the spring water

that turned my insides bitter
and left me without young

for years to come

So… I goofed and forgot the part of the prompt that said ‘ideal day’. I rushed to finish a proper one for the prompt but I am now late in posting because I spent too much time on a poem that only focused on imagery and sensory details… I decided to post both for this hour and I hope that is okay!

1.
witnessing the pause of a hummingbird’s wings
as mother noses sustenance into her young

discovering the opulent fragrance of a ‘purple queen’
long before i see the magnolia tree

cool mint tang of iced-tea, freshly brewed
on a lazy, summer afternoon

a lover’s hand caressing my back
with whispered dreams for tomorrow

while a cello fills the air
with classical baroque

2.
these apprehensive stairs
built with disillusionment
(like the ones at Winchester House)

going nowhere

rake and tread determined long ago –
replicated for comfort
and ease

never altering

posing risks with their height and
nosing, jutting out profanely,
as if fabricated to cause us harm

and surprising us all the same

finding the lift harder as we break and gray,
only sometimes noticing the banister we
cling to as we climb

some wrought with gold

others smelling of must
and decay –
aged, iron balusters

pungent, like seeping blood

our grip tightens and gnarled fingers
squeeze to hold fast our place on the climb
forgetting that we can go down

and begin again

russet leaves
piled high on the front lawn —
the dog and I play

a letter to our lost selves

dear humanity –

a child’s sense of wonder
and curiosity

untamed

is what
the world needs now

a child’s joy at seeing
a caterpillar crawl

or the blur of a
hummingbird’s wings

is how
we will thrive

a child’s unbridled laughter
at seeing a friend

after a day’s absence

is our way
to the future

a child’s belief
in things they cannot see

and certain faith
in tomorrow

is all
we need to know

the thrum of impatience
and din of greed; clangor
of intolerance and tumult
of bigotry ring so loudly
across our land they drown
out the voices –

in silence we hear the butterflies

thumbs flying, eyes down
a steady stream of lies
no filter – critical
thinking (a lost
art) we forge forward
asking no questions
and the one we should
sitting idle on our tongues

in silence we hear the butterflies

only in our collective quiet will the
answers be found – amongst the singing
stars; sonorous ocean swells, dulcet
tones of a rainbow and in the
melodic hum of trees
alive with promise

in silence we hear the butterflies

Recipe for Mondays

1. Coffee
2. Denial
3. Silence
4. Luck
5. Friday Focus

Mix four parts coffee with three parts denial
and stir frequently. Often this recipe requires
an additional dose of the first ingredient to
ensure a sufficiently stable outcome. Item one
may be added liberally, as needed, due to the
overpowering redolence of denial.

A third of the third ingredient is the easiest one
to remember; but forget it and the whole recipe
turns sour. Without silence, there can be no Mondays.
Unless you add more coffee.

Luck is up to you. A pinch, is often all that is
required but if you are doing Mondays after
a holiday, a great event, or
Daylight Savings Time,
it will be a key ingredient
for the success of this dish –
any amount greater than coffee will do.

Friday Focus is hard to find when making Mondays
but if you don’t include it, the recipe is doomed.

Mix items well and let sit for an hour.

Even though you may only have minutes to spare,
Mondays must have time to properly cool
before being consumed. The longer they sit,
the easier they are to manage.