The Poetry Marathon

Juna sits so regally and fine
Her white fur tangled everywhere
Like tumbleweeds divine.

Although her hips are giving way
She follows faithfully
Chasing shadows with a bliss
Wandering and free.

Juna is a friend of mine
A dog who is so true
I’m grateful for her presence
And energy anew.

Eighteen years
In one home
felt comfortable…
Easy… like a well worn path in the woods.
I knew where I was going.
Now I feel lost, because I am.
My path, my home, has ended.
One hand delivered letter from Mr Landlord
and here I am
sleeping in a room
at my friend’s house.
My cat paces this room
wondering why he is locked in.
As I drive by tents on the side of the road
I wonder.
We are Everywhere.
The lost.
Our paths may be found within
but I sure do miss
my home.

I have not put pen to paper as of late. Thank you dear poetry marathon for this yearly tradition of prompts and accountability. Where I may feel alone and isolated, it’s nice to know there are so many poetry comrades. United we write!

I’ve never been to Shangri La
I hear it’s quite divine
between the ageless populace
and lack of health decline.

I saw the movie long ago
and read a book or two
but never have I ventured forth
into the Mystic blue.

I’d like to visit Shangri La
I’m sure it’s all they say
but then again, to be within
my heart is here today.

I’m being followed by a shadow of myself
(embrace your shadow self, all the self help books decry)
Can I sew my shadow self back on
with a needle and thread?
That’s what Wendy did to Peter Pan.
When all my illusions and delusions fade away
What is left?
Bereft of fantasy,
the bare bones of truth
illuminate
reality.
Sanctity.
Serenity.

Up above the tree line
where the stars
like a firefly
conspire….
winking their long distance code…
There is a strange heat
from which glaciers melt
and permafrost dissolves.
Drink from this bottle of truth,
dear Alice.
You will shrink. Or grow.
(Or is that the magic mushroom?)
Either way,
this lethargy
will end.

Tiger! Tiger! Flaming comet burn
Pine and oak tree
Frame the Milky Way
Look up and you will see.
Question the ghosting!
Stop
What do you see with your own eyes?
Hands up,
Fear Immobilizes.

For me the season I prefer
depends upon the sun
a gentle calm awakening
a nurturing, as one.

The seasons of a flower
wander through the year
but underneath a pattern
in geometry, a sphere.

Flowers, blooming flowers!
Grown from buds too small to see
So tightly wound, then opening!
Gently folding free.

I hear the music of the waves
Crash roll blooms of sound
The wind it whips my hair around
the sun is beating down.
The sky is clear and blue and sharp
I toss my shoes aside
Beneath my toes the sand swims through
So warm and soft inside.

Birds dance their choreography
an elegant display
their timing is impeccable
the wind the waves they play.
I find a rock so shimmering
I hold it in my hand.
My pockets are full
with beauty found in sand.
Would I could I stay forever
breathing salt and sea and sky
Always near the ocean
Watching breakers fly.

Like an old song
you carved your heart
into my soul
peeling through bark like defenses
to the vulnerability
beneath.
The sap of loss
it does not end
(although it can seem to harden)
It drips down,
sticky
with the mess of death
and memories.
I don’t even try to clean it off.