Hour Five (This one shows up on my profile before the end of the marathon but for some reason doesn’t show up on my activity feed. Is strange. Here is the screenshot of the original posting. Not sure what I fouled up on in posting the original)

Memories tucked into
my breast pocket
left and close to my heart-
they flutter like eyelids
just waking from slumber-
fractured images
play upon the screen of thought
a remembrance and tribute
to a life once lived
by previous lives-
the ancestors of self
that passed away
by the alchemical chemicals
and compounded experience
of former selves in prior chapters.
I reach out and touch a few
Grazing my fingertips over their edges
flipping through the pages of my life.
Some slip through fingers like ribbon
while others catch themselves upon
the thread of emotion
and slice I to my skin.
The salt of tears cleansing the wounds.
Some are moonlit passages
bathed in shadows
that circumvent the present-
I lift the camera lens of my eyes
and snap another memory
like my fingers
as I mosey along maintaining
a rhythm of observation.
I tuck it in with the rest
sealing and stamping the edges in
minding where I come from
and just how far I’ve gone.
A moment of self that passes
then folded into memory.

The Memories Carried

Hour Five

Memories tucked into
my breast pocket
left and close to my heart
they flutter like eyelids
just waking from slumber-
fractured images
play upon the screen of consciousness
a remembrance and tribute
to a life once lived
the ancestors of self
that passed away
by the alchemical chemicals
and compounded experience
of former selves in prior chapters.
I reach into the enclosure
running my fingers over their edges
flipping through the pages of life.
some slip through fingers
like ribbons
while others cling to
the thread of emotion
slicing into my skin
the salt of tears- an antiseptic
cleansing the sounds.
Some are moonlit passages bathed in shadows
that circumvent the present-
I lift the camera lens of my eyes
and snap another memory
like my fingers
as I mosey along, maintaining
a rhythm of observation.
I tuck it in the rest
stuffing and threading the edges in
minding where I had come from
and just how far I’ve gone
a moment of self that passes
folded into memory.

Magnum Opus

Hour Four

Outlying plans
with graphite tracing the intent-
gradients of charcoal
delineate from original form
a tiger’s eye iridescent gleam
watch with slanted strokes
of ink to pen
in abstract thought
and underlying meaning.
Oil streaks as the canvas weeps
fields of color upon it’s blank slate
Terra Verte and Payne’s Grey lament
Coalescing hues of personality – a prism
of sun-stricken fractals
whose reflection is diffused
upon the walls of self-
a color scheme of multi-chromatic
emotions undulating
with no adverse effect
to the masterpiece mirrored
in our choice of being.
To know without seeing
blindfolded painters are we
bequeathing the authority of art
to the greatest creator-
our free will imaginings
A paltry scribble contrary to the
artistic hands who has
A better idea
of the magnum opus of our lives.
With authoritative strokes,
He fashions us instruction –
dual creators working in tandem
we are the ink
but He is the Pen

The Desire To Be Truly Loved

Hour Twenty-Four (had to repost because I accidentally deleted the original that was posted at 8:44 am EST I had a horrible case of the dumb)

It’s not so much about the carnal
the jutting hips
and softness of breast
and the iron ripples of
a well-trained stomach.
It’s not about the bulging
muscle and sinew
or the physical
as looks are oft apt to deceive
and change over time-
as a lifetime is quite short
but rather long in it’s age.

It’s not about what is offered
in dollars and sense
of style and popularity-
nor the welcoming embrace of
my partner’s friends
and whether or not their approval
is a cause to question
the worth of a relationship
at face value from a biased standpoint.

It’s not about what can be gained
in the physical-
but the spiritual
and what can be cherished in heart-
it is the elevation of souls
as we work as a team-
never one above the other,
but he is willing to lead
and view life through a clear screen
tossing aside the rose-colored hue
that muddles the view of reality.

Some like their partners
like paper dolls,
carved out and cut
in specific form to remain as that
but what I desire is fluid-
a liquid love to quench my thirst
from a well that never runs dry.

I desire to be the only one he sees
without concern his eyes would catch
upon the fabric of another pretty face.
I desire to be held and cherished
valued as a woman,
safety and comfort, a necessity.
I desire a man who will
rise to the occasion
and gently guard my body and heart
like a sentinel –
ever watching and aware-
protective and respectful of
the boundaries set in place.
Slow to anger, quick to forgive
patience for our highs and lows
as the journey of life
ebbs and flows-
and with every disagreement –
coming together as equals
instead of portioning out complaints
to ears that feed division.
And he’d remind me in every way possible
my value to him-and I, he respectively.

If this be you,
with an oath to remain true
and you see my imperfections and flaws
as beauty marks instead of
a stain and offense upon the eyes.
If you can love me without conditions
without a trace of a second guess-
If you can desire only my hands and lips
and tender kiss-
If you can remain true and chaste
promised only to me…
If you can accept the whole of me
and everything in between-
and are respective to my wishes
and dreams without pressing,
encourage the balance
between both our needs-
prove your devotion through
costless thoughtful gestures-
far richer than can be purchased,
and if You love God
more than you love me,
then perhaps there is a future
for you and I-
and gladly I will bequeath to you
the very best of me.

The Restaurant of Poetry

Hour Twenty-Three

My brain is pudding
a casserole of deliberation
charbroiled musings
a culinary art.
A souffle of hapless meanderings
sticking to the bottom of
the deadpan stare of a sleep-deprived wordsmith.
I take the spatula of resolve
and chisel away at metaphors-
with eyes glazed over
the sweetness of sentiments
and the salty brine of experience.
My verse becomes gelatinous gravy
smothering the carefully prepared meal
in a swarthy succulent and savory condiment
a condemnation of palate.
My humor presented upon
a poo poo platter
of nonsensical imagery…
but in all my serious kneading
of the dough, baked, and left to cool
upon the fresh morning air-
I find I mourn the loss of words
as my audience takes bite-sized portions of me
in exchange for the full meal.

The Future

Hour Twenty-Two

The future is written
with invisible ink
and solidified by
the permanence of our
choices and action.

The Philosophy Within a YouTube Feed

Hour Twenty-One (Digitally Found Poetry)

One look and you’re mine
a cluster of one
building chemistry
with dark intentions-
lucid dreaming
a spiritual spy
watching to see if
words alleviate the affliction.
One must never give up
and trust God’s timing-
know one’s value
and continue to fight
the tooth and nail
and learn to fly-
to spread one’s feathered tapestries
around the wind
and soar to the heavens.
Let loose the spirit from the cage
restricting the aptitude to move forward
with razor sharp intuition and sagacity.

Time is at a loss for words
with the prolapse of constipated
emotion spilling out from the
engorged marrow of self-preservation.
Snapshots of love encased within
a shadowbox of commemoration
collecting dust in the quiet spaces
in the snowstorms of winter’s chill.
Deceit returns from it’s journey to
the endless river of empty ambition
void of substance, depth, and
the thrill of life that love gifts.

How can it be
that the phoenix arises
within the cinder from the crossfire
of a war waged against
growth-a shameful mire
extricating the remnants
of self from the miles of green
lining the countryside
as it is burned into carbon.
The delicate sound of thunder
erupts behind the eyes
saturating the particles
that remain of the struggle
to which the result is resiliency.

The real meaning of the cross
is that we bear the labor
and exert oneself to overcome
with an elegant poetic dignity-
for it is within the struggles of
temptation and hardship that
we become grateful for the puissance-
and gladly emulate the one
whose aptitude in depth
and graceful service
sacrificed His mortality
for the sake of those of us
who choose to dwell with the living.

Cry To Heaven

Hour Twenty Inspiration= “Cluster One” Pink Floyd

Hot are the rivers
running through scaled eyes
blinded by the serpentine
motivations and macabre machinations
of the world of today
every day lacking
the promise of tomorrow.
Lord, hear our prayers
as we silently wilt
our petals fall with
an absent minded cause for concern.

We realize this world requires
a shift in perception
from the mummified remains
of wise old trees
ringed with years of stately experience
that have seen far more than we.
They are filleted into thin slices
and stuffed into the mouths of
those whose authority
govern the people
seething with ulterior motives
and promises broken like spirits-
Lord, hear our prayers
as we gather in hushed whispers
and the biting of fists-
our fear of standing out
standing up
at the injustice of greed
as nothing is filled more than pockets
with no thought to starving mouths
that lack the strength in jaw
to speak out or chew upon
another daily headline of
another corrupt institution –
failing in moral and character.
It is one thing to have fault,
yet another to continue the cycle of it.

The world, an unholy empire
built upon the backs of popular vote
and someone else’s work
for none consider a change in habit
and that fact is cause to salivate
where corporations pay homage
to the next candidate
with a vote of confidence
and clandestine bribery
to adjust tax brackets
and let it ride
the coattails of mudslinging,
ensuring the victory- a campaign of hate
and the blatant traces of facade.
Lord, hear our prayer
as we cry to heaven
as countries vie to expand
their attention upon expounding dominance
of yet another land-
not a battle of wits, but a measuring stick.

In a world where the appetite for power replaces
the wealth of knowledge
and subterfuge, loopholes, and manipulation
becomes the goalpost-
we neglect to realize that
wisdom and education is our fountain of youth
as opposed to the artificial cosmetics
affixed unnaturally to
the beauty of imperfection.
The world craves attention,
yet goes about it in the wrong way
for we fill our bellies with materialism
and the next best thing
comparison to who has the best new what
instead of filling our hearts
with love that has become
so fleeting in this cruel world.
Lord, hear our cries
as deep within the hollow
we know the truth-
a candle lit in memoriam
for the faith and hope that many have lost
as circumstances have much want to improve
They’re snuffed out and dimmed by
the shadows of suits and power plays
as we believe our father and not our Father
knows best…

As jealousy and envy pave the road
to our own demise-
competition became a war
borne of death, destruction, and ego
as it collides with faltering self-worth;
an uprising as the neglect to our own talents
leaves us no room for improvement
to highlight how intricate and substantial
each soul truly is and what
we as individuals can contribute
as we play to our strengths.
This has become a realm where
pride wires shut the mouths
and ties the tongue in knots-
a place where assumptions rule opinion
and emotion becomes fact
and not felt
The world a gameshow
where the winner takes all
and leaves behind no crumbs to those
who break their backs
and hearts to survive.

Lord Father, hear our cries to heaven
and bestow upon us Your righteous hand
shield us from the growing savagery
and crack open the tomb of our hearts,
uplift our broken spirits
that have shattered upon the rocks
thrown through every window
of our lives.

Hold My Hand

Hour Nineteen 3:45 Dizdain Form

Will you hold my hand as time passes on,
or will you let go and lead me to fall?
Will you remain with me in breaking dawn,
or will you balk and lead me to nightfall?
Will you love above others overall,
or will your attention wander away
distracted by wanton flesh-carnal play?
Will you hold my hand in the years to come,
or will you find reason to break away?
Will I be a placeholder in interim?

Mortar and Pestle

Hour Eighteen 3993

Sun-stroked gardens
season stained carpets
of variegated color-
the clean scent of greenery
and herbs a pleasant arousal
to the senses.
The Chickweeds gather in droves
clucking away with banter
cleaving to the Cleavers
until Evening Primrose.
Goats Rue the interruption
while nursing their young
as Honeysuckles at their teat.
Jack the preacher In The Pulpit
wears a Scullcap complimenting
an Old Man’s Beard and
bearing Solomon’s Seal
from St. John’s Wort
chastising the Lyre Leaf Sage
for the Sassafras to their Motherwort
who then threatens to wash
their mouths with Soapwort,
a custom in Sweet Ciscily.
The Trillium trinity
a blessed purity
and Speedwell
the ailments to healing.

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