The Poetry Marathon

Fragrant honeysuckle

wakens my senses.

I am first to say,

good morning,

when the bees come out.

Industrious creatures,

their very existence at stake,

and at the whim of a

chemical god.

Be honest,

you only thought in lusty kisses.

I was your sparkly beauty,

and after hours,

your strength of will

waned.

After my artistry,

after reality,

this is life.

Pretty things

lose shape, and dull

over time.

Did you not think

of tomorrow?

I did. I still do.

I live and like the age I become,

daily,

as the world turns round and round,

and time though linear,

sweats up a storm

as we sight

the continuum .

Be honest.

You did not remember me,

did you?

It is not unlike me,

to breathe through my fingers.

I often do not see but the rippling

of half truths and dreams.

Words that, once uttered,

drift downstream to be swallowed

by trout.

This is not new to me,

but feeling it this way,

in this life,

is a bejeweled treat.

Once I was meek.

I was beaten by

furrowed brows,

and bellowing clouds,

and for a time,

I cowered.

This new drift,

the sun rippled sand and stone,

and the prickled feeling

of a spine;

this distance between

you, and me,

this is a twist.

The strength of current,

and good weather,

and the drift of words

downstream,

by God,

I will rise up out of the water,

one day,

and leave you

to catch up with

your own

drifting words.

Hello, East Coast transplants!

I love words. I always have. They can be the death of you, or the salvation. They can reveal, or mystify; they can destroy. It is amazing to me that something that is merely noise, a breath of air with sound, can be so very powerful. I have a book of poetry on Amazon.com, under the name Debra K. McElroy, “Old Moon”. I live on Virginia’s Eastern Shore, and work to change the laws for animals, specifically dogs and cats here. I am vegan, Christian with a caveat, and a litter hater. Recycle; reuse; reduce. Support renewable energy, save the planet. Now you know me. It is very nice to meet you…