The Poetry Marathon

The home of costumes

and confusion to some,

images of organization

to others.

Never enough most claim!

beneath the bed ain’t the same

as shelf space.

But the dreams hung here

can wither and die in the dark,

motheaten and buried

treasures lie deep within.

Don’t close the door

unless it’s cedar,

and the walk-in

is the same distance

as the walkout.

The leaves beckon and entice

with a splash of sunlight

before the damp woods surround

and their psithurism

becomes the pervading sound,

blotting out thoughts

while inviting adventure

with the whispering winds

of why not?

what is love

but the yeasty smell

of bread

baking in the oven,

that yellow kitchen

warm with sunshine

and acceptance.

Even when clouds

of conflict arise like smoke

they somehow soften,

melting like butter

on the warm slice.

I ripped the elbow of my jacket

on a broken lightbulb

hidden in a bucket

that smelled vaguely of cinnamon.

It was in that carport

down by the bayou,

where the mural of the dying elk,

blood the color of beets,

stares as if pleading with me,

in his death tremor,

to be set free.

All my friends are funeral singers

and yet their differing pitches

hit the same note of harmony

within my heart.

I come with my battery-powered lamp to sit by your fire,

my tired feet warmed by the flames of your heart,

drawing energy not from a’s or c’s or even d’s but from solar flares.

I sit in sunshine even in the dark of night

reflecting the source that you are.

Your fire needs to claim a log.

It needs to crackle and crisp the edges of whatever draws near.

Take this wood, take this word, and burn me, baby, bring it on!

We are lit from within with that destructive, creative energy of love

where every wood chip splinters and sparks

demanding yet more fuel for the fire.

Willingly, I turn my face toward your inner sun

and recharge my batteries to be a light in the night,

sitting in the splendor of your flame,

my beacon humbly holding vigil.

Be a swing in the sun

inviting you to become

stillness in the motion

like a wave in the ocean

seeding your space with grace.

Let go and fly forth!

be a swing in the sun

that never stops but slows

over the flowers that grow

so peacefully in place.

Finding courage and strength

without distance or length

be a swing in the sun

and just have some fun

leaving no trace.

The field shines with gold

The flowers so bold

before the harvest comes

be a swing in the sun

and show your true face.

The invitation is there

It doesn’t matter where

Get a running start

open your heart

be a swing in the sun.

A glimpse of who I wish to be

dancing and free

lost amidst the stars

Where did I go?

What did I see?

there’s no name for this place

no way to return

the road just dead ends in a cul de sac

of regret and now who is that

approaching and leaving by the same door?

a lost glove, a misplaced hat

clues to nowhere and nothing

what lies under the decay is something only time will tell

in a voice of wind and rain and erosion.

Is anyone missing this hat?

somewhere, gloveless?

Tried yet troubled

pyramids and promises

sanctioned security that wasn’t

like bells unrung

songs unsung

standing alone

again.