The Poetry Marathon

His hands loved the soil, the way it felt was a caress.

His eyes loved the flowers

He used the colors to create the soil a dress.

Trees, majestic, soaring high or squat, hunkered low,

were his absolute favorites.

He loved the fast growing pine and the changing oak leaves.

He tended them all, each with the care required to be strong.

They give testament to his love.

brrrrrr, grind the coffee

woosh, add the water just right

mmmmm I can move now

The desert is sucking the life out of me.

Like a mummified Pharaoh with papyrus skin.

The sun says “sweat”, but I have nothing more to give.

Surrounded by sand, I am in the wrong place.

I long for the waves, splash dancing with a

shore welcoming each waves onslaught.

Breeze sliding its fingers through my hair.

The sun kisses on bare shoulders, backs and legs.

I sit in the constant hum of exhausted AC.

A noise of machines and isolation.

Staring at a face on the pix-elated screen.

wishing I could be on a towel in a different sand.

aquamarine cool,

brilliant orbs of ice wrap me

and freeze my heart beat

five chords and strumming

the story unfolds washing

o’er me in billows

It was a strange magical evening,

the fireflies danced with the stars.

Flitting just with in the treeline,

they zoomed around the cottage.

The nightly heat filled us with lethargy;

our young bodies glistening in the dark.

Holding tight to empty porridge bottles,

waiting, in a mask of sweat, to capture

the flickering fairies of youth.

There once was a lad from Windsor

that tried to get a date on Tinder

he used the wrong emoji

got blocked for breaking policy

and now has to depend on his sister

September

Crisp air and apple cider

reminds me of walks threw fallen leaves

sweatshirts and hand holding around open fires

so begins the cycle of my grieving.

October

Children chatter about costumes

morning breath comes in puffs

a coldness creeps into my smiles

and close friends quickly call my bluff

November

I am supposed to be Thankful

and I suppose there is good reason

you are at peace, not in pain anymore

but somehow that doesn’t quite fit the season

splintered wood easel needs sanding

and the coarse, fine haired brushes need cleaning

but the sky is wrapping itself in cloud boas

and the lamp travels the horizon

splashing maroon, cherry and various levels of the fire spectrum

in chaotic sugar streams across the waves,

emerald, teal, aqua, and royal blue, they are

dancing with a shore of muted, grainy crystals of sand

captivated audience of one, I await the explosive ending

billiant diamonds crash

across vastness of pitch void,

creation dancing