The Poetry Marathon

Hour 14

Not quite a fairy tale
or a western
or a story set in stone
this was shared words

Not a western
but tales set in an unknown lake
this was shared words
legends spoken around a fire

Tales set on an unknown lake
loon lake we called it
legends spoken around the fire
never written down

Loon lake
not stories set in stone
never written down
not quite a fairy tale

Hour 12

in fading light
in the sound of turquoise
there is a time of imaginings
an in between feeling
not awake not sleep dreaming
but like dusk with elements
of day and night
where your own thoughts settle
like the last wash of color
over desert mesa
turquoise into rust into spangled night

Hour 10

In the exhalation of poets, we writers like to categorize everything bundle them up. I wonder what a collection of humans would be? Not as congress or community as we would not agree on anything.

In a shrewdness of apes the gorillas at large from the zoo should be better than entering into man’s realm. There is no stopping or departing from bus terminal 3.5 for Africa.

Picture a cauldron of bats brewing the night sky into insect tea.

The glare of cats will gleam in the night.
Cheetahs may form a coalition
but never orangutans.

A tower of giraffes loom in the desert.

Is it a smack sting or slap of jellyfish?

It is definitely a lump of otters.

Tigers ambush
zealous zebras.

But humans?
If only we got along.
Not a crew a troop or agreement.
It would be a disagreement of humans
a force of manipulation
a gathering of egos.
A disrespect of all.
Nothing good comes from
categorizing so maybe
we are all fades of ourselves.

Hour 9

Snow supply
quarantine stash
easybox detox mac and cheese
not exactly childhood.
Mom did not make box cheese pasta
She made spaghetti and cheese
sorta from scratch.
In adult mode I am not sure
if Velveeta can be considered from scratch
it’s the same goop as in boxes
but it’s still a bite of childhood.

Hour 8

On the Edge

the walkers on the edge
balance the turns

they are the stilt walkers
chair builders
aerial ribbon weavers

they make joy out of chaos
make mundane magical

the audience watches
the impossible done daily

when the impossible flies
the walkers on the edge

are the transition from tricks to magic
when reality fades

magic is born
making joy out of chaos

Hour 6

Windows, looking back

Windows, looking back
I wonder if they are two-way.
Now from the outside, the
Drapes drawn heavy
Only obscure the
View within.

Looking back I can
Observe what passed inside
Only I did not grasp what
Keeping truth of me meant.
I had to walk away.
Now in the today I am
Going on ahead.

Backwards thinking is
A trip I won’t make I
Can I go to that place but just
Keep on and don’t look back.

Duet Tangle

A duet of cellos
A rumble of dueling attitudes
Snark and reverberation
A conversation of tea and formality
Each side plays a tune of proper
And I was in the corner
Pretending not to overhear

Testing log in

The march

The march is over
For a decade plus seven
The wait is over
Grubbing swimming through dirt
Inching toward the sustaining tree.
Slowly scaling the massive trunk.
Waiting under the shadow of leaves
For hard shell and wings to form.

Releasing songs
To start all over
Again.

new vistas bad music
where you hear the back bass
but not the words
train station humm
vanilla point of vanishing
us onto paper battered
tumbled hard
breaking us out of bedroom
holding a quiver of line
waiting to read in open
public
doors open

butBut do I go un