24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 24: A Tribute to Edith Sitwell “Still Stands the Lake”

still stands the lake
it’s peace a gentle tease
I ask, can it be prolonged
there is so much at stake

still stands the lake
so quiet and motionless
can this be transformed to me
or would it be a terrible mistake

still stands the lake
the bold cliffs peering down
awaiting a rush of morning
but midnight is still awake

still stands the lake
tall pines reaching in hunger
impatient in starlit rest
no feet for needle’s break

still stands the lake
I ponder a silly echo
then hesitate with the serenity of respect
still stands the lake


24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 23: A Tribute to William Shakespeare “My Heart Was Laughter’s Own”

When I was a young man
hey ho my love did bloom
the world my oyster pan
but lo, my heart wa laughter’s own

When I was an eager man
hey ho my love did bloom
to places of rejoicing I ran
but lo, my heart wa laughter’s own

When I was a conceited man
hey ho my love did bloom
oblivious to the rule of clan
but lo, my heart was laughter’s own

When I was a clowning man
hey ho my love did bloom
rejecting any thoughtful plan
but lo, my heart was laughter’s own

When I was a less younger man
hey ho, my love did bloom
and how I’m here, so glad to stand
and lo, my heart is laughter’s own

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 22: A Tribute to E. E. Cummings II “A Strange Little Town”

the street was adorned
with many wayward feet
bustling, in no particular direction
creating confusing circles in my reflection

patrons offering a certain type of encouragement
helping by suggesting a destination
like Mrs. Flanagan’s half-price sale
where you could also pick up your mail

I like to call it milling about
after all, it doesn’t have to be market day
to see how much Debbie McCabe’s stomach is growing
and yes, her face is glowing

procuring the most said phrase of all
Holly cumquats, look how much she’s grown
Millicent Miller is only fourteen
and has grown seven inches, and is still a string-bean

in a tradition of lore, cousins marry cousins,
there’s no law against it I guess
but it creates a simmer of distaste
for some who judge in their haste

openly telling of their dreams
and mentioning what Miss Winterbottom did,
“She always goes a bit crazy,” Sally Vickers said
when the colour of the leaves change to red

and the embellishment of the Boer War heroes
it’s better than telling of the jail sentence
for setting fire to Mr. Stone’s paper clip plant
because he didn’t like his political slant

The new mayor is well-trusted
he’s kissed every baby in town
and his best friend is the banker
whose son works at Madame’s in a gown

They know of the sun
the moon, the stars and the rain
as well as all four seasons
which are as predictable as Sammy Fontaine
He’ll get as drunk as a skunk today
and sleep in the stable tonight

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 21: A Tribute to John Keats “A Humble Man”


I watched her dance
and I felt the lure of her arms
viewing deeps breathes
that seemed to make her eyes asweat

the night seemed long
the latest of hours it was
and I ask, is there something I must do
my impatient sighs strangling me

I heard whispers, soft yet thundering
a storm of humiliation
my anxiety and fears my warbrobe
colourless and pale

Why such looks of mockery
what have I done I ask
I am only a humble man
yearning for the chance at love

Her gentle motion like a wave
taking her across the room
her delicate hands pointing to the moors
will she sing a song of wolves?

I see a chance at rebuttal
my flimsy friends to be denied
running towards the moon
casting its glow on her flaming hair

she rollicks over the thistled hills
I in relentless yet blissful chase
my hightops stripped og their soles
and I stripped of my doubt

I will forever run and follow
waiting for her to turn around
but, no matter
my love has limitless space


24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 20: A Tribute to Muldrew Lake “The Polygons of Night or A Man Sitting on a Dock at Midnight”

Glass in its glory
rippling, yet coming to a stop
light from windows
halfway up the hill

smoke from the brigham
forming ornate streams
white converging with black
dissapating over night striders

rectangular gold
flicking and and off
changing the illusion
of a magic city

layered, from private worlds
to a streak of confusing light
as I ask from where it comes
taking another inhalation of amphora

left to right invisible
as my eyes dart ahead to stubborn cliffs
my thoughts taking a dive
a fear of drowning my wisdom

gathering my smokey rum
the ice long gone
the glass secure, sitting
on the wide and sturdy arm

Trying to define goodnight
by what I see around me
but time seems suspended
in a battle with distorted light

It time to stumble back
on the rocky steps
to the peace of sleep
and the surprise of jolting dream


24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 19: A Tribute to William Wordsworth “Falling”

I was overcome with awe, beholding
   the depth of the cliff below 
The whitecaps like the tiny slices 
of, lace
from my mother’s workshop ago 
The impending doom of the rocks severe
cluttering my dreams each night
And now I am a man
and I have not shaken this drastic fear
So will it be as I gather wrinkles
   this agent will age me more
So now, I am a man, of lingering memory 
is this an omen of my peril
   perhaps death, 
Or is this worry only providing me,
with the human option   
to dispel fear, and wrap its understanding
   or toss it away with oblivious negligence

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Poem 18: A Tribute to Margaret Atwood “The Noodle”

In restaurants we discuss
our plans for the week
Always seeking these places
to absorb mounds of tasty fat
New health plans that satisfy
our sense of self-obligation
But nothing has changed in our lives
not yet at least
Though the real question is
have you reached your goals
it is pondered, with a head scratch
if I have any at all
I raise my fork (not sure if it is the right one)
over the plate of Nagamese Pork Curry
Dramatically I perform a theatrical stab
and the fork lands in the eggplant pomodoro
a long string of noodle flings itself
to the neck of my companion
It wraps around her beautiful nape
as she grasps her desperate throat
She chooses to scream
but the sound comes out in aria
Der Hölle Rachehe rings the rafters
there is not a dry eye in the house
I commended her on her performance
and she stared at me in rage
in denial of her chameleon act
from black evening dress to velvet robe of ruby
I also mentioned the awe she drew
as well as the odd look of annoyance
She looked at me in query, and I then explained to her
some think you are encouraging witchcraft
I decided to gather the repast to my eager lips
ignoring her plea for fame
I wasn’t quite sure why she wasn’t enthusiastic
regarding the fine cuisine before her

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 17: “A Tribute to Kaitlyn Sutey “Shuttlecock”

the homes of the water
a wonderful face
never known
to be my place
But they celebrate memories
of times in the pines
and tree branch fishing
and sugar from rusty times
More laughter than I can
the shuttlecock lost again
no Muskoka chair here
a nylon strap chair’s domain
The bugs arrived early, again
seemingly never to leave
swatters rather futile in our efforts
so I decide to wear long sleeves
It’s hot and humid
but I endure
Being soaked in that old sleeping bag
but never regretting the cottage life lure
The creaking dock, weeds and snakes
remembering those shattering eeks
watch out for the broken rake
walking towards the bubbling creek
frying eggs, and munching hot dogs
taking short naps
and chopping logs
no hot water from the taps
Those starry nights, answered my dreams
the call of the loons
and rain in reams
as we run out of spoons
Canoes and runabouts, and the dingy that leaks
replacing the pane
from the raccoon that peaks
and rodents that reign
penning ideas on the deck
past joys, and all the sweat
on this decade of memory trek
of charcoal briquettes

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 16: Tribute to Wendie Donabie “Somnolent Wake”

Dawn so silent for me
in its magical overture
the first music to my ears
but my mind is often quelled

Late nights and old movies
and the tosses and turns of sleep
preparing me for a catch-up day
doom is often spelled

Those buzzing predators
I hear their complaints
for I offer not to feed them
with my morning’s somnolent wake

But they remind me
of the magic of sunrise
as I learn of the long dark shadows
and earlier walks by the dew drop lake

The light is strange and misty
clearing as the minutes turn
leaving Gothic town of my dreams
where the oldest memories burn

Another day has come
and a lesson I have learned
there enters within me a new encounter
and the love I am now to yearn

24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 15: A Tribute to E.E. Cunningham “The Tick of a Brick”

O sweet spontaneity
people, what makes them tick
possible demise

words of
philosophy, perspective and art
a prick (not what you think)

have sometimes naughty looks
an assumed part of
not necessarily

beauty .
eyes of the beholder
physical acts of propriety
hugs etc.

and of course, some conception
Gods or gods
true (really)

for a dream
conquering buried imagination
a rhythmic
not always coherent

that is the answer
no such thing based
some critics

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