The Poetry Marathon

Children born in fairyland
as wings begin to sprout
searching for sprinkles of cake crumbs
their magic is no doubt

They always get their wishes
made of enchanting light
once were thought of as misfits
But now their repute is bright

Early married at seven
homes of brick and granite stone
these flitting little sprites
our dearest friends they’re known

The penchant for trickery
in will-o-the-wisp spells
considered demoted angels
but we embrace their bells

To leave that stale bread
the essence of home and fire
taming dough to rise
in distaste of the pixie’s ire

the Sleagh Maith of Scotland
the Good People so blessed
condensed clouds of the north
like chameleons colured deft

To meet these beguiling wafts
with their translucent gossamer wings
a dream would surely come true
as the King of Fairies sings

My dear Penelope, you make me sing
how I admire you
dodging all the pitfalls
that our pitiful life does bring

There is no evil in your place
barricades from fools like me
how can I stay near you
with my ugly sneering face

You look lovely in the moonlight
and stunning in the glow
as the sun kisses your fair cheek
that rests and pales at night

When we walked that stormy lane
I could feel a sudden change in you
not just beauty but strength
and a total absence of pain

Your footsteps were profound
following the stepping stones
reaching heights of the immaculate
and I heard a trumpet sound

The summit of our love
giving me a chance at rugged handsomeness
and unyielding courage
as I raise my gauntlet glove

Your love died
and I am quiet, peaceful
my breath a silent pool
you, a passing jewel

My heart, determined
not to be broken
but my waters are still
withering from the unspoken

My funfilled valley
no longer a happy clatter
and my tide is unmoving
it no longer matters

I feel the breezes
kissing my mirror like doldrums
I feel no more joyous trance
as the water skeeters dance

Where this slow death goes
is not within my evaporated mind
and my fading dreams
once embraced your kind

If I believed in miracles
which sadly, I do not
I could pray for your return
and feel my heart’s ecstatic burn

The vivid autumn does not bring sadness
yet I am brokenhearted
the cool breezes and setting sun
those inspirations have parted

When this season decides to end
there is no need to care
as I see no message of wintery days
and a blizzard’s icy stare

The final peace of the golden maples
leaves fluttering goodbye
the savoury smells of my memories
are in their final fly

Celebration clamouring all around
giving thanks for many things
I sit, tossing stones
imagining the fate of rings

Carry on, dear friend
in this nameless walk through mortality
I hear your meaningless voice
as humanities hopeless modality

One day I walked by the Garden Gate
so elaborate and grand
rising in the centre
in classical command

There seemed no reason for entering
as the gate was firmly locked
and there appeared so little beyond
the path so firmly blocked

One cold and rainy day
there seemed no reason to walk
but a strange urge propelled me
luring me in silent mock

So I went that day
the journey slippery and dank
I thought of turning back
considering it a silly prank

But then I arrived at the Gate
wide open in its stance
suggesting that I, before I pass
take a casual glance

Gilded by the rays of a sudden sun
glorious golden tresses drawn
it was you
rising like the morning dawn

Autumn steals the show
with trees that are in the know
The paths we walk
kicking leaves as we talk

Refreshing breezes blow our minds
and sports of many kinds
We begin to speak of yuletide
God forbid a silly ride

So early in its commercial glare
we forget a horizonic stare
Thanksgiving, a family time to adore
forgetting what to be thankful for

And, it’s pumpkin everything
from savoury pie to beers spicy zing
and those firepit gatherings
with our oer festive blathering

Yes, the fall is grand
though yet, nothing planned…

Giant tapestries splash across the wall
silhouettes dotting the room
Art Deco in spatial wisdom
and Van Gogh so vividly abloom

The passing ship of clouds
the jagged and snowy summit
a horizon of the tallest pines
and rugged hills the plummet

Interior designs of French Country
watercolour in blanched serenity
wrap-around Regency homes
and graceful scenes of lenity

the winding roads of autumn
the pure white of Christmas Eve
the icy cold blue of the oceans
and a twinkling lake’s reprieve

Both man and nature weave
when true honest passion lives
a partnership as we steward
this remarkable place that gives

When I was ten
I was well beyond the pen
but I still tended to rattle
and the conflict was quite a battle

When I was twenty
I drank my beer aplenty
but still got through college
but, with a minimum of knowledge

When I was thirty
I met a girl who was purty
married with kids
a New Year’s eve banging lids

When I was forty
I thought I was rather sporty
wearing snazzy jackets
and ties that made a racket

When I was fifty
I was still pretty nifty
grey hair, quite dignified
but a belly growing wide

When I was sixty
I was somewhat betwixty
was I young or old
I was never told

Now that I’m seventy
I am becoming benty
arthritic pain
and worse in the rain

A game so unworthy

keeping up with the Jones’

creating a false image

leading to a throw of stones

I do need the competition

after all, it’s hard enough

winning little battles

and struggling through the rough

Pulling with calloused hands

in a silly tug ‘o war

creating the grass stains

and pain that I abhor

My lust for wealth has withered

I want the simple life

three meals a day, that’s all

avoiding hours of strife

understanding and tolerance

putting judgment to a halt

taking a deep breath

no worries for who’s at fault

But still, a better world we must strive

listening instead of boasting

the modest application of love

the mantra well worth toasting