The Poetry Marathon

2. Stone Love

2. Stone Love

I fell in love long ago with sacred geometry or was it geology. Throughout the expression of time modern society came to hunger for diamonds that would be created through pressure not as rare as rubies, but still just as sought after. Colors compressed into gemstones. Smooth as glass. Iridescent too. Light Refraction. All we would come to worship in an attempt to escape and express a temporal love that would try to impersonate infinity.

Properties that would become an obsession in man’s attempt to heal a wounded heart. So we then looked to other precious stones like rose quartz or malachite, blue lapis, carnelian remnants of ancestors of the past like Egyptians, Jade from our Asian Brethren, and Turquoise worn by our South American Sisters.  All in an attempt to sooth a broken heart and spirit.

We pay homage to an earth we love and like to take from without any intention of repayment. We wonder and awe at the natural beauty, yet we still look for answers to human ailments we don’t understand.

Ailments that the most advanced pharmacies can not cure. While we were focused on curing cancer, aids, and diabetes it was love that we needed most.  Hate, racism, and greed we realize that no medicine can cure. Yet, we still search the ends of the earth, inside and out; not afraid to venture to the greatest depths of the sea beyond the Mariana Trench traveling to the outer limits of the universe to find a cure we are unable to see lives in the core of the human heart. We are the cure, but like the humans we are we will always look outside before we look within.  Stone love is all we possess. We are stubborn, we are hungry, and thirsty to wake, knowing that our hearts are as hard as stone.

 

Looking up

3  Haiku poems

 

I’m looking upward

the fresh yellow buds of Spring

promising future.

 

Spring buds appearing

framing a sweet blue sky

viewed when slipped on mud.

 

Spring buds remind me

winter work is done for now

start planting flowers!

Prompt Two (2): Recipe For Procrastination

Recipe For Procrastination

Ingredients:

• Active mind
• A sense of laziness
• A love of naps
• Insomnia
• Some bursts of depression
• Too much to do
• Not enough to do
• Easily bored
• Aging

Take your active mind and mix it with too much to be done … for everyone else, usually … and a touch of perfectionism from your early years. You must be have experienced no longer having enough to do because you are retired or are in full menopause, with only a few hot flashes, retired and/or just no longer care.

You do not hate your sense of laziness, unless it means a burst of depression. Which may be a symptom of menopause from years ago. But, I guess it’s better than that bloody mess every freaking month. Or wait, naps are better and better each day. Maybe insomnia is not an issue if you can nap?

Here’s that active mind, and slower moving, achy body which can add to insomnia. A sense of laziness is fair; I mean, there was definitely too much to do then. Not to mention the cramps and sore breasts. Now, they just sag and feel, if anything . . . bored.

Sex? What’s that? Nah, a nap sounds better. Do it tomorrow.

A Night To Fight

In a dark starry night,
And the stars infinite,
The moon was not upright
And the shadow, not very bright

After the flickering twilight,
There was a sunrise.
Although the glimpse was slight
And the feeling of fright,
What I saw was a lovely sight.

In the shining sunlight,
Although the kiss was just right
The heart engraved in wood
Still gives me a fright!

Gold Stone

He wrapped tightly wound coils around his fingers
Smoothing the frayed kinks with his thumb
His eyes, like blue goldstone, sparkled
Tiny, gold flecks glittered as sunlight poured into the room
Flooding his face with a magical glow
As if his face was a gift from the Old Gods
Left on my doorstep

His lips, shaped like the perfect bow
Soft and dark
Were the ribbons that I got to unwind
The tip of his ochre nose
Was the thin piece of tape
That, when I touched it just right
Released the gift of his smile and a full-bodied laugh
That reverberated on the surface of my skin

I could stay like this
Counting the almost black freckles
Scattered across his cheeks
Until my breath became weak
And my mind began to fade

But I wouldn’t
Because the thought of existing without him
Whether here or somewhere else in time and space
Filled me with a sadness I never knew existed
Yes, I could survive it
But question was
Would I want to?

Babies Meet Trees

baby grand-
daughters staring
   at the sky
   boughs so high
above their round heads.
 
the first in Oz
snug in Dad’s arms
   her rapt stare
   her newborn hair
ruffling in the breeze.
 
the second
in CORVID Gotham
   a stolen hour
   a leafy bower
leaves whisper in her dreams.

(Lorine Niedecker invented this 5-line form, inspired by haiku.)

Smokey Mountains

Golden roads curve through
Golden hills of autumn grass
Glinting, golden, in the Indian summer sun

Warm air whistles through
Warm, blonde locks of hair
While warm smiles shine on everyone

Cool air captured by misty mountains
Cool cars winding around roads
Chill cool girls driving convertibles

And it’s the sunrise the next morning that melds everything

A pinch of me(a collage of all images).

A silly fool’s foolish heart carved; thoughts often scattered, but never torn apart.

Narcissism, the bearable kind;
a relatively non-foggy intelligent mind.
Sunshine both from the morn and noon, twilight hues and not a minute too soon.

Drizzles, downpours, floods and fall, drench my soul, they take my all,with an umbrella in hand.

Trees greet each other;
Moonlight and stars;
of course all the cliched romance of Venus with Mars.

Music better be, the soul stirring kind,
to trigger memories that are often hard to find.
No dearth of giggles and tears,
nothing to hide, the laughter or the fears.
A girl first, a woman always, so many roles,
so many masks with grace.

Mountains gray, dreams of gold,
growing up a lot harder than simply growing old.
Drops of dew; a morning anew, take my hand,
let’s leave footprints in the sand.
Living moments, far and few, complete with a pinch of me, incomplete without pinch of you…

Curiosity

If I remember nothing else

About childhood it’s what happens

After my bedtime

The idea that I missed out

On some unknown world

Frustrated me

Now of course I count

The restless hours

I do sleep

And laugh

So long a child’s curiosity

Show Your Bones

Writing poetry onto umbrellas 

Is easy to do: words in spirals, shapes and swirls. 

Written by pen, indelible, like art itself. 

In pubs and cafes around the cities North and South, 

collecting umbrellas from establishments, 

gains curiosity among the staff, 

and for a moment something new, 

breaks into the everyday. 

Brollies left in squares and street corners 

as a silent, secret, exchange 

the mystery of where, when and how. 

The touring is the purest joy really: 

travel as creation 

the bleary eyes in a Glasgow bus centre at 4AM 

or the walk into Edinburgh as the sun flung itself into the sky 

The Paddy’s Day entrourage the pissed up punters of Birmingham pubs 

The long, long journeys so full of the crackle of joy the mundane uplifted 

or the trip back to the alma mater, the umbrella laid outside the faculty 

all done with love, but also a mind full of both the beauty and the folly 

of a journey that means more to me 

but maybe something to those who swept up the umbrellas 

without a name or way to reply. 

Just another strange statement, among many 

That somehow sum up, just what it is, 

to be us.