The Poetry Marathon

Create

A child of fine artists
A sibling to painters, potters, musicians, and poets
A cousin, niece, and granddaughter to more
I am the heir to generations of
Storytellers, painters, jewelers,
Potters, dancers, and singers

Engineers who changed the world
Artists who created for kings
Creators with documentaries and odes
Renowned and beloved

Create I tell myself
Notebooks for unfilled
Create I say
Art goes undone
Create I cry
Stories go unwritten
Create I wish
Dreams go unmanifested

What have you made?
I demand
What beauty do you bring?
I question

Myself
I reply
Unfinished
Transforming
Evolving

I have created myself
I am the art and the artist

I am a worthy successor to my lineage

(also these 12 poems)

Hour 14. (2019)

It courses through my worn-out sneakers

Animating my body

To trudge mindfully forward

Into green empires

Crowned by whites and reds and oranges and yellows

A determined soul guides a lost mind

Prompt 17 Hour 14

“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”

 

I looked to the pines

for answers I have yet to know.

I waded in rivers

too deep for my soul.

I hid secrets in oaks

searching for keys.

I wandered aimlessly

trying to please.

I never knew I was found

I never knew you were there.

Waiting for me to realize

I was always in your care.

 

C. Churchill

Metanoia

Metanoia
I am on the road to Metanoia

Things cannot stay the way they are
This no longer works
This is no longer sustainable

Metanoia
I am on the road to Metanoia

Standing before a mirror
I no longer like what I see
I no longer like what I am

Metanoia
I am on the road to Metanoia

Talking gently to myself
Is a task I am unfamiliar with
Is a task I have to learn

Metanoia
I am on the road to Metanoia

Scales falling from my eyes
I have nearly killed myself
I have nearly rebuilt myself

Metanoia
I am on the road to Metanoia

Packing for a journey with no destination
This is what has to happen now
This is the only option left

Metanoia
Let them know
I am on the road to Metanoia

A journey of changing one’s way of life
Because nothing else is working

So Bright (Poem #13)

The sun is so bright

How could there be a sad day

The sun is so bright

It lights the moon in a special way

The sun is so bright

My day will never be the same

The sun is so bright

My skin can feel the warmth that it illuminates

The Son is so bright

That day or night

Night or day

Happy or sad

Joyful or mad

The Son shines through

The Son is my light

The Son is so bright

Waiting

I ask what does life hold for me?

I wait for what may be coming,  I stand still and listen to what may be unfolding.

An owl flew across my path today,  I don’t understand what it’s trying to say.

I’m ready for a new journey,  to learn,  lessons that have not been told,  or of my undoing.

This world of mine is Real,  it is  a world of my doing.

There is  always something out there to see, and learn,  something to be revealed.

What maybe unfolding right before my eyes,  as I realize,  that this life is not what it seems.

There is so much more of a surprise,  the longer you live…

C. Burgess (c)

Lost and Found

The land knows you, even when you are lost.
It will find you and bring you home. 
Sometimes faith feels so distant and it leaves the landscape dark.
But the light inside of your spirit will illuminate bright with a steady spark. 
Keep your eyes on the road, your gaze on the path
Know that the sun will shine on you in the aftermath

When you are lost, just close your eyes.
You will find a great surprise 
You're never to lost and never alone
Your angel is nearby, to take you back home. 

jj2019 2019 Poetry Marathon

 

Hope

Depression often robs me of this feeling.
Strips it away bit by bit
with devastating truths
that everyone hates me,
and I’m terrible,
and I don’t deserve to be loved.

Even when I feel robbed of hope,
it’s only just sleeping.
The coals buried under the ash
waiting to be awoken.
Affirmations, good food,
and time with friends brush away the ash
and breathe life into the coals.

Slowly, the fire returns.
Waxing and waning,
but always there,
even on the coldest, darkest nights.

Poem 13

The way my father’s eyes changed colours
Greenbluegrey and all the admixtures
How alexandrite shifts from bluegreen
To purple as the light flickers
Or how dichroic glass breaks into small rainbows
The word a poet gave me ~
Chatoyance

Candle’s End

One small light in a dirty, dingy world.
Does it make a difference?

When the power goes out on a winter’s night
And the crackle of fire and scratch of wool
Are all that keeps cold out and warmth in,
The light of a candle is a small bright thing
And, besides, good company.