The Poetry Marathon

They say it’s the limit despite its existence being an old wive’s tale. It’s always

in view yet perpetually unreachable. I don’t know why you’d ever need gardening tools

up there but i guess that’s the point. There’s nothing holding you back and yet

there’s no way forward. I can work around anything if I try hard enough. Maybe I could be a moonraker,

cleaning the ground as if it mattered, working my way through one obfuscation after another.

In any case, my own path will be decided in ways beyond anyone’s comprehension. Perhaps that’s the biggest reward of them all.

Moon beams
illuminate 
the hush of fog. 

Silhouettes of fir 
cross the page. 

I write three words more 
and ease a sip 
from my canteen of coffee.

CUT FRUIT

Lighter than the breeze; butterfly wings. Scent on a shelf, vibrant their color.

Fir faced, little moonbeam in the day.  Like a fog they consume your sight.

Hush! Concrete the secret, damn fool! Dock Your Self.

Canteen the coffee when hunting the butterfly.

they’re just pennies

I sent my love
In a letter.
In the letter, I said
I couldn’t wait to see you again.
I waited for a response,
And hoped you would send me
words to soothe my soul.
What I got was,
Same.

Same,
One word,
That makes me see a million in my head.
One word,
That drives me
Crazy.
I ask friends
What it means for our love
And they look at me with pity.

Same,
Means so much and
Nothing at the same time.
I send you another letter,
Waiting for the same
Feeling,
But expect you to say the
Same thing again.
Just one word,
That means nothing,
And everything.

Same,
Has become our word of love.

Release

Set free the feral cry
The one building in your vocal cords
Thrumming like too tight cello strings

Liberate the hunger
That gnashes in your teeth
Aching like a healing fracture

Emancipate the desire
That pounds at your sternum
Raging like an ocean contained

Release the crumbling decorum
That slips grain by grain from your fist
Slinking away like a chary shadow

Unrestrain your sensuous figure
That strains at is bindings
Oscillating like captured wind

Rescue your verdant potential
That twines restlessly
Stretching like sun starved vines

Image courtesy of Pixabay

Staring through a window of the canteen on the dock,

I saw the Fir tree in the corner;

It was that time of the year again

And the Christmas decorations looked inviting;

‘Damn! It’s cold!’ I thought

as the fog grew denser by the second.

I joined the crowd inside,

eyeing the pot of hot coffee on the shelf.

Everybody hushed as they saw me enter…

Suddenly, for a second or two

A moonbeam shone through the fog

And fell on the concrete floor

Everybody cheered, and made a path

to let me through;

“After all,” I heard somone say,

He is Santa Claus, you know.”

Antoinette LeRoux © 2019

Late mornings I will often lose myself
in the massive Douglas Fir outside my window
after a hush-like fog has burned off.
The supple Japanese maple in front
rotates the illumination of its branches from
penetrating sunbeams as part of its daily dance recital.
The concrete is absent in my tall rectangular view
and with my still hot coffee, I am able to forget
for a few moments
the damn dystopia of our world.

The fir wood is barely discernible through the fog,
as we sit sipping coffee on the dock.
There is a hush settling around us, but for the frogs,
as, slowly, a moonbeam breaks through.
It trips across the unbroken surface of the lake,
dancing on the mirrored aspect now view able.
I wriggle a little, attempting to shake the numbness
from the concrete shelf we rest upon.
You whisper a soft "Damn." when tipping the canteen
to refill my mug, shows evidence of its emptiness. 
As a sadness settles heavily on to the scene,
you assist me to standing, and we start for home.

I was ten and this year was so boring

To write of it would leave us both snoring.

Outside my window, the rain is pouring.

I hope soon to feel the thunder roaring.