The Poetry Marathon

My Friend

my constant companion
he is every shape
new to full
waxing and waning
a brilliant white
rarely
a vibrant red suit
“Goodnight, Moon.”

no photos, please
his good side is ethereal
and cameras can’t feel
“I love you to the moon and back.”

baby blue days
velvet black nights
bordered by puffy clouds
mirroring distant stars
“When the moon fell in love with the sun, all was golden in the sky”

never lonely
never lost
strength to command seas
gentle glow, never glaring
“Hey, Moon, please forget to fall down.”

every car ride
mommy, daddy, look!
it’s my friend, the moon!
“I sit by myself, talking to the moon.”

At the end of day

AT THE END OF DAY

 

A hush falls over the city streets

As the fog rolls in from the fishing bay.

A stray moonbeam spotlights a lonely old man

Still casting his line, still dreaming away.

 

In his left hand he clenches a silver canteen

Filled with coffee or liquor, nobody can say.

Maybe he’s taken his hopes off the shelf

And in that canteen, he’s stored them away.

 

He shivers with cold as the fir that he wore

Slips down to the dock in decay.

That concrete, the scaffold he mounts every night

Is a damned horrid place of dismay.

Hour 8

In my right hand

a pen, a passport,

a sheaf of stories to fly me round the world

 

In my left hand

a photo, messages, promises

maybe, maybe this time, maybe he will.

 

In the center, a fool who can’t choose which hand to let go.

Breakfast’s Ready!

We sat upon the bench,

Upon the rise of hill;

So quiet was the hush

Of morning, very still.

 

A sip of coffee, hot,

Helping rid the chill

Of foggy morning air;

A peaceful time, until…

 

A boat that moved too fast

Hit hard the wooden dock,

Upsetting several fishermen

With tackle gear, unlocked.

 

Their screams were heard so loud

As they began to see

The fish they’d laid upon the shelf–

A floating feast, to be!

Hour 10

I prefer a London fog

She takes her coffee black

There are windows on the street front

We hole up in the back

The sight of all the concrete

It’s too much for us to bear

We come from green fir forests

And wish we were still there

In the dark, woodpaneled corner

Of the neighborhood cafe

We remember hush of mornings

When moonbeams met the day

 

 

 

Hotel of the Rising Sun

A desert sunrise is a heavenly event
The clouds part and the moonbeams fade away
The fog recedes into the concrete
A hush takes hold as the sun nears the sandy docks

The motel manager stirs the coffee
And opens a jar of jam for the oven burnt toast
The sun floats above the dune shelves
And strikes the man’s brow with a fiery hiss

“Damn, it’s gonna be a hot day”

Written in Hour 4 – The Hour I First Believed

Huddled inside a shelter

of my own thoughts,

doubt the stakes in the ground,

self-loathing poles stretched tight

as fear created the covering above.

Hope waited outside the door,

patiently looking for entry,

and love sneaked in

through the cracks.

Any storms outside

were nothing

compared to the tempest

that raged within.

The demons and shadows

were slowly torn apart

as the wind of fortitude

and squall of resolve

blew apart the darkness,

and opened up to

the light of realization

and the beauty of inner strength.

 

 

Hour 9: Princess Bride

Unusual sized rats and six fingered men

Fire swamps and dreaded pirates

A love stronger than steel

And a wicked prince planning to kill his bride

A wild story full of small magic and deep love

Wit and strength throughout

A tale that will last through time

A tale that will always be in my heart

 

Running a little behind now. But I’m still here!!

Dreams

I look up in awe, as the creatures I idolize
stand twenty feet away, completely
unaware of my existence, unbothered
by the tears beginning to gather at
the corners of my eyes.

There is no explanation, no deep-seated
reason for my sudden overflow of emotions.
The excitement, the pure childish joy
that bounds from my chest is not
unexpected, but exceeds anything I was
prepared for. I glimpse the looks on my friends’

faces. They see me. They understand,
they are as happy for me as I am for myself,
and as I hold out a long branch to the
long-necked animal far too large to dream
of keeping as a pet, those friends
cheer me on. This is
my dream. I’ve waited 24 years.

Just to pet a giraffe.

Damned (Hour 10)

It’s been 10 years since I stood under a midnight sky,
sand beneath my feet, watching the fog linger above the ocean waves,
while boats of all sizes swayed at their dock.
I dreamt of getting lost within that fog,
of diving beneath the surface to find Atlantis.
I’d watch the moonbeams move with the crest line of the ocean,
a hush filling the air, the world around me going silent.

In that silence, I felt a sense of home and expectation.
But feelings aren’t concrete, they cannot be held or make promises.
I’d walk the few blocks home,
the fir trees surrounding our house suddenly became twenty-foot Sentry’s guarding
a home I didn’t know I couldn’t keep.
Every blade of grass was a burst of hope,
every crash of a wave was a whisper to keep believing.
…and I did.

Then I grew up.
The moon now is just a reminder
that I was damned long before I ever had a chance.