The Poetry Marathon

The Memories Carried

Hour Five

Memories tucked into
my breast pocket
left and close to my heart
they flutter like eyelids
just waking from slumber-
fractured images
play upon the screen of consciousness
a remembrance and tribute
to a life once lived
the ancestors of self
that passed away
by the alchemical chemicals
and compounded experience
of former selves in prior chapters.
I reach into the enclosure
running my fingers over their edges
flipping through the pages of life.
some slip through fingers
like ribbons
while others cling to
the thread of emotion
slicing into my skin
the salt of tears- an antiseptic
cleansing the sounds.
Some are moonlit passages bathed in shadows
that circumvent the present-
I lift the camera lens of my eyes
and snap another memory
like my fingers
as I mosey along, maintaining
a rhythm of observation.
I tuck it in the rest
stuffing and threading the edges in
minding where I had come from
and just how far I’ve gone
a moment of self that passes
folded into memory.

Childhood Kaleidoscopes

I used to stare through tubes

of cardboard and plastic

watching fractals

and splinters of color

remix and reorganize

as they turn

in my tiny hands

and entertained me

for hours

Magnum Opus

Hour Four

Outlying plans
with graphite tracing the intent-
gradients of charcoal
delineate from original form
a tiger’s eye iridescent gleam
watch with slanted strokes
of ink to pen
in abstract thought
and underlying meaning.
Oil streaks as the canvas weeps
fields of color upon it’s blank slate
Terra Verte and Payne’s Grey lament
Coalescing hues of personality – a prism
of sun-stricken fractals
whose reflection is diffused
upon the walls of self-
a color scheme of multi-chromatic
emotions undulating
with no adverse effect
to the masterpiece mirrored
in our choice of being.
To know without seeing
blindfolded painters are we
bequeathing the authority of art
to the greatest creator-
our free will imaginings
A paltry scribble contrary to the
artistic hands who has
A better idea
of the magnum opus of our lives.
With authoritative strokes,
He fashions us instruction –
dual creators working in tandem
we are the ink
but He is the Pen

Hour23

Say hi to future!

Forget the past

and live fully now!

2023 Poem Twenty Four

When in doubt knock out

a haiku to meet the time

and make sure you win

Hello Handsome

I hope this is real, handsome man,
and not just another cruelty.
The darkness I’ve drawn in is so adept at it.

I’ve had enough of cruelty in this life.

Oh, but haven’t we both?
I saw her push you away that day
dressed in bizarre white.

You deserve love, as do I. Yes, and don’t we all?

So, I made a promise to God,
as instructed by the song
my child sang under her breath.

“How will I know if he really loves me?”

“Don’t trust the feeling” a parenthetic.
For years, I have not hoped, having forgotten
the sweetness of holding hands.

Your essence has inspired me to hope for love.

You. This. Whatever is going on now,
whether cosmic intervention or human interaction,
has inspired me to be the best version of myself.

I had forgotten, somehow, to enjoy being.

That you know I exist or not is a moot point.
We are so much alike in so many ways.
If we are to cross paths naturally, I hope to be my best self.

Until then, love. Until then, I will simply hope for the best.

Hour22

You know nothing,

but winter is coming anyway!

Embrace your nightmares while

looking for summer’s warmth…

Hour Twenty-four: Hoped For

Is that bright light bursting through the dark forest

The light I prayed for to lead me out of my morass

Or

Is it the light at the end of a dark tunnel,

The proverbial train rushing to end my suffering forever

 

Are its beams burning down the darkness

Leaving me trapped inside to be consumed by

Smoke and flames

Or

Are they a stairway to the light source

A way out and a way to enter

Paradise

 

Do I get to choose or have I

Been chosen

Hour 24 – In which I replace the word “hopes” with the word “feet”

In which I replace the word “hopes” with the word “feet”
after Nico Wilkinson

My feet move me toward a future I am quite unsure of.
But while I ask so much of my feet,
with all these dreams of forward motion,
they cannot answer.
Sometimes, though, simply having feet is
the best answer you can ask for.

Sometimes, I move at more of a crawl.
My feet, forgotten somewhere behind me,
cannot do the work I’ve asked of them.
I must drag myself back to the start,
find my feet again, wipe away the grime
and stand again, bolstered by renewed foundation.

Even so, my feet are complicated things.
Turning numb, stinging, collapsing at their joinings,
Occasionally, I turn my hatred toward them,
wonder at their use. All before I remember
there is cruelty in forcing anything
to act solely at my will.

So, I will be gentle to my feet now,
care for them, give them room to breathe,
accommodate the way they swell
on days I believe in them more fiercely.
Forgive them for being as unpredictable
as this body they are bound to.

I think there is a commonality
in how we treat our feet and ourselves,
how we treat that which is foundational.
Even when we find our feet
cannot be used in the way we wish
should we not answer with grace?

Hour 22 : Catch 22 Slice

The toppings,

The slices,

The watery dice,

The earth isn’t flat, but pizza it,

Why don’t we end conversations by being weird-doughs?

All I got is room & mushrooms for you.

Come over for a dinner.

Where we argue about the crusts.