The Poetry Marathon

What we can’t speak, nor express

I look into you eyes

And do you look at me?

No you avoid my eyes

you know what my eyes tell you.

Stronger than any word

ever invented,

nor written.

you know I look into your eyes with a deep longing,

a love so profound,

so true,

so real.

But you can’t acknowledge it,

you cant look at me

or I would see in your eyes the  similar longing,

a want,

a profound need

to live today according to what our eyes show to us

and to the world.

But you say nothing

and look away.

And I make small talk till I am ready to walk away from you.

1.

There isn’t a lot that frightens me.
not anymore

Anyway. It would seem that maybe death

Should

But it won’t. It can’t. It doesn’t. Stepping outside, the sun burns.

A fire in an aqua sky. Sustaining life, yet scorching, enough to maim

Without even a semblance of pain.

Then take the Ocean,

My lady. My love. Gaze upon her vastness and tremble.

(Shut the fuck up.) Such endless wet, salty, terrain. Undiscoverable.

What a thrilling luxury though, to watch the waves crash.

An Endless roaring symphony.

With grasping arms, strong, wiry, ancient arms.

Sturdy enough to rip you out into its blue mouth

And then for a second consider the wind.

A force, unseen, unheard. Using the trees and the waves of the earth as the messenger.

The most chaotic, In my opinion.

(does anyone give a fuck what I think)

Using trees as the bringer of its message.

That the end comes for us all.

Not a whole lot scares me anymore

Least of all death, but (but)

When I am to go

Let it be the cradling arms of the waves

Or the swift silence of the wind

Or the immense gaze of the sun

That puts me in the darkness of the earth. (To stay or to live again?) Time keeps that secret.

Hour 2 Prompt – How Shall I Tell You

holding my hand
he asked me to go
how shall I tell him
a piece of my heart lives in you

I still remember
the day we met for the first time
in this cloudless sky
you appeared as the full moon

I might leave you
but my soul will follow your soul
like a candle fly
it will always fly towards you

once I leave you
where shall I go
maybe amidst my ashes
you will know my love for you

Prison Life

Every morning – CLACK! – CLACK! – CLACK!

The sound of cell doors being unlocked.

Quick! Get up! Hurry to the microwave,

heat water for coffee, my morning elixir.

Careful, do not spill it on me.

Ah! I’m first to the activity room.

I get the seat by the window,

Light on my left to illuminate

My stipple art as I begin my day.

Dot, dot, dot . . . so many dots.

First, the outlines which resolve into shapes,

Pause to check perspective, then more dots.

All day, dots, dots, dots, until they

Begin to build tones and after hours

I see forms on the page.

Forms of people, trees, clouds, all giving

Expression, giving life in a black and white world.

My, did I just stipple a metaphor of

My daily life. If so, I am at peace with my art.

CLACK! CLACK! ClACK! So ends another day.

Poem 2

Wait!
I love you, please don’t leave.
I know I never told until now.
But I was scared.
Scared that you didn’t love me.
Or that you did.
So please don’t leave.

These words bubble in my throat,
But can’t burst through my lips.

Hour 2

Yay second poem up!!

 

Secret Wants

Wanting something that I must hide

My friends not even knowing what I want

Every day hoping for it more and more

This desire for something that many don’t understand

And what others don’t approve of

 

I know who I can tell about it

Who also shares this secret want

And who is also looking for others

Yet we are too far apart

That the even the secret cannot bring us together

geraniums

the geraniums have been listening

to Leonard Cohen

everyday;

I tried to introduce them to

Billy Joel

but they were not interested

in more than a broken Hallelujah

so we all sit in the evening

sipping sunsets from our wine glasses

longing

for something we can’t imbibe

and holding on tight to all of our petals

2017 – Hour One

Wind Blows
Your path halting
Inspire Zeus
Your sails exalting

Rain Falls
Your thirst mounting
Summon Poseidon
Your cups amounting

Fire Burns
Your body freezing
Require Hephaestus
Your frost easing

Earth Stalls
Your ground unsteady
Invite Gaia
Your foundation ready

Love Heals
Your heart broken
Desire Aphrodite
Your wish spoken

Bard

They say history is written by the winner, but that’s not true.

History is written by the writer.

 

In times passed, skalds carried the songs and stories of ancestors.

In doing so they held the past.

 

“Never anger a bard”, says the wise man to the king.

“For every story needs a villain.

 

And every villain is a fool.”

K.C. Wolfe

Good morning beautiful people, 
Allow myself to introduce…(myself) choosing only now to do so, of course. (What artist isn’t a well practiced procrastinator?) I am a writer (one of many) in L.A.

That’s all anyone needs to know for now.

This marathon will be my first and I am hoping that it re-ignites in me the fire that took me on the path to bohemia in the first place. I am here to create (it’s one of two things I’m good at. The other being helping people, move their shit)

We shall all ride into the halls of Valhalla. Shiny and lettered in chrome. Witness.