Winter Beach- Poem #9- Poetry Half Marathon
Barren trees
Crystal capped water
Erasing pebble shore
Surf remembered.
Castles Made of Sand
And so castles made of sand fall into the sea
And you lay down your axe Gone too soon
Purple haze all in my brain since you’ve been gone.
Fly on Little Wing I say
There’s a Red House over yonder
I hope you’re there
Setting the place on Fire—
Let me stand there
But castles made of sand fall into the sea
~.%
Dust, Wind, Dude
All we are, is dust in the wind dude.
From ashes we came, to ashes we will return, why not in the mean time, try to spark something?
Why should we be ashamed of the light we exude if we are all responsible for lighting each other’s way.
No light, no matter how great or small, is without importance.
We’re all in the dark somehow.
Whether it be because of doubt or uncertainty, we all need a little light.
Because before ashes are reduced to their final state, they are at one point embers.
All of us dancing in unique patterns, following the wind to our own melody.
So light a fire wherever you go, spark within another the burning drive to never quit wanting to learn and grow.
For if we are all one day reduced to ash and dust, why not help another find their way home?
We are..
Fate comes
Wait accompany
Words die
Hearts beat
Time stops
Life moves
Day strives
Night arrives
Doors close
Eyes open
Dreams break
Faiths shake
Light shines
Dark rules
All this time we remain fools…
Daisy
You asked me to tell you my favorite flower.
Daisy, I said
I can’t look at a daisy without feeling happy.
Wanting to make me happy,
You picked a bunch of daisies and gave them to me.
I looked at them and then at where they once grew,
And I was sad.
Specter
Spicy whispers, intoxicate the room.
A sultry aromatic breeze continues to loom.
Candles lit, steamy desires, intense, hotter then any fire.
Silhouette should have been her name, oooohhh what a frame….
Silken skin,
Worn natural with no shame.
Primal intuition yearns to find its freedom.
Hungry to be fed.
Seeking to be indulged by spirits of sweet nectar.
Only to realize the object of your yearning is merely a specter.
#9, The Fire Tetrahedron
There’s a fire. You rush out of bed and take another layer of rubber off my already bald tires. I wonder what you would do if the tire blows. Probably steal your brothers bike to get there.
Fire-fighting hero. Can’t get enough of the rush. Come home smelling of peoples burning lives. Houses in ruin. Possessions turned to ashes. You have been lucky. No burning bodies. No death smell on you yet. I dread the days to come.
Your soul is beautiful and tender. You’re my sweet, beautiful love. I don’t want to see their corpses reflected in your eyes. I am selfish. They don’t matter to me. You do.
I tell myself that when we have children you will keep your promise. You will quit. I know it isn’t true. You are brave. You have to prove it to him.
Father.
Fire-fighter.
Fighter.
Fire.
Failure.
But only to him,
Never to me.
That’s all it takes. Fuel, heat, and room to breathe.
Hey, Joe
I could use a cup of liquid alertness:
That mainstay of diners
That elixir of truckstops
That centerpiece of the
Family breakfast table where it once,
Rich and dark as grandma’s bedroom suite,
Competed with printer’s ink
For olfactory primacy.