The Poetry Marathon

Naked Soul

The first drop is always the most courageous.

Leaping from the hands of God, a place of perfection,

Falling faster and faster, with the speed of no direction.

Lack of malice, holding no contention,

sweetly,

softly,

landing peacefully kissing my forehead, caressing away my tension.

More courageous drops begin to follow,

This brings on a dewy dimension.

Cleansing all of my worries, dissolving my misconceptions,

Beneath my feet,

something has caught my attention.

It is me!

My naked soul’s reflection.

 

 

 

“First Words”

The morning breaks,

A new day ensues,

I stir uneasily.

 

What is so different?

Not crowing, nor shrill ringing,

But plaintive cries,

Of Cat’s wailing.

 

On the white canvas I hack my way,

Letters blearily swirl around.

Not Hercules, more Atlas.

 

I shrug, and stumble.

 

 

Haiku #2

Projecting your soul(s).

It doesn’t matter at all

We remain complete.

Light Remains

Sun’s rays on water

Rolling in.

She lowers herself

Into the water.

Day is done

And night begins.

Once Sun,

Now Moon.

Light remains.

Morning hour 1

This morning soothes me
A bouquet of fresh words
A fountain of calm energy
I could fly from here
Or softly float
Greeting the day knowing
Time and source are one.

I so easily caught
between
Right and left
Up and down
Early and late
Now soar to timelessness
One hour stretching to the next
Reaching into infinity

My face ages
My soul does not
My words carried on the winds of time
Their power and strength hold me
Tenderly caressing me
I allow them to float me away
Until I the time traveler
Becomes suspended
Lost

Yet ultimately completely found

She

I

She is goddess to a time that worships the deity

She is slave to the temples that bore divinity

She was brought to heights of golden towers
She was beheld for seasons of heavy showers
She procured mist and wind and fortunes
She contains secrets from seas and dunes
She was religion preoccupied
As hearts stood mystified
II
She caused war among nobles and reverted amnesty
She was bought and sold upon gold and silver in forgery
She was at palaces, ruler and slave to her creation
She was valued in torn shrouds and admiration
She had her faith denounced to betray
She fought for truth and went astray
She was history that lied
And souls hardly satisfied
III
She was regained, won in pride and prudence
She was reclaimed in humble condolence
She grew and formed shackles around freedom
She was utterly unconvinced of wisdom
She fought yet still and was honored victor
She stood aloof as he towered still as her corrector
She was forming her side
In a strangled glide
IV
She is all known, all fought for, all wrongly accused of right
She is love and hatred, among her peace and fight
She is now higher than once before in her time
She is no longer of course, a purpose divine
She is still in a corner though at war with creator
She is still denied creation by her hefty dictator
She is still a side in fight
For it is an ever required light.
V
She shall be who she was created to ever be
She is communion with Creator, were it her decree
She might be lost to noise submerged until now
But she shall forever rise to her temple, ask not how
For all bounty, all beauty, all perfection all fault is her
Wait, there will be all welcomed unrest she shall stir
Yet, love is where she loses
For it is always love she chooses

 

Forever means forever

There it is, that moment in time,
An instant too brief, like the blink of an eye.

A sound so subtle, a whispered breath,
Brushed on my cheek, like a petal’s touch.

Turning to see what is not there,
I catch the scent of tussled hair.

And a warmth, not sunlight,
Not breath, not much

But the flow of our hearts, our lives, our essence
Folded into the space between us, in senescence.

© 2014 D. Edward Croy

Fingers

One: I am thumbing through life.

Two: I point at you.

Three: Anger personified.

Four: Ringed with gold.

Five: In therapy for feeling so small.

Second Post: A Voting Poem

A Voting Poem

1: History

They fought long and hard
Fought to be seen and heard,
100 years ago
Equality a dream,
They strove to make real.

2: Vote the First

Now I am part of history,
Now I can make a difference
I place my mark alongside those that came before –
Feeling their weight,
And their courage.

3: Why?

He asks why, questions the difference it makes.
He is one of the elite – straight and white and male,
But he too has his battles; I tell him
If no-one makes their mark, just one cross,
We can blame no others but ourselves.

4: Just History Repeating Itself

The social media – the one only that matters now
Posts photos, 50, 70, 100 years apart,
Points to similar poses, dress, expressions,
Misses the full picture –
History repeats, the fight continues, because we do not learn.

5: Not Our Fight?

I have but one fight of my own,
Do not always need to stand up and be counted
But I am part of the human race,
And equality should be for all.
If we do not stand together, we fall apart.

Bridge of our Hearts

The bridge from my heart to yours,

seems bruised and worn,

painted with our tears,

engraved with our years.

Under a passageway,

where I lie covered,

unseen by the world,

emerging from rushing rivers,

unveiling ourselves to the world.

Our bones, mere ashes,

our blood, the sweetest wine,

holes carved in our bodies,

where each wishes to reside.

Resign to the  meadows of goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace.

Follow me if you you are willing,

leave only a trace of our secluded repose,

a window to that memory,

a clandestine place and time,

long ago,

when wishing was having,

and we became true.

Suspending our love in bridges over troubled waters.