The Poetry Marathon

World out of Reach

 

Window to the world out of reach

Captive to my limits I only can stare

Wondering why I breathe stale air

I imagine walking on wispy clouds

Stopping to steal a leprechaun’s gold

And ride a rainbow down to a fantastic place

Filled with towering spires and grand halls

Lit inside by dragon fire and wizard spells

Presiding over green lands with virgin woods

Fed with rivers flowing with pure silver

Where nymphs bathe, slyly tempting mortals

And rubies and emeralds grow in grasses

Picked by gnomes to deliver to their king

Where a great feast celebrates the final eventide

When dusky comets will foretell the arrival

Of a ghost prince on his great white steed

Carrying news of a world of saints

Waiting to receive them with a joyous embrace

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#5 morph

Morph

ascending from the crumbling pavement,
heading skyward along the old clapboards,
knitting ones self into the oaken fiber of your being.

A lonely nail to hang your satchel of hopes and dreams
as the window frames starry nights
and the field of sunflowers bow their heads.

Buckingham Palace

We have our own

palaces here in

Buckingham, Pennsylvania.

get off the main stretches of River Road

and find yourself

an abandoned slab

of stone

a portion of a pavement

from a Hessian soldier’s hideaway.

With my hardback book, cheddar cheese,

Bucks County wine

i bask

in my makeshift haven.

i want to throw my smartphone into the River and

become

the Sunflower

in my little girl’s crayola

drawing-

Droopy hair

dress yellowed with age

a thick stalk of a sturdy blossom

Timepiece

Timed peace

 

Memory

She looked up from her knitting

at her daughter across the room,

sprawled on the carpet

reading a hardback copy

of “The Nail in the Oak Tree.”

 

She took a sip from her wine glass

on the table next to her and popped

a cracker and a cube of extra-sharp cheddar cheese

into her mouth.

 

She stood.

“I’m going out to water the sunflower bed.

Wanna come? It’s pretty out.”

 

“Sure.” The girl marked her page

and slid her book into her satchel.

 

Outside, they stood on the driveway pavement

and discussed whether there was space

in this flower bed to add some zinnias,

or should they go in the bed on the other side of the yard.

 

Arms around each other,

they spent several amiable minutes

admiring the garden, the fireflies,

and the moon-filled night.

 

Their last evening together.

Prompt Five: Words of Life

WORDS OF LIFE

 

Sunflower, Sunflower in the yard;

Why is poetry so friggin’ hard.

Your beauty is inspiring . . .

My thoughts perspiring . . .

The sun itself has me charred!

 

Knitting is not something I do…

It’s a gift given to few;

Mostly it is for the old . . .

Gift from Grandma, or sold!

Wait, I am grandmother age, too!

 

How I long for enough space;

To be rich, in this case.

I live in the city,

Where we artists deserve pity!

Instead we carry mace.

 

The pavement always below my feet . . .

Sunny, rainy or through the sleet.

Here I am in New York . . .

A choice I made, I’m a dork!

And happy to be of this elite!

 

Furiture and trees of oak.

Beauty my eyes love to soak.

I think I shall never see . . .

Anything lovely as a tree!

And available to admire as I’m broke!

Simple Summer Getaways

A warm breezy summer day, but we’re stuck inside
Finishing up something or the other at work
Sitting in our home office, getting antsier by the hour
At 3pm we exchange a glance
Should we? Should we not?
I nibble on my nail, he says don’t
We know it’s time to move
Work can wait, this can’t

We begin to pack a satchel, with nervous anticipation
Wine, wine glass, cheddar cheese, Takis
A hardback book for him
Knitting tools for me
A blanket and some cushions
And we’re ready to move

A warm breezy summer day, we’re now outside
The car roof down, hair flying in the breeze
Pink Floyd and The Moody Blues playing in the background
Suburbs turning into mountains, woods, water bodies
In just an hour, we are transported elsewhere

We hit the cliffs and see the beach below
Our twentieth time visiting it, but it never fails to surprise
As we descend, we feel grateful
For simple pleasures, nature, life

Afternoon Soiree–Hour#5

Afternoon Soiree

 

 

A radiant sunflower adorned her reddish hair

while she was sitting in her hardback chair.

 

She asked me for a block of cheddar cheese

so, she could hold it on her knees.

 

I watched her slowly open up her satchel

and pull out a crystal wine glass so fragile.

 

She asked me for some vintage wine

I had plucked from my only grape vine.

 

She put her two bare feet on the pavement

found it too hot to her amazement.

 

She said this soiree I am quitting

to go inside and finish knitting.

The Date – Hour 5

The pavement hot beneath her

sandaled feet, walking briskly,

leather satchel swinging at her side. 

 

Sitting in their favorite space 

preparing the wine glass and

cheddar cheese, her favorite. 

A lovely knitting gift, a sunflower

blanket beneath her, allowed 

her dainty sandals to slide away. 

Her satchel hanging on a nail

placed so long ago for just 

that reason, on the old oak tree. 

She could barely accommodate 

her excitement and wonder, 

being with him again this day. 

Reverently, longingly, lovingly 

she pulled out her hardback novel,

opened it, and there he was. 

Hour 5 – Kitchen Love

“The water is hot
If you want some tea!”
Warm, fragrant comfort
Steeps through my body.
“I bought some rhubarb,”
(Which only I eat)
Salt-covered and tart,
A sharp summer treat.
My sister leaves bags
Just shy of empty
Leaving the cupboard
Full and untidy.
Meatless stews and soups
Steam hot and hearty,
Thought for each diet
Considered kindly.
Care is shown through food,
A warm, full belly.
Meals are communion
Shared with all family.

Hour #5 / Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

Got my hardback novel ‘neath this old oak tree.

A sunflower springs up behind me,

feeling groovy.

So I sing to myself

over and over.

Groovy, recapturing youth.

Groovy, slowing down in the midst of great change.

Groovy, delighting in the life we’ve been knitting from

improvisation and heartache.

Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

Yet the words no longer rhyme.

We look for our sunshine silhouettes

on the pavement

making us taller and bigger and better, just as we want to be.

Yet, we know such fancy and hope no longer exist.

Sweet innocence does not return

as we gather treasures in

a satchel,

a cigar box,

a childhood lunch box.

Such carefree memories we will whisk away and

shut forever with this nail of time and

cruelty which has wizened us.

We try to sing, but the words won’t complete.

Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

Ba da-da dah dah dah dah . . . . .

The song will not complete,

so we make space for silence.