HR-8 (not exactly a text prompt)
On this solemn night
Awake with my thoughts
Alone in them all, sadly
Tearing my soul to pieces
Ripping away the heartache
Waiting to just feel whole again
Hour 21- The River
Running water in the river
Expanded by the mountain melt
Swiftly flowing, sometimes growing
This year, its shrinking can be felt.
In summer people ride the river
Floats and kayaks do abound
Surfing, swimming, joy that’s brimming
Peace on the water can be found.
Folks enjoy the rivers charms
Cold water, yet they’re sunning
The crisp and clear, the water here
Never still, always running.
2023 Full Marathon: Hour 21
Listening to the music you left behind is like
trying to send letters to a stranger in a house
that won’t be built for centuries and there is
something to be said for the level of tenacity
or pure dedication coursing through veins that
won’t even begin to form for an eternity – literally.
There is a sense of familiarity that cannot be
rationally explained and there is still a
certain mystery no level of science or
understanding will ever be able to decode.
And I would like to be clear – I did not
sign up for a decade of picking up pieces
of a puzzle I never even liked in the first place.
I think I love your ghost more than I ever
even registered you. And maybe there’s
something to be said for the choices being
made between wishing
the hummingbirds forever to
sparkle and sanity in a single human being
bound to the limitations of flesh.
Do not get confused – every moment
is a choice and I have made just as many
good ones as poor in my quarter-life musing –
I just know that the showing up will
outweigh any “mistake” that never
morphed into full-fledged lesson.
EVEN YOU.
-M. Rene’
Hour 21 – Words, a treochair
labels hard
lamentably, they are also
useful, amass them unbarred
Mad, enby
LGBTQIA
ADHPTSD
alphabet
soup and it’s actually
the abbreviated set
Hour 21 – Magnolia
Magnolia
An ungodly heat scorches the earth,
Still you stand tall and firm.
Though leaves may be wilted,
Though leaves may be browned,
You stand, with proud roots and wide branches.
With our one shared desire:
To once more see your blossoms bloom,
Glowing with hope for the future.
Observing a Writer
Observing a Writer
She sits hunched, perched
like a bird but ready to pounce
hovering
fingers poised above the keyboard,
waiting to touch the letters
but doesn’t
brow furrowed, lips slightly parted
staring at the white screen before her
but looking right past the page
in another world
and then suddenly
she moves
typing faster than imagined
she presses hard on each key
and seemingly randomly – and magically –
her write page becomes strewn with black
with lips now curled into a smile,
she creates
Poem for Hour Twenty-One (21/24)
Covered platform,
Open platform,
Suet mixture holder,
Scrap basket,
Seed hopper,
Bowl feeder.
There’s grain and there’s seeds,
But no buffet of bugs,
So running water attracts,
What usually just won’t come.
Sunflower seed,
White millet feed,
Peanuts, cracked corn, and scraps.
A feast of old crusts, dough and donuts,
Stale, starchy, or fatty morsels,
May be like bread and butter,
But don’t forget to put out fruit,
To satisfy all the bird mothers.
Hour 19
Is it cheating to write just one haiku? Maybe a little but alls fair in sleep deprivation and poetry.
Hour 19
A loss of thought leads
Me down a path of ever
Lasting confusion
A Draw
Crossing swords
Matching each other
Blow for blow
“Are you fighting or flirting?”
Physically unable
To fight any more
Comrades intervene on both sides
The tussle ending in a draw
Courtly conversation
Turned into a debate
I am right
No, you are wrong
I am “difficult”?
Well, you’re impossible!
Walking away in a huff
Yet another draw
Fighting side by side
Battling enemies
Forging bonds
Greater than stubbornness
Seeing each other
In a different light
Realizing the truth
Of our feelings
Acknowledging our differences
Recognizing the difficulties
And future clashes to be had
A question asked
A mutual agreement “reluctantly” made
Knowing that when it matters
It will always end
In a draw
Forrest Bathing hour/prompt 20
Forest Bathing
there comes a time each day, to walk the forest trail.
if I should forget, or be otherwise inclined, a warm moist
nose nudging my arm, or the deep and soulful dark eyes of one,
accompanied by the long low whimper of the other, will let me know
I have gone far to long forsaking our daily ritual.
my folly and shame are met with complete forgiveness, as I grab the leashes
and we hookup for the brief car ride to any of several forest gates.
patiently waiting my gear permutations; bug spray, poop bags, water, tracking collars,
responder, cell phone, and hat. up with the hatch and down with the ramp
to ease the old one’s exit.
we take to the trail with uninhibited joy and ecstasy. the unmitigated pleasure
one has when meeting a long absent lover. the haste to renew the union,
reignite the passion and explore every nook and cranny that may have transformed
within the past 24, or less, hours. each visit bringing a new ebullience that defies
human capacity for delight.