The Poetry Marathon

I’m Home

The arms of nature is where I live

A loving cocoon 

No ridicule 

No scorn

 

Things the way they used to be

The forests mist rise at first light

A wolfs sweet song 

The bats swift flight 

 

Traversing the rapids

Of the mighty Grand Canyon

Visiting tribes

In the Amazon

Into a canoe I’d happily glide

Paddle to paradise to see all the 

Brightly colored birds

Breath a huge palm tree I’d sit

 

Flirt with turtles and gators and

Little black squirrels 

Grow flowers galore

And swim in the sea

 

Watch dolphins play 

And manta’s fly 

The water to them

So much like the sky

 

Then when the sun starts

To dip it’s bright crown 

Beyond the horizon 

To sleep for the night

I’d tuck in my wings

To fly steadily home to the nest 

Where’s he’s waiting patiently for me

The Hawk calls me home 

That’s where I will be

Song of the introvert

When I feel my skin
All firm and fresh
Able to brave the sun and wind
Is in my home.

My home is my solitude.
So it is any land
Time or space.

My home is on a crowded street
As long as I drink my coffee alone
My home is a quiet pond
As long as no one is along.

I like my thoughts
Quiet in my head.
No need to speak.
Relate
Overthink.

My home could be a wheat field.
A cafe in Milan.
What matters is if it is my home
No one comes along.

Ode to Morning Sky (Open 24 Hours)

words escape me now

i may have to hunt them down

blissful sleep beckons

 

inviting ground waits

i could lie down and look up

let the words find me

Home is Another Story

It’s small in comparison to this big place
with its resident poltergeist.

I’ve not for a moment felt at home here.

But my little van is another story
with its soft, comfortable bed in the back.
Just one seat for the driver,
and plenty of space for an ice chest
and camp stove.

Oh, to wake up in the forest
after sleeping on a cloud!
Putter to a fire pit to cook some eggs
and watch deer in the distance.

Though here, the deer eat my flowers
and this poltergeist must have come
from somewhere to battle me for these
three bedrooms and a back yard.

Combat Sarong

Combat Sarong

This sash is made of memories

emotions and things pulled from times

good and bad

It hangs loose on my body, it used to restrict me

round about a few times, I pull it taut when you come close

Silat started as a form of mysticism

Even the bad things I hold close

the things you try to forget, they make me who I am

I can take you down with just a flick of the wrist

The sash will wrap around you

spooling comfort

until it gets pulled a bit, restricting like an anaconda

Poem 22 – Wake-Up

This poem has * l e v i t y *
Conveyed through p U n C t U a T i O n !
And a steadfast dedication to FORMATTING

But don't let its A C T I O N - F I L L E D
BLOCKBUSTER presence intimidate you; it's really
just a friend, come to say hi, and remind you that

MAYBE, just m a y b e IF you're still BREATHING
it'll all turn out okay

e   b  A  E the space
  M   r  c           between lines to find time
           & don't forget the rhyme

Because T
        O
        D                                        w a k e  u p
        A
        Y is the first day of the rest of your life... ^

Rhetorical Question

Rhetorical Question

I asked her a million times

if she was sure

I believed she could have anyone

And a million times she said yes

and she said it through short squeezes and hugs

and she said it through little gifts and nips at the neck

and she said it through her body

when she put it with mine

And I asked her a million times more

and 999,999 times she said yes

through her eyes, deep and staring

from her laugh, real and hearty

to her crying when I had to leave

Then she told me, at another million, she wasn’t sure if she ever did

that she had doubts six months in

and I stopped asking.

Homeward Bound – Hour Twenty-Four

As I cross the bridge over the river, I know I’m almost home
The changing leaves, their colors bright as if to welcome me back
The two lane roads, the Amish buggies, the fields that span for miles
The air so crisp and clean, I’m blessed to be homeward again
I miss these moments far from life, far from the maddened crowds
Away from the bustle and the perils known as city life
Back home, things move a slower pace, a better pace for me
Where thoughts flow freely without fail, nothing to halt their voice
I miss the days of butter churning and apples bobbed for fun
I miss the times when life was free and I was very young
It was indeed a simpler time, but one that makes me glad
When I return and thus, reflect on the good times I had

(Hour 22 of 24) “random musings”

If a tree falls in the forest,

Does it make a sound?

If a thought appears,

But does not take root,

Does it count?

 

© 2021 S Phua

hour 24 most at home

in the silence of my mornings

pen in hand

i write the dust from my heart

to make my world whole and filled with love

again

after the ugliness of the unseen

has left its mark on my heart.

 

those early words on the tip of my pen

frees the pain

and heals the wounds too small to see.

 

r. l. elke