6:00 A.M., Mountain Standard Time, West Salton Street, Larimer County, Colorado

The crows aren’t even up yet. But I am. With flits and drips and drops of poetry chasing each other around me brain pan, I’m up. The kettle is on, there’s Bvumbwe treasure tea in the brown betty, the eggy-wegs are boiling, lomticks of toast and old butter are on the counter, my pens are filled and primed. I’m up and ready to write for twelve hours, straight.

I was going to say twelve straight hours but this being the 21st century, I was pretty sure someone would assume I was gloating about being straight. Since, besides being well over ninety percent hetero, I’m also caucasian, middle-aged, male, happily Catholic, and I still use the classic pronouns, I already have enough to point fingers at. So hours, straight, it is. I don’t like to be tooooo divisive. (I’m poking fun and cracking wise. You got that, right?)

I haven’t set any trails for my poems to follow. I haven’t stocked up on first lines or prompts. I haven’t cheated and memorized poems not yet written down. In fact, I haven’t written a single verse since the acceptance e-mail arrived for this endeavor. There’s naught waiting, fresh, clean, and safe, just around my mental corner. The vista is empty. But the light is on the horizon and the sounds are rising. Can’t wait to see and hear what they’ll be like today. I always seem to write best if I let the poems surprise me, ie:

“Peekaboo, peekaboo, rhymes for you,” squeaked the poem.
“GASP!” shouted the poet.

Since I’m not required to post a perfectly edited, easily understood, full-length ode for each hour, and since a limerick or an haiku is acceptable, and forms I’m proficient in, I’m certain I’ll finish. But I want to write the best verses I can and if I start off by encapsulating expectations in little baubles of verbal concrete, that won’t happen. Will I compose a sonnet the equal of Barrett Browning’s or Donne’s? Not likely. But there should be at least a sonnet or two. I can’t imagine that I’ll have time for a sestina or a villanelle, but sonnets should be doable. There should be a little modern verse and maybe some staccato rhyme. I do enjoy staccato rhyme.

This is the first time I will have put my poetry up where other poets, people who aren’t my friends and have no reason to kiss my ass, can see it. I’ve entered contests locally but I’ve never put my words where actual poetic peers can see them. This is a huge step for me. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to accept that I really am a poet. For years I’ve referred to other writers as ‘real’ poets and myself as a scribbler and a hack. Until a ‘real’ poet read my words and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I needed to knock it off and admit that I’ve joined the club, I’ve considered myself a joke as a writer. That’s no longer the case. I’ve finally started to take myself seriously. This is the first outdoor step on that path.

This year I’ve entered only the half-marathon. I have to work the Sunday morning following and a whole marathon would have meant only an hour’s sleep before heading in to the hooch parlor to sling marys and mimosas for the hangover crowd. If it goes well this year, and if I enjoy it as much as I hope I do, I’ll take that day off next year and write straight through. All twenty-four. That’s a challenge I’d like to face. For now though, for someone as hyper self-critical as myself, twelve hours will be rewarding/painful enough. It’ll reveal enough.

Speaking of revealing, this being the 21st century, and my friends who have access to this page this morning thanks to social media and the old ‘copy/paste’ being the assumptive/snoopy types that they are, I’ll bet some of you’re still trying to figure out what I meant by “well over ninety percent hetero” aren’t you?

You naughty beasts you. Remember me? The celibate introvert who has absolutely no social life and who can keep any personal secret he wants by telling you everything else until you think you know everything about him? I guarantee you that it will take fighting your way through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered to the castle beyond the goblin city for you to ever find out the true meaning of that statement.

A poet has secrets, especially a romantic poet. I keep mine in that castle. So either gird up and step into the labyrinth OR, just sit back and forget that I said what I did because it’s obviously a red herring designed to make you come back to see if I reveal anything in these twelve poems.

Or is it?

To paraphrase Hoggle, “You know your problem? You take too many things for granted. Take this Labyrinth: even if you get to the centre, you’ll never get out again.”

My labyrinth is dangerous. Trust me. There are things about me you can take for granted. I’m just not going to tell you what they are until you reach the gate. If you reach the gate. My poems are as close as most of you will ever get.

Ahhhhhh, 7 o’clock draws on apace. Time to stop rambling and babbling and, dare I say it, titillating, although I do enjoy them so.  There are paper chargers to mount, pen-lances to couch, and verses to best in the lists. The hunt is afoot and I am away! Let the writing commence! Tally-ho~!