At the Race

She was promised in a dream that
One could learn to run so swift and pure
That her ears would attune to a
Single divine note, the sound
Of the world itself singing.

But unused to pushing past the
Boundaries of fleshly comfort,
She earned only bitter breathlessness,
Immutable proof of lack of fitness for
The gift of that elusive music.

Today she stands among the throng
Gathered at the marathon’s end,
Seeking in each passing runner’s glance
Evidence of the enlightenment denied her.
If you should see her there, be kind.

 

-~-~-~-~

For Poetic Bloomings prompt – It Makes Sense

On Inspiration

Tonight again you set out to write
But the page still yawns before you.
Nothing works and you can tell
That every mark you make is wrong.

But then somehow your lungs discern
Within the enveloping everyday air
A more vital new oxygen.
You inhale – it fills you.

Oh yes, you were born to be a vessel,
To cradle the sky itself within you
For one impossibly pregnant moment.
You can see its glow beneath your skin.

Your fingers begin to tingle,
Your heart quickens its cadence,
Your scalp tightens around your skull.
And now – the words come.

-~-~-~-~

After All

Maybe all the words have been said already.
There’s nothing more to be teased out of the ether -
you fear that’s all in your past. Oh yes, once you had
the gift, and so you revisit your old works again and
yet again, searching vainly for breadcrumbs that might
lead you back to the source of it all, some dormant
corner of your brain where lurks your old knack for
describing the world with devastating clarity.

But your universe is dimmer, duller now.
While once the ordinary arrived at your
threshold imbued with a furtive magic that
you knew just how to reveal, today you find
the world simply mundane. Still, you press
your fingers to the keys with dogged regularity.
Alas, no rainbows burst forth. No deeper meanings
blossom on the page. There’s no poetry left.

-~-~-~-~

for We Write Poems – Poet’s Choice prompt: writing on writing

On Community

We know that our circle is sacred,
That together we form something more
Than our aggregate would suggest.
But even so the starkness of the sharing
Knocks us flat, our ears sanctified by
The gravity of stories that just moments ago
Belonged to near strangers.

And in those liminal moments when,
Just before the next voice rises,
We become acutely attuned to every breath
That whispers through a neighbor’s hesitant lips,
We feel beneath our fingertips
The roundness, the nascent fullness
Of the kinship we are birthing.

 

In the Candlelight

 

-~-~-~-~

 

For Shutterday (prompt: fire)

The Light Above

A Georgia Nocturne

Observing from within the darkened living room,
Your grandmother is treated to a pantomime
Of youthful bliss: mason jar, dusk, eager child.

It’s early evening, and the tree frogs raise their voices
In divine song, thrumming a rhythm that you
Dance to as you chase the emerald glow of the fireflies.

And now it’s just the land and the gathering gloom
And the song and the lights and you,
A celestial concerto you feel in your bones.

The quality of the performance is such that
All illusion of separation falls away -
You and the world are one.

One bold lightning bug alights on your wrist
And you jiggle your arm, testing its temerity.
It stays. You can feel it still.

 

-~-~-~-~

Again this week I decided to try folding a number of prompts into one poem. It’s a great challenge! So, this was written for Poets United (prompt: nighttime); Poetic Bloomings (prompt: animal, vegetable or mineral – I chose firefly); The Sunday Whirl (prompt wordle words used: emerald, celestial, bones, rhythm, divine, illusion, pantomime, observe) and Three Word Wednesday (prompt words: early, jiggle, quality).