[NaPoWriMo 2024 Collection]: Elysium of Poetry

I    
   
Most seek poems    
in the iris of the earth    
because the well of her pupil  
is too deep    
for ink to survive    
   
They believe    
   
But poetry lives    
its life in shadows    
between the pages    
of forgotten or buried books    
tucked in drawers    
old envelops    
and tombs of the dead    
   
Its scent is distinct:    
chrysanthemum, worn leather    
lavender and peppermint    
we catch its waft    
when least expected    
   
Its language is unspoken    
infused with deja vu    
and carefully tuned      
upon the ivory bones    
of an ancient spirit    
still roaming the Serengeti    
seeking its own poetry    
from the earth's iris    
   
because it hasn't learned    
yet    
   
II  
   
Poetry has always known us  
and was once defined    
by our love and pain  
an empty yearning  
for star maps beyond  
these networked veins    
   
It understood  
we were humans  
needing to mold things  
into agreeing with us    
   
It would breathe deeply  
and hold space  
to keep the peace  
over juvenile journal entries  
we dubbed poetic verse    
   
But as we grew  
we mistook its softness  
for a steel wool anchor    
that would always    
hold us in place    
   
We overlooked    
its vulnerable underbelly  
of earth and Anubus  
weighing    
its power's proof  
against predetermined judgment  
and physical ignorance    
   
Rubbing something the wrong way    
causes static electricity    
over time, a current    
constantly rising    
to shatter our glass ceiling    
   
Splintering shards from the burn    
of fire, fangs, and truth  
drawing our blood    
across the universe  
   
Because Poetry    
has always known us  
   
And now  
we who survived  
know it too  
   
III  
   
I once felt as an impostor  
unseen  
 through the being  
 of daily living    
   
There were facets    
of myself I had never met    
  as though cloned  
  by artificial intelligence  
except it didn’t exist yet    
   
A dubious double    
with a fractured spirit  
  leaving my vessel wrecked  
  in the middle    
of a mediocre B movie    
   
But a will can become    
an earthquake  
  splitting open  
  the foundation  
  of expansion    
from the creative friction  
  of lingering words    
  determined to live  
   
When our bones break  
they bond even stronger    
when wounds heal    
our scars are carved  
  in skin crying out to be seen  
   
Poetry is the sacred bond  
fusing broken connections  
between language and love  
   
IV  
   
Some things are whispers  
  fractured beliefs    
  in need of editing  
   
When we no longer know  
  what to believe  
  we become still  
allowing time and silence  
to formulate    
  a dimension of desert sky  
  resembling an empty page  
   
Perhaps the sunset is misspelled  
 and the clouds    
 are correctional ink, whiteout    
re-creating blank place  
 for shapes to mutate    
   
A contrarian quest    
by ghosts roaming the halls  
  of our deepest wish    
deciphering waltzes  
of light across empty rooms  
   
And the burning abyss    
resurrecting across winter miles  
  melting the emptiness  
  with its grand entry    
                                  
is none other than Poetry    
        
V  
   
Beauty is subjective    
and perceived imperfection    
is no more than warped words    
  from contorted emotions  
  at the epicenter of judgment  
   
To see perfection in the broken    
discordance of creation  
is to feel rhythm in everything  
  even the lashing chords  
  of a fluttering voice  
  emitting a cracked euphony    
   
Its raucous victory chorus    
tune of visible wounds  
  free-falling from the notes  
of a quavering release  
teeming with belief  
  despite past rejection  
   
Ridicule is a hot air balloon  
climbing upward in time  
toward its weathered home  
of land-filled doom  
   
But life is grounded  
shattered shards of gravity  
each a jagged imperfection  
containing the beauty    
of perfect poetry    
   
VI  
   
Morning is damp and cool  
an undulating mass  
of wood smoke and ash    
escape from a chimney  
   of blackened rocks  
   
The cloak of dew    
 through half-skeletal trees  
smolders with the scent  
of moss and earth    
   
My slug-like prints  
leave a glistening trail    
across the meadow’s awakening    
   
Breath billows forth as fog  
from the moist bog    
of my warm body  
dissipating    
before reaching the ground  
   
Camellias eye my steps  
wisteria petals drift as confetti    
  contrasting evergreens    
  with their lavender bodice    
   
Crows communicate from the old oak  
signaling one another    
  awaiting whatever token    
  my arrival brings their altar  
   
The purpose of this following  
  as every morning  
is to sift for gold  
  from each magic moment  
  of sacred space  
   
Until Nature’s voice emerges  
within the stanzas of a poem  
   
VII  
   
Breathing into the silence    
of unanswered questions    
became a kaleidoscope    
of mirrors reflecting    
daily existence    
   
Tunneled through experience    
the patterns continue    
  eternal recurrence  
  decades of chapters  
bound by age  
  separated by memory  
   
If we were to discover answers  
we’ve diligently sought    
  within a fallen pomegranate    
would we possess the wisdom  
  beyond our greedy ramparts    
to planet its seeds  
   
allow it to mature    
rather than devour  
the sweetness of its heart  
  until nothing was left  
   
Or, would we wait, silently  
in a deep thicket of thought  
allowing the answers    
  skittish as feral creatures  
to approach us by choice    
   
so we could finally learn    
nature’s ancient truth:  
we exist and perish to sow    
the Muse’s garden  
   
  so that Poetry survives  
  for the next generation    
   
VIII  
   
Coming up for air  
from an earthen meditation  
discernment becomes clear  
   
I used to think life unfair  
  withering disease  
  nightmare circumstance  
minority suffrage    
from majority’s inequality  
   
But earth doesn’t exist for us  
  it barely survives us    
from destructive forces  
  of our toxic choices  
   
What we encounter    
is from our own creation    
 manifesting thought    
  or karma in the making  
whether or not we recollect  
  what’s been lost    
and yet still resonates  
  through histrionics    
   
The Nile twists    
 through the Egyptian desert  
the Congo swallows its brave    
tribes and cities    
prehistoric bones gurgle deep  
in the quicksand of caves  
   
But all slowly resurrect    
their skeletal appearance  
carbon-dated with ancestry  
refusing to remain hidden  
   
Mighty Lions come    
to set the record straight  
from the hunter’s crooked victories    
   
We are destined to reformulate  
our bygone decisions    
repeating our patterns    
through different circumstances  
to measure the increase of wisdom    
   
Until the scale finally tips  
outweighing    
that feathered doom of Ma’at—  
our heart engorged, heavy  
with the salvation of poetry    
   
IX  
   
The Moon couldn’t’ wait  
for night to fall  
she came to slake  
her thirst mid-afternoon,    
wholly prepared to burn  
for an olden love    
   
I think of Lady Hawk  
and clandestine  magic    
spells wound between souls  
destined to part  
until that conjoined spark  
   
Last night    
her presence was ash    
floating amid darkness  
   
The constellations    
carried on  
housed infinite stars  
Orion, Scorpius    
Andromeda, Perseus    
   
Sometimes I think  
I mistake blank appearance  
to mean absence  
   
But I realize  
it’s merely perception  
an alteration in vision  
at a busy day’s end  
   
It’s still there  
in the mind’s eye  
that ivory orb of lackluster    
surviving    
her own dark night  
of the soul    
after having to let go    
for decades more    
   
She will fully bloom    
despite circumstance    
adorned a muse  
worshiped by bards    
their ink-stained fingers  
tattooed with poems    
as tokens of love    
   
X  
   
It comes for all of us  
the envoy of Azrael    
 to dust we return    
 a harvested cycle  
seeding the future  
   
When we resurrect    
 shall oak and squirrel  
Druid of ancient lore  
and weathered anthem  
recognize us and be glad  
   
Or is our arrival an omen  
 a black-robed specter    
pointing a spindly finger    
of gluttony and waste    
contaminated by ignorance  
   
Who knows the shape  
 and size of wisdom  
its regenerative light    
 the trebuchet of evolution  
   
Who can imagine    
its non-tangible identity    
 a mere nothing    
 more than everything    
since the beginning  
   
something wholly attainable    
seemingly out of reach  
  inviting yet distanced    
until we work for it  
    
When we do submit    
to its kingdom of knowledge  
 thru studies of enlightenment    
the gift is bestowed    
   
Innate and softly received  
that bewitchingly fiery    
magical spirit of Poetry  
   
XI  
   
Lithes of penetrating light    
through vivid imagery    
and unconstrained imaginings    
become wooded sprites    
freely frolicking    
within the darkness    
of a deep yearning    
for real magic    
   
So nimble their pirouettes  
in arabesque design  
each spirit’s luminescent    
otherwise unseen presence  
going barely noticed  
by hikers and tourists  
eager to shop and dine    
   
But those who know    
how Dryads lurk, watching  
human maneuvers    
tread with respect    
   
utilizing reverence    
well into the forest    
to await the blessing    
of their ancient alchemy    
and unborn poetry    
   
XII  
   
We inhale happiness  
hold it in our lungs  
for the fleeting moment  
it graces, then released  
its dandelion heart    
to ride the zypher  
   
Evanescent as a flower  
confined in a second’s measure  
hosting a pollinating bee  
drunk on its florid labyrinth    
of purity, resin, and time    
   
Soft as chiffon it drifts  
leisurely as a Sunday nap  
by its own airy fate    
within the breath of spring  
seeking the perfect plot  
of earth to root    
   
We linger, tarry    
until the sun sets  
star-ward aspirations    
glimmering in irises    
like specks of lighting  
bugs heralding summer  
another season    
vanishing too soon  
   
We rise in the morning  
to the faintest of memory    
asking ourselves. . .  
   
‘What cast those halos    
over sleeping vulnerability  
tell me. . .  
   
‘Was it Poetry’. . .  
   
   
XIII  
   
It sings water words  
and fire songs    
tremolos as birds    
warbling in the rain    
   
Its rhythm lifts itself  
through a tribal ritual  
and passage of rite    
   
It’s strength builds    
within the height    
of its solar eclipse  
   
Growing wider  
casting shadows    
across the plains    
from extended wings    
   
We are oblivious    
as foraging squirrels  
mining our own territories  
or contented fish  
swimming listlessly    
   
That Mother bird above us  
hovering, waiting    
to dive and strike    
when least expected  
   
And that’s how it is  
this writer’s life    
a spectral decent    
from an unseen space  
   
Its claws latch  
piercing us bloody    
til we’re so drunk    
with the glory of possibility    
   
we submit willingly—  
sacrificing our ego  
to be reborn as poetry    
   
XIV  
   
We write to remind ourselves  
that we are alive    
   
Does it matter  
if anyone likes it    
or not  
if it’s wrong or right    
empty or mindful  
   
Life’s labyrinth    
of willing wonders  
amid a congealed Universe  
offer us freedom    
of choice  
   
Whether beautiful  
or grotesque    
excellent or mediocre    
we offer the verse  
a conduit—  
not of but through us  
   
Trust that its newborn  
breath enters the palms  
of Mother Earth    
from this vessel of service    
   
Believe muddy thoughts  
stirring the sediment    
of our meager intellect  
will settle, eventually  
   
before emerging  
as a creation    
worthy of poetry  
   
XV  
   
There are times a poet  
feels so uncompelled  
locked in sedentary confines  
dreaming of exile    
   
of regeneration    
through inspiration    
beyond this quicksand  
cementing us to shores  
we wouldn’t choose  
for ourselves    
   
But at high tide    
the Muse rolls in  
as waves  
engulfing us  
whispering. . .  
   
‘It’s all a ruse’  
   
This wasteful idling    
this endless desiring  
   
All we need do  
is pick up the pen  
open the keyboard  
and allow the truth    
to crash over us    
   
Writing is about  
opening our hearts to receive    
not thinking or performance    
   
it’s allowing Poetry    
to take the stage  
with its own voice    
   
XVI  
   
We paint dreams  
on nature’s back  
  in the form of sonnets  
  haiku, free verse—    
these are the hues    
of a poet’s love  
   
We find our own    
way, sky above us    
earth below    
each step    
one step closer    
  if we don’t give up  
  by letting go  
   
We are not alone  
on the Camino de Santiago  
between the choice of two:    
  the first is short: quit  
  the easiest route  
    gone too soon  
    leaving no mark  
   
  The second is treacherous  
  we may think we’ve lost  
    ourselves  
  but moving forward  
  comes with great reward  
    for generations to come  
   
We seekers are nuanced    
in this uncertain storm  
of doubtful downpour  
   
Yet our one commonality  
  in this whole world  
is trusting fearlessly  
in the rivulets of poetry  
   
XVII  
   
There’s an ache poets suffer  
as adults—  
a yearning beyond  
immeasurable doubt  
   
trying to reconnect  
to our inner child  
where moments are holy  
and love expects nothing  
   
We’re held by grace  
and our whole world  
is made sober  
from natural magic  
like a reflection—  
   
a wet shoreline  
becoming the sky  
the only separation  
is that thin line  
of sea foam receding  
  into the water  
   
This becomes our altar  
our offering of gratitude  
between worlds  
when childhood emerges  
unaccountable  
   
It’s here we know  
the ache will return  
it's also where we learn  
how to feed it  
sandcastles and poems  
   
XVIII  
   
Like flowering sea grass    
in an ocean current    
my thoughts are fluid  
   
a continual motion    
through daily deposits    
of aquatic algae    
altering my ego-system  
   
I dream of golden sandbars  
in a blue-green ocean  
under our yellow luminary  
   
Walking the pathway  
of Moonlight    
across the water at night    
   
I envision waltzing  
through the galaxy  
fascinated yet perplexed  
at over 300 million planet’s  
wondrously diverse inhabitants    
   
Enter a Universal means    
of travel, a wormhole  
in speechless awe    
   
arriving once and for all  
where all Poets belong:    
   
In the heart of the Poem    
   
XIX  
   
Life goes on  
beyond burnt bridges  
 or the ebb and flow    
 of bygone facades    
   
The Past stands tall    
yet grows small  
  against distance  
when our minds allow    
  by letting go  
   
The present flows    
into the future    
like separate fluids    
  seamlessly miscible  
  within one another    
   
One would believe  
it was a mountain stream  
  gurgling through a forest    
  burbling secrets to us    
as it wound past    
   
We may feel swept behind  
  like silent sin    
with a need to repent    
  its unworthy deed    
   
But even spring flowers  
  clover and dandelion    
entice the bee’s presence    
  to become drunk    
  on their essence    
   
Our marbled pages of words    
  like a photograph    
hold wishes and dreams    
  genuflecting our need    
   
before the golden calf  
  of Poetry  
   
XX  
   
We’re in the thick of it now  
sifting through debris  
  of dictionaries  
rearranging phrases    
  and syntax    
into something legible    
   
Desperate to reflect diamonds  
strewn across the Universe  
  in clusters and solitude    
we mine words    
 from nouns and verbs    
   
remaking each one  
into a glinting spark  
producing enough fire  
to awe-inspire  
  and jump-start our desire    
   
We decorate meaning  
with pieces of us    
  from an underworld  
  of uncertainty    
hoping its beauty remains  
centuries after our internment  
   
This thing, this creation    
  by our own hands  
conceived and sculpted  
                  painstakingly    
into a colossus of Poetry  
   
XXI  
   
We are mere wordsmiths    
  awakened by synonyms    
  echoing across keyboards  
  spewing from pens  
against gale force fatigue  
   
in a perilous search    
of buried verse    
  somewhere within us  
equaling a measure of gold  
  resting amid the Earth    
   
Despite the ominous sight    
  of the page’s    
  distorted emptiness    
its blank stare unfurling  
as a sinister warning  
  an impostor syndrome    
  meant to deter us  
   
Yet our compass    
is set for true North    
   
Because what we possess  
is so much belief    
in the Muse’s honeyed presence  
to float our blood    
above the clefts    
  that would otherwise    
  capsize the words    
   
Crackling with electricity    
by pure energy    
we navigate the treacherous    
  seas of bare vulnerability    
becoming helpless castaways    
on the island of Poetry    
   
XXII  
   
This island sits firm  
beneath our feet  
walking its pathway    
  with intention    
   
We catch a whiff    
of inspiration    
  a song of songs    
As Solomon to the beloved  
so are we to the Poem  
   
We seek the Oracle    
  a temple of Muse—  
yet nothing she sees  
is anything she chose  
and nothing she says  
  or doesn’t say  
is for one person alone    
   
Because there’s no secret    
key or magic offering  
  no colored candle    
  or burning incense    
that unlocks creation  
in every line of poetry    
   
there is only us—  
you and me    
   
XXIII  
   
Survival isn’t surrender  
to the swamps  
of serene soliloquy    
   
Even the Lotus    
stretches upward  
  refusing to be buried  
  in muddy sediment  
   
Dew becomes water  
on the elephant leaf    
  runs freely and dives  
  off our chins  
  as we drink  
   
condenses on the skin  
gloats over its escape    
then evaporates    
into no thing    
   
Poets walk on  
through a village    
nothing is as it seems  
   
There’s a bouquet    
of origami roses    
  without aroma  
in the cafe    
  that will never bow  
  to the honey bee  
   
It tangibly exists    
as a mirage  
  something real  
  from a distance  
as an oasis    
   
We are upset dreamers  
  in this silent place    
disciplined by the whip  
of wrong decisions  
  made and witnessed  
   
But in the heart of life    
there is Poetry    
  for that we Poets survive  
   
XXIV  
   
Life is a dark jungle    
  hiding gifts of danger  
behind fresh scents    
of wood and pineapple    
   
Owning naught but itself  
it is unfettered    
by human idealists    
swinging their machetes  
   
It merely grows back  
retakes its belonging    
when man moves on  
   
We poets crawl blindly    
through cobwebs and blossoms  
risking potential poison  
and death from an Earth  
we take for granted  
   
We know why our soul  
lingers in the underbrush  
of possibility’s touch    
when given a chance  
once a month    
   
Seeking the abducted    
moments of inspired verse  
we forgo treasure    
of silver and gold    
meant to sustain us—  
materialistic traps  
coveted by most    
   
Not us  
   
We Poets don’t mine  
for earthly riches    
but rise above expectation    
Our sustenance is celestial alone:  
The exposed breast  
of the Full Moon  
   
XXV  
   
At dusk, herons glide    
just above the river  
silence crawls, exquisite  
as a flock of light    
floating over the surface    
   
The Moon’s soft chiffon    
entwined in beams    
melts softly like the sun    
through forest trees  
unerringly silent    
   
Entranced, we witness  
the common occurrence  
—that’s happened  
every day of our lives—  
    silently  
as though the first time    
   
committing the palatte  
    to memory    
cotton candy pink  
    fading into cobalt blue  
there's only so much beauty  
you can store in the mind  
until drunk on blood orange    
   
and the endless possibility    
of pure Poetry    
   
   
XXVI  
   
Magic exists    
along the uneven path    
of mottled light    
and hidden truth    
in the under-bush    
   
There is a wonder    
in not knowing  
what lies behind leaves  
of dalmatian jasper    
and bracken fern    
   
The forest wears a mask  
a reflective mirror  
to protect its secrets    
and there are sentinels    
to distract the unworthy—  
   
a red-headed woodpecker  
and a cricket keep time  
to the song of the tree  
a haunting, bitter  
and beautiful melody    
   
reverenced communication  
a fungal network    
of earthen circuitry    
dictating volumes    
of inspired eco-poetry    
   
to those who listen    
and take dictation    
   
XXVII  
   
It’s godlike on the peak  
below wildlife become insects  
scuttling across dust  
dark as the cleavage  
of river    
between two mountains  
   
I’m taken hostage    
by rogue winds    
beating eardrums    
of blood in time    
with my steps  
   
Here on the ledge  
where feet dangle    
in rest    
a red tailed hawk lands    
our eyes meet  
for a brief respite    
then go separate ways    
   
I gaze skyward  
seeking a divine spark    
behind the clouds    
   
It scans below  
for dying wildlife  
to devour    
   
Here I escape    
gambling against the odds    
and greedy demigods    
dealing in war and fraud  
   
I was taught by my dad    
to never fold    
before I’d lost  
give it everything    
I’ve got  
because there are times  
the underdog wins    
   
So I’ve always known  
somewhere within me  
regardless of disbelief  
there was always another Poem    
framed in the light I seek  
   
XXVIII  
   
Stars float like dust    
becoming a tableau  
of mystique    
in the hand we’re dealt  
   
We innately know  
there is room for change  
reshuffle fate    
believe in what can be  
   
An ironwood soul    
reverencing the Oracle  
taking comfort    
in all that surrounds  
   
A bone-deep knowing  
and shaking fingers    
transcribe what fails  
to emerge    
as spoken words    
   
But on the page  
they assume shape    
eels of Sumi ink    
entwine as seaweed    
their message  
palpable in feeling    
   
The Universe speaks  
through the Earth    
from every flower  
and bird  
cloud to sediment    
   
It transmits our Song  
into the form of a Poem  
   
XXIX  
   
Poets seek authenticity  
to breach pretension  
creeping as shadows  
eclipsing the atmosphere    
   
To grow a glorious poem  
without the agony  
of its thorns    
or fertilized manure    
is impossible    
   
and not for the faint of heart  
in their darkest of dark  
of enigmatic insouciance  
   
Those feigned attempts    
at verse by a fragile ego    
will always be shattered  
by its own ignorance  
   
Truth snuggles in the folds    
of frequency, vibrations    
reflecting as a mirage    
of transcendent understanding  
   
Poetry doesn’t thrash    
through thickets of a jungle  
as a ravaged lion  
diving for our throat    
desperate for blood    
   
It emerges from us  
fills our senses    
with a haunting  
until we lack nothing    
through the poem    
   
Its specter wanders the earth  
  silently shining    
its light through every thing    
    
Once we were blind  
but now we see    
from within    
   
XXX
 
Never forget  
a literary seed roots
in our chest cavity  
waiting to burgeon  
 
A million mad bees
  escaping spring’s nest  
link our destiny  
  of porcelain words
to each Universal orb  
 
We are . . .
 
rogue wildflowers
  growing from cement
arm-in-arm with weeds  
 
an ocean of salt water
tempered by rose petals
  and innate madness  
 
infinite enigmas
  harboring salient secrets  
haunting and mysterious  
 
ripe bouquets
   of individual aromas
plucking our petals  
 
a jumbled purpose  
   of arranged notes
composed of silence  
 
utter catastrophes  
without need for pardon
             or immunity
  from our insanity—
 
We are Poets  
  without apology  
     in this
       our Elysium of Poetry
.