NaPoWriMo #22 Sunset At Steamer Lane

Quietly sitting under a saffron yellow sky,
a squall made of hungry gulls scattering
glides over me. I flinch at their sharp cry.

The cliffs below me reverberate their calls
while a crow hops around in ignorant bliss.
In their absence, he snatches whatever falls.

Surfers floating out beyond the breakers
look like pepper flakes from my distance -
here at the edge of the Pacific's acres.

The railing keeping me away from the sea
is covered in years of rust. A tendril
of salt-sprayed hair floats on the breeze

as I ponder the ocean's array of treasures -
an emporium for the soul. It nearly makes
me dizzy contemplating its mighty pleasures.

Then the sky burns to a faded blue as night
coaxes the surfers to find their last wave.
But they ride past the day's forgiving light.

I watch them, longing to reach out and borrow
their fierce ambition, to be caught inside
the Pacific. Not today, but maybe tomorrow.

For now though, my lungs are full of the sea
and the waves are thundering in my heart,
at the edge of the ocean under heaven's marquee.

NaPoWriMo #20 The Hero Of My Own Story

I can't scale a building, but I have climbed so many trees;
I can't stop trains, but I've brought bullies to their knees;
I don't wear a mask, but my face is powdered with sunshine;
I don't wear a cape, but these unhidden scars are all mine;
I don't have xray vision, but I have survived every test;
I don't have healing powers, but I've been a healthy nest;
I don't have a sidekick; but I've got an army of friends;
I don't have headquarters, but I know where the sidewalk ends;
I can't time travel, but the world is calling for me;
I'm not a superhero - just the hero of my own story.

NaPoWriMo #19 Light Bulb Moments at a Piano

Days of practice turn into weeks,
the melody slowly finding its way
to my fingers. The tempo seeks
a victory over fingers that stray,

stumbling over scattered ornaments.
The keys stubbornly play staccato;
phrases battle with their accents;
slurs creep up, demanding legato.

The notes taunt me from their page
and I repeat, just for good measure.
Fortissimo conspires with my rage;
yet every day I practice I treasure

and await the moment when music grants my soul admittance.
Now, fingers flying, I become my piano's humbled audience.

NaPoWriMo #16 What a Magical Morning Smells Like

I wake early in the morning,
sitting up slowly in my tent
with my sleeping bag bunched
around me. Awoken by scent.

Hugging all my warmth to me,
I stick my head out the flap
of my tent and listen to the
water's distant gentle slap

against the shore. Breathing
deeply I inhale the new day:
the smells of the fir trees
and fresh air bid me to wake.

A mossy boulder shyly invites
me to watch the breeze play -
blowing wrinkles across the
glassy lake's peaceful face.

Mornings in the wilderness
are a gift I'd never trade,
for the air reeks of magic
and the smell never fades.

NaPoWriMo #13 "Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie"

My favorite pastime has become the imaginary destruction of flowers.
This, while experiencing the unstoppable construction of your towers,
gives life to a Mighty Fury armed with Mother Nature's powers.
She takes gifts as wonderfully as She gives - yours, mine...ours.

A hurricane surrounds your concrete palace leaving shambles in its wake
and your highways crumble in the echo of Her laughing, splitting quake.
Volcanos roar, glowing warmly and echo their approval of vengeance made
against these intruders trampling uninvited to Mother Nature's space.

So as the world wilts, humanity pauses, pleads forgiveness and cowers;
seeking reprieve and shelter from their own chemically induced showers;
knowing that their damage can not be undone in years let alone hours;
vowing to defend the honor of all things beautiful: yours, mine...ours.

The first line of this poem is borrowed from Norman Dubie.

NaPoWriMo #9 Our Mission

In someone else's winter
light a torch to a campfire -
watch the heat raise a blister,
melt the barb off a Suit's wire.

We are nature's marionettes
on the fringe of Earth's wild rug
not chasing Ungettable Gets -
talons of Class feel our tug.

We massage Reality's bruise
and stow away a Pail of love -
the hippies' life we do choose
putting flowers in your gun.

A tangle of arms and smiles,
waves whisper at our chorus -
we do without Money's wiles -
and Peace strums softly for us.

NaPoWriMo #7 Love, Funny Side Up

A tangle of arms and laughter and smiles
surely we've met a hundred times before?
Oh yes. You're exactly as I thought you'd be...
only brighter, shinier
so much stronger than me.