It was created to make opportunities for
those who were under the amount of wins.
But who were in a "e season of opportunity".
( a time were five to twelve wins were-
recognized by a ring manager
who took responsibility of an athlete as manager)
the opportunity would have to be come from
the championship committee (1/2 would have
to agree, to put forth Aorist" to encourage
the current champion to agree to a match.
a proper time to do the proper thing where both
champion and challenger might seize the
opportunity to be victor in a championship bout!
The term Kaivoi Aorist" used to describe the condition
before it has transpired.
(I go Ruh-Ruh! to cheer the Performers!)
I used to dread it every year.
The mysticism of winter filled me with fear.
I observed the fallen leaves on the floor.
The emotion on my face flipped to a sore.
I'd rather dwell on my gloomy thoughts.
What struck me was how I argued and sought
I loved everything almost watching nature.
Plants and animals are affected by denature.
It poured as I strolled by the oleander tree.
Oleander is the oldest living species to dree.
The bane is its dark green lanceolate shape.
the water trickling down from the cape.
My black cat is making an active effort.
to seek refuge behind falling leaves.
However, it is reacting to a leg hurt.
It might draw too wet for food and sheaves.
If a cat could foam a wish come true,
I lack to have a lot of tasty fresh fish.
a fish that is wriggling and writhing too.
I would wish it in a silver, fluttering dish.
Everything works in complete harmony.
Winter is groovy, but it won't last until spring!
Summer and bliss are in aorist harmony.
Winter will not persist; everything swings.
Written: January 22, 2023
Winter Is Not Forever Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: BJ Legros Kelley
Fog, like a shroud, hangs over the valley,
muting the morning's voice, soaking the ground.
Droplets cannonball, trying to rally,
base jump the downspouts, raise echoing sounds.
Scarce is heard but a chorus of crickets.
Runoffs form rivulets, quiet joined mirth.
Does skip breakfast, stay tucked in the thickets,
waiting for sunshine, enjoying warm earth.
Silent, it slips like ghosts through the forest,
leaving no trace but a sheen on the bark.
Seemingly endless, in the aorist,
thwarting dawn's progress, prolonging the dark.
Alone, a sorrowed lover seeking trysts,
a sodden, tear-soaked spirit in the mists…
—————
For the 2020 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Written on 9/10/2022