Hurries Poems

The Measure of Miles

2025 Poetry Marathon  Mile 12  Contest // Sponsored by: Mark Toney 
( 2nd Place )

Written: August 29, 2025


I did not come here to sprint.
I came to gather the pulse of the road,
to feel the gnaw of silence
against the bones of my resolve.

Each step is a revolution
against tiredness,
against the voices that murmur quit,
against the burden of what I once carried.

The horizon never hurries.
It waits, steady as a metronome,
marking time with the breath of dawn,
reminding me: endurance is a kind of prayer.

What is a marathon if not memory
unfolded across distance
the faces that hailed,
the hands that let go,
the griefs I refused to bury?

Still, I run.
Not because triumph is certain
but because the road demands witness.
Even the broke beg a compass.

I anchor my heart to the road,
woven mile after mile.
The finish is not some banner
it is the hour I see
fractures still hold weight.

And so I move,
one breath louder than surrender,
forty-two kilometers of fire
coursing through my veins.

If I falter, let it be forward.
If I fall, let it be on the line
where the road has already
turned me into flame.

What the Sun Sees

As I rise, 
The moon falls
The wind settles
The lake follows
The sand shimmers
The earth softens
The stars dampen and
The buildings brighten,

A tree houses
A bird swooshes
A flower opens
A fish swims
A weed dances
A squirrel eats and
A duck dips,

A man hurries to work
A woman runs on the boardwalk
A grandfather grabs the paper
A boy hides from me
A girl giggles on the swings
A bell ushers kids away and\
A bike lane grows heavy,

This place,
So full with life
Racks the minutes, hours, days, years,
Peacefully, quietly, beautifully--
Existing with incredible happenings;
Splendors and revelations,
Dark funerals and ‘happy birthdays’,
Joyous jubilations and lonely mornings,
Yellow hellos and red goodbyes,
Tired people and busy minds.
Perpetual, like that grandfather clock in the apartment with the too-thin walls; 
As unchanging as the oak tree outside of the tiny bungalow on the corner street by the beach.
And as I set and rise everyday to do the same 24-hour shift,
I do not complain about the similar views, or the boring minutes,
I do not crave the hours in darkness,
I accept the unthanked labor—
I  watch.
I  listen.
I exist.

Cascading Colors

A Kaleidoscope, my best toy!
Hours flew as new colors emerged,
A cascade of abstract-colored joy
Myriad patterns of colors surged.

Colorful glass in serpentine slides,
Slithered across an imagined sky.
Is there a lunar planet that hides,
in colored glass as time hurries by?

I pretended the colors were stars,
I could travel on one of my choice.
I would sing songs as we flew afar,
And I would smile, a lilt in my voice.

I wish I still knew that magic land,
and had the key to travel the sky.
Phosphorous nebula in my hand,
As colored glass stars and I flew by.

Clinging To My Brow

Veiled by clever branches, limbs
silken strands, protecting me
from the eyes who’re like pseudonyms
beckoning with iris’ clever and wild

secreted beneath gossamers, flowing
in whispers of hope for the morn
risking each breathless moment, unknowing
what to expect with the journey’s quest

shrouded by the strands, elusive
like the moment when I knew true pain
beyond the shadows, so abusive
feeling the fears who reach my soul

concealed from a world who hurries
never allowing my heart to heal
these wisps of melancholic flurries
remember locks who write the songs

unseen by those who might discourage me
each curl, each tress, each quiet tuft
silences the fears who seem to guarantee
expressing myself means letting go 

hidden by the mane who drifts, curving
sinuous and graceful, a layer of shelter
always protecting and preserving
so I have refuge, a haven, a secure home

unseen, my eyes hide beneath the maze
a mane of defense, shielding me from foes
those who might not understand my gaze
only see the pain and never what I gain

Patience

moss climbs
a fallen branch—
no one hurries here

No Hurries, No Worries

As I think about it, it's only fair
that Matt should get the electric chair. 
In three minutes of time, I wove pure gold 
and waited several weeks to be told.

Seriously, I have him to thank
for not telling me my poem stank.
We should find it in our hearts to forgive.
Oh, the ignominy he must outlive.
 
I must kindly thank him, before I'm done
for his contests, creative and fun.
Here it is, Matt!  Here's my latest rhyme.
Have mercy on me and take your time.

Sunset

The sun is setting,
golden and low,
and as twilight shadows
quietly pass
the old man hurries
but his pace is slow.

Snow in the South

Jack Frost got me hustling 
To clear my car of excess snow
Bare brown branches bustling
As  frigid blue breeze blows

The forecast was right or wrong
As I sit in the car heating it up
On the radio red Christmas songs
Sing along makes freezing fun enough

I watch a parent play with child
Shaking tree to sprinkle white flurries 
Warm eyes that twinkle as they smile
Despite chill no one really hurries

When it snows in the south
People take notice in awe gaze
Kids squeal with joy so loud
As they gather it in hands amazed

Purple panic shoppers raspberry react
Buying bread milk eggs in excess 
We giggle at their inability to relax
And see snow days as God blessed

Despite the nights spent so cold
Someone who lacks winter heat
May be a poor homeless soul
Or you due to a car wreck on street

Snow in the south is a white dream
Everything seems to take it easy
Coffee tea and cocoa hot we drink
With warm hearts despite freezing

Here We Are, Halfway through November

    Here we are, halfway through November
       What happened to July, August and September

    Looking forward to the ‘big three holidays’
       Who remembers July 4th’s barbecue blaze

    Sweltering summer long forgotten
       Cool days of Autumn now begotten

    Time never pauses; it simply hurries on
       Look back too long ~ the future’s come and gone

Scent Of Innocence

Those rose tinted glasses, my childhood pair, 
The glow of a rainbow's alluring flair. 
No worries no hurries, sweet carefree glee, 
Promise by pinky without guarantee. 

Intense senses of blurred lenses, no pun - 
Cheap keepsake - enriched me for the long run.

Tearful

“Give them back! Give my tears back, right now—with interest!!”
—Natsuki Takaya


 She wrote her marine a letter, hopeful, bright
loved with her kisses and perfume. In sight,
the postman circles ‘round. Expectantly, she
hurries to the wooden box, near the Pear tree.

Spring is in the air with robins mating, daffodils
in potent bloom and the sudden goosebump’ chills.
Sarah shuts her bedroom door, pounces on bed,
allows steam to open the envelope, read what’s said.

“Dear Sarah, soon I go into the fight, I will write more
later, after the attack. Kiss kiss, x x, hug hug score.”
Later he continues with blood, sweat and tears.
Incoherently, blots - black and blue, slide down. Fears

march up and down her spine. Vietnam’s magic trick
was to steal her joy and love. America’s turning quick -
long ere, a neighbor, fathomed regress from her guy,
which would rip the torrential tearful cloud of her eye.

Sliding to the First Day

It is summer,
and the umbrella men
are selling hotdogs.

A good-looking priest
enters Saint Pat's,
gangly girls giggle,
then make the sign of the cross.

Thursday is All-You-Can-Eat pizza day,
the joints will be too crowded,
the slices rushed out, slapped down
way to early or late.

Office workers flock
from the second floors of everywhere,
huddle shoulder to shoulder,
to spread rumors,
then return to gaze at desktop
computer games
or TikTok –

**** is a compensatory privilege
of the under paid.

The year hurries on,
rats scurry behind neon facades.

Downtown is slip-sliding,
it used to be a place to get noticed,
a gated area for outdoor passions.
Modest ladies now
hold the hem of their skirts down,
and not because
of any up-lifting wind.

Dope is in the air,
thieves hustle to get their share.
Tourists meander dazed,
as the stark exposure of the city
tramples over them.

Winter bites its chill tongue.

Come December’s last glittering moments,
that glass ball will hang by
the thinnest of threads.

~~~~~~~~~~~

(new edit)

Bullet-like bursts forth her dawn

On sleep-starved heavy eyes, tired, torn,
Straight like bullet begins her morn.

Kids woken up with a warm kiss,
She hurries that  naught is amiss,

Last bestirs hubby’s languid bone,
Straight like bullet begins her morn.

Bare in time she breasts her office,
When home, there awaits some crisis.

Forever hurry, worry-prone,
Straight like bullet begins her morn.
__________________________________
Couplets |03.01.2024|dawn
Poet’s note: A woman’s working day never gets done and there comes the next day’s dawn. This poem was inspired by one by Yaminee Vyas in Gujarati.

Happiness, Worries, Life

My life is a mess,
I'm feeling happy less and less,
Just lost a friend, pretend,
Bullied for my looks,
In my heart there are hooks,
My dog is there for me,
At least she can see,
My inner thoughts and worries,
She's never in any hurries,
To listen to my conversation,
When I'm in a situation,
There are a couple special people at school,
For my happiness, they are my fuel,
I am also worried about death,
What happens when I take my last breath!?
The future is looking pretty bleak,
All these worries that I let speak,
My friends say that they will be there for me,
But I don't know if I agree,
What if they don't want to be friends anymore,
In the very near future there could be war,
Between me and my friends,
What if all my friendships end,
I need to take a deep breath in, 
And slowly out, now pretend grin,
But sigh, I am still sad,
All my worries, all so bad.

To Himself

Head down. No smile graces his face
    feet shuffle along. hands in pockets
  'Huh? Dja say something to me?' ... 

  Sits down to dinner. Head down. Eats.
    no 'Hi' to others; no 'Hi' from others to him
  Gets up. Mouths 'Thank you.' Hurries away...

  Nervous, arrives at work. Does his job. Nods his head
    instead of saying 'Good morning' to others. 
  At break leaves the building. Head down. To himself...
 
  This is not him. It is someone else. Perhaps ...
     The real 'he' has crawled under a shell
  How to reach him? How to crack that shell?... 

    O God in Heaven. Do not forsake him!

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