2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 11 Contest //Sponsored by: Mark Toney
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 27, 2025
No trumpet greets the weary stride,
only gravel grinding underfoot,
the breath that rasps against the bone.
I have shouldered storm inside my chest,
their weight pressing like half-done prayers.
The world does not wait for heartbreaks
yet still I walk through its indifference.
The road is merciless with distance,
a ribbon extended beyond all sight
but its distance carves the truth of what I carry.
Every scar is a mile-marker wherein
every fall a lesson written in dust.
Hope is not the flag at the end-
it is the breath that urges: once more, once more.
I walk with shadows
and with the ghosts of those who stumble.
Yet I walk alight with the strength of survivors.
At last, I see it;
not a gate and not a crown
but a quiet clearing where the tired wind rests.
There, I set down my burden
not defeated
but strengthened!
The finish line was never drawn on the ground.
It has always remained inside the soul
waiting to be crossed.
Autumn
….. is mortally wounded!
It stumbles, tumbles
across the silken, rouged sky
quivering over rusted hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering
everything in blood-red.
On it goes, on it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling, wobbling
suffering deep gashes;
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.
While winter;
with the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldheartedly waits for autumn’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!
Ian Souter 2025
Lovely, happy hair,
Rowed, and growing in beauty;
God’s sweet locks I bear:-
Hued as is the night,
Moonlight beauty reflecting
Ebony delight:-
Locks admired so much,
Gardened rowed short or shouldered,
Just got to be touched.
God makes no mistakes;
Creating natured beauty,
Whatever hue takes:-
Mirror check and see,
The blooming beauty of thee,
And gracefully be:-
Tug-of-War
Alpha Dog
Carnivore
Locked our horns
Power struggle
Crown of thorns
Neither bows nor bends nor folds
Instead digs their heels
Leans in and holds
Under weights of worlds shouldered
Beneath catching fires smoldered
They juxtapose
Until the end
And so it goes
Protect; defend
Both yearning to submit, surrender
Though, coward, that would them then render
So instead they hold strong their positions
Each declaring their conditions
Never has this strategy
Ended anyway but tragedy
So each side is shocked and shorn
Strewn about, tattered, torn
Daughters, Mothers and Wives scorn
From empty houses
Alone; forlorn
Forever after they will wait
By the fire
Or at the gate
Until the day they receive
News, that from this horror,
There's no reprieve
I Tried to Unlearn
……. his name , his face, his memory
but each morning they kept resurfacing;
rubber ringed feelings that would not sink
no matter how hard I pushed down.
So I journeyed to places
that had rooted our relationship:
The park where the broad-shouldered oak
unwrapped delicacies of intimate memories
then leaning in much closer
it shared a consolatory shadow.
The river that coiled past
churned up affectionate thoughts
then rippled onwards to twist back
with a scornful smirk that made fun of me.
The café where he teased
about expressoing our shared ideas
and consolidating coffee compatibility.
Then on the butterfly wings of symmetry
our relationship seemed to fly to new heights
but was I another Icarus on a solo flight?
So the past that I had plucked at
offered no signs of warning, no signals of regret;
sadly the present, the here and now,
yields no guidance on how to….. forget.
Ian Souter
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
The older I get
With each day passing by
The farther my motion is set
To the tune of what good come nigh.
The older I get
The better I strive to become;
To rise above the neglect
And to have things work in uniform.
The older I get
The deeper I became bequeathed
With the truth of how life work
And of how things became diluted.
The older I get
The clearer life to me is
Of trials,of friendship and hatred
And of people who had me dissed.
The older I get
The more responsibilities are shouldered to me
For I ought make some consent
To things expected from me.
The older I get
The more my ages aches
Keeping me a call at Bay
Of the home with the sages.
The older I get
The nearer I am to the grave
Though of the day I cannot bet
Yet it's a truth I cannot waive .
“Politics is a contact sport” —Steve Chabot
It ain't over 'till it's over —Yogi Berra
Loug And Doug
Pleasant gentlemen both, broad shouldered and tall
Good sports who respect the umpire's call
Playing the game with pride and joy
Sincerely humble, never coy
Staunch New Yorkers with their eyes on the ball
pink paragon
renders no features;
a buoyant olive
shouldered above florid wings.
golden halo, open ring.
nature’s schmooze, profound.
deeply saturated midnight
in the labyrinth of the deep.
peacock blush of fancied feathers.
the heart beats
a magnanimous red,
emphatically so,
with corona seeds
like rays of the sun.
Max’s angel in surround sensation
would overwhelm the flesh.
the scent of peak, kaleidoscopic climax, meridian elocution -
an euphoric Eden.
Finding selflessness serving the good of the greater
The mission, leaving all better, a little more sound
A starseed, a lightworker; a humanity relator
I'm drawn to those whose emotions need a respirator
By listening; I lift shouldered weights of life's compound
Finding selflessness serving the good of the greater
Caring always, not just when convenient, or left, is a crater
Deserving of something stable, I'll be that ground
A starseed, a lightworker; a humanity relator
No wasted encouragement in this motivator
Searching infinitely for the lost, I've never found
Finding selflessness serving the good of the greater
Give me your pain; let me be its ruthless incinerator
Finding the path of truth requires a loyal bloodhound
A starseed, a lightworker; a humanity relator
Have faith; for evolution, it couldn't be the souls creator
Serving until no drum beat left in my heart does pound
Finding selflessness serving the good of the greater
A starseed, a lightworker; a humanity relator
Heart grazed by Holy Spirit,
rapture oozes from each pore
but this divine light sublime,
oft faces closed doors.
Opposite,
How stroke of love is?
loving after first sight,
someone of opposite feelings,
mind and thoughts.
flummoxing after being turned down
very hard to get the picture of the outcome.
jealous expanding its dimensions.
Opposite,
How stroke of love is?
emotions are natural,
it is sometimes hard,
hardly to convince
a person of opposite belief
feelings and principles
No matter how attractive
other person can be.
Opposite,
How stroke of love is?
in situation like that,
just learn to comprehend
after failing to apprehend.
then keep progressing
with your life harmoniously.
It is not good to force heart
in some wrong thing it cold - shouldered.
sometimes it so happens
love knocks on icy hearts
and is cold shouldered
in timeless time jagged rocks
are smoothened by the river’s flow
love employs no force
unconscious souls
yet rooted in animal nature
appear cloaked in human form
the indwelling spirit
is the same within all
only coordinates differ
there’s neither judgment nor shame
the sunlight continues to stream
on all life without prejudice
31-December-2022
There is a war of rage being waged.
I want to run into the heat I feel,
And fight to save global souls,
Not ease into the frost surreal.
I hear my commander’s voice,
Calling me out to come and see,
This echo cries for unending peace,
Never settling for inhumanity.
I behold the gauntlet of the clash,
And stand up to the vision I see.
This is why we came at last,
In the revolutions of eternity.
I reach out to gather others in,
Taking stock in preparation to go.
We wave our freedom banners in the wind,
“Attack!” is our manifesto.
We are the marked generation,
Fighting for family preservation.
Our hearts bear with ultimate victory,
The work shouldered in exultant delivery!
We are the soldiers of this hour,
And workers of Christ’s power.
Building upon our watchtowers,
We righteously make the Kingdom ours.
Go and read this manifesto,
It will make you a true hero.
It is a holy ancient record written,
Entitled, “The Book of Mormon.”
When I was young
We wouldn’t even build the July campfire light
Beside Torch Lake until ten at night
Taking a cue from Led Zeppelin and the sun
That, like us, refused to let go of the solstice sky
We’d go until four in the morning
And by then
The other hand of the sun
Was but a note away on the cosmic clock
Over the hill not far away
The knee-high flames contained within our circle of rocks
Surrounded by the outer bow and glow of our faces
This tribe of brothers sisters and spouses
Shouldered and bending in lawn chairs
Just as now
A third ring formed by our offspring
Sometimes we’re allowed in
Sometimes we’re no longer needed by them
Or wanted
It’s ok
The bonds of blood are layered in years
Like the cycles marked inside a tree
Soon
The northern lights will unveil their green shroud
The nose of Capella pressed to that veil
A small herd of deer will come down from the woods
Their eyes red as embers
Stomping their hoofs
And after that
In the early morning
The last of the Monarchs.
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