The Poetry Marathon

What should we do with the body

After the vultures have gone

Poked, prodded and abandoned

Of all dignity shorn.

The crematoriums are bursting

The pyres have all been lit

They fill the graves and rivers

Hoping the gods do their bit

(Where do the gods go, then

Those to whom you pray

What can we do with the bodies

That burden us today?)

I thought I’d say a few words

Mumbled in my head

You sought to drown your grief

In speechlessness instead

We’ve finally become immune

To Death, breathless and bawdy

We look but do not – cannot – see

Because we know not the body

(Where do the gods go, then

Those to whom you pray

What can we do with the bodies

That burden us today?)

We sigh and shake our heads

We protest to alleviate pain

We drown desperation in scotch and ice

And talk of how much it rains.

The petrichor returns each morning

Masking the stench of decay

But what shall we do with that body

That refuses to go away?

There are days I do not write a single poem

quietly measuring my worth

in affidavits I have carefully drafted

the words to wound or give relief.

The seriousness of being a lawyer

Is not to be taken with a pinch of salt

We march about the corridor

With a stride that defies belief.

Like penguins in our black and white

Serious faces and severe hairstyles

Full of self-imposed importance

We hum and move as bees.

We’re out to change the world

For the better, one case at a time.

A higher calling, a professional…

Wait, have you paid my fees?

There are no photos of me as an infant

In my mother’s arms. No black and white

Sepia toned memories bleeding

Into my now. No corners holding

The past in its place, jagged edges

Saying, look here, this was your life.

This was you as a baby in your mother’s arms

See how she looks at you

With tenderness, look at the calmness

On your face. The only pictures I have

Are the images you have left behind

The hurt I have learnt to carry

And the bitterness of the years.

Love is the light that shines through the cracks,

The touch of a hand, the flash of a glance

It’s knowing that you’ve got their backs.

Love needs no assurance except that it’s there

The touch of a hand, the flash of a glance.

The smile in your heart that can soothe your fear

Love is what carries the weight of the world

The touch of a hand, the flash of a glance

Even when the beloved is gone from this earth.

Love is the blanket when all around is cold

The touch of a hand, the flash of a glance.

When you are lost, love leads you home.

I see you clearly as now

Your jacket frayed at the elbow

As you drove with one arm hanging loose

Swerving too late to miss the elk

That wandered on the road.

You found it funny, the tremor

That rocked the car,  just a moose,

You laughed, not even slowing

While I looked into your beet-red eyes

Drunk and vile. And just knew.

That I had to get away.

That we were through.

It’s 2 am and the street lights

are not working again.

Darkness sweeps the road outside

The familiar looking strange.

The curve of the bow, plucking music

from my soul. An aged soul

that wanders in and out of rooms

Listening to the soft breaths, the sighs

Of dreams. I want to hold on to

This weightlessness, the easy way I hold

Myself, silently sneaking through doors

Of my mind, and forget that sometimes,

I do not care to live any more.

Often when I write I do not write.

Nor do I speak or voice my thoughts.

I do. That’s who I am. In the face

Of all I hold true. I do.

So when the hurt hurts my heart

Often when I write I do not write

The knife twists deeper

Ever so slowly that I cannot weep.

Cry some tears to ease the pain

Cry a river to live again? I cannot.

Often when I write I do not write

Of all the times I slip, or fall.

I try to forget to ease this hurt

And fail. And flail at crutches

With no relief. How, then, can I heal,

When, often, I write but do not write?

I crawled to the end of the world

And peered over the edge

And found the living roots

Of every plant and tree

And the souls of men who ruled the earth

Hung from the branches

Like silent bats without wings

Cocooned in mould and grime

For thinking they made a difference

For thinking it was worth their while

The air was mouldy and mist-ridden

Something foul was afoot

The waste of a selfish race

Hid the stars in muck and soot

How long until it flips, I wondered

The weight of the world is on our shoulders

The blood of the worlds are on our hands

And THAT, my dears, is the only truth.