The Poetry Marathon

Bound to a chair, 

Rusty and square. 

It wasn’t always this way.

A box of chocolates; an ode to my favorite movie. 

Break the shackles, 

one foot in front of the other.

It’s my time to break free. 

Bound to no one. 

Bound to no chair. 

Burst water pipe,

I never liked water. 

Dig down 

Clink clink 

I stumble on a time capsule; its origins are unknown. 

There is a lone photo inside 

And a poem 

I read the poem first. 

“Dear…” 

The rest of the top line has been smudged. 

“I’m sorry. You were the light of my life, you gave me life as I gave you yours. I took it away. Maybe we’ll meet some other day, but not too soon.” 

I unravel the faded photo. 

There must have been a leak in the capsule. 

A mother sits with her young daughter on a swing, 

It seems familiar. 

I didn’t keep many photos following… It was too hard. 

They tell me it’s unhealthy to repress memories. 

The water was shallow; I turned for only a brief moment 

She was gone. 

The poem should have read “Dear Margaret, my loving daughter.” 

Time to fix the water pipe. 

I never liked water. 

The eyes and faces all turned themselves towards me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room. 

The room was full of faces reminiscent of the past, each with memories etched into their skin. 

Their skin told tales of the past. 

The past is certain, the future is unknown; that’s what makes it so great. If we knew what was coming next, why would we bother? 

We bother because predictability is often unrewarded, much like my time in this room. 

My time in this room is a reflection. Nostalgia warms the heart, but it comes full of sadness and regret. 

The last line is different; repeating sadness and repeat isn’t healthy; just ask Sylvia. 

Opening line credit: Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)

There is a light in the distance, 

Is it a plane? 

I can’t tell if it’s getting closer. 

Is it a plane? 

I imagine being near the light 

Feeling its warmth 

its energy 

Is it Superman? 

No

That’s silly

Stay focused 

Is it a plane? 

30 minutes have come and gone, 

It hasn’t moved. 

It’s not a plane. 

Sip. 

Exchange casual glances. 

Everyone here is a writer, 

all with laptops taking chances. 

Not quite like a library, 

all well-read, but with dreams. 

Small victories are hard to come by, 

spelling my name right is a good start. 

I wish I was smart, 

everyone here is a writer. 

Sip. 

I should probably get started. 

Exchange casual glances, 

writer’s block setting in, 

I have to get started. 

It’s a struggle, 

this writer’s life. 

Coffee helps. 

“Here is your coffee and change, sir” 

Sip.

It wasn’t the way I had it imagined, 

my Death. 

I had pictured something grandiose, 

Instead, white walls and a steady hum filled the room. 

It was empty, 

just one living soul. 

I have never enjoyed poems with short lines, 

but here I am, 

writing my eulogy, with nothing coming to mind. 

They remember the good things; family man, loved animals, 

you get the drill. 

it’s not an accurate reflection of life, or how he cut himself with a knife. 

Too real? 

Too bad. 

I chose this way of life, 

or death. 

My death. 

All rather boring, really.