The Poetry Marathon

There’s A Gathering

There must be a place;

Above or not . . .

Where they gather.

The ones who left us.

Some we say . . .

“Too Soon”…

And some we say,

“had a long life.”

Are they here?

I’ve seen them . . .

After they’ve crossed.

THAT’S FUNNY

I am tickled pink;

at the antics of you . . .

Entertainment at it’s best . . .

it shakes in my belly!

I need this;

for these blue days . . .

Things are not . . .

exactly at their best.

You make me feel . . .

ready to explode;

In the best way…

from my solar plexus.

Aha! What a day!

ANIMALS UNDERSTAND

I know I will never see . . .

One as lovely as thee.

With your wet nose and wagging tail,

Your antics, in my laughter make me wail.

You want to share my food . . .

And I want to have your mood.

As you seem to always be happy;

My puppy, always so yappy!

When you see me cry on the stair,

You nuzzle closely to repair.

Even if you don’t know my pain,

You whine with me to stop my rain.

Do not grow old and weak …

We are buddies that all should seek;

Love like yours is the ultimate goal,

For inside of you is God’s soul.

Peanut Butter and Jelly

Only Daddy made it so good. Did he create this deliciousness?

I know Mom bought the Wonder Bread, the Jif Smooth Peanut Butter and Jelly.

Mom was not bad with the sandwich. But Daddy, his tasted creamier.

No, Daddy could not make lasagna the way Mom did. He wouldn’t dare.

But no one, on earth, past or present has ever made a PB and J like him.

It has been years and years, still I do not remember it so good.

Maybe Daddy just was more generous with the Jif; not concerned of calories.

Mom was always on a diet. Always going to a meeting with Weight Watchers.

Except when she made her lasagna or potato salad. Those were great meals..

Only Daddy made it so good. Did he create this deliciousness?

His recipe, if one could call it that, was perfect. More jam or that he created it?

It has been years and years, still I do not remember it so good.

In the long run, it must be the love. The feeling of someone taking care.

The one’s not letting you die or starve. And giving you such sweetness.

Daddy made his peanut butter and jelly goodness for me. My memories are fond.

As for lasagna, and potato salad, they are definitely Mom’s domain, and not mine.

What I Do Not Know

What I do not know, about her, her person.

What I will never know, about this person.

Certainly, I knew her a bit, briefly, a few moments.

My take was not always positive, she was tough…

In an unnecessary way. In my humble opinion. Not just to me.

Did not, would not, wish her harm . . . certainly not.

I have known much worse. The very worst. She was not.

Although, yes, harsh to me. Did not choose me to do, as I do.

Judged me too harshly, in my opinion. Not my humble opinion.

What I do not know, about her, her person.

There was an accident. She was just visiting her mother.

Did not, would not, wish her harm . . . certainly not.

Mother was killed instantly. Hit and run, not her fault. A visit.

She was thrown into a coma. Unresponsive. Too young.

Today she has crossed. She has died. Joined her mother.

Her sister has a second funeral. Her only family has left her.

Sorrows

The leaves come tumbling down.

Leaves come tumbling down.

Come tumbling down.

Tumbling down.

Like my tears down my face.

My tears down my face.

Tears down my face.

Down my face.

My face.

There are sorrows unknown.

Are sorrows unknown.

Sorrows unknown.

Tumbling down . . .

My face . .

Sorrows unknown.

My Dearest Daughter,

We are still here.

You are still loved.

We wish you only joy.

We send you love . . .

Prosperity.

It will develop.

It has.

Believe in that.

Grow.

We love you.

Mom and Dad.

WORDS OF LIFE

Sunflower, Sunflower in the yard;

Why is poetry so friggin’ hard.

Your beauty is inspiring . . .

My thoughts perspiring . . .

The sun itself has me charred!

Knitting is not something I do…

It’s a gift given to few;

Mostly it is for the old . . .

Gift from Grandma, or sold!

Wait, I am grandmother age, too!

How I long for enough space;

To be rich, in this case.

I live in the city,

Where we artists deserve pity!

Instead we carry mace.

The pavement always below my feet . . .

Sunny, rainy or through the sleet.

Here I am in New York . . .

A choice I made, I’m a dork!

And happy to be of this elite!

Furiture and trees of oak.

Beauty my eyes love to soak.

I think I shall never see . . .

Anything lovely as a tree!

And available to admire as I’m broke!

THE PIANO  . . . MANN-E-QUIN

He’s listening.

Hands at his side.

The piano plays – for him.

Only him.

It’s been over 100 years.

He stays and listens.

Through storms.

And fine weather.

Who knows him?

Who will remember?

He and the piano.

Forever.

LOS ANGELES THOUGHTS

Dirty big city  . . .

It shakes . . .

Rattles . . .

Lived there once . . .

Make that twice . . .

It has good points . . .

When it’s not shaking . . .

It’s weather is great!

I’d rather be in New York City,

At least, most of the time.

Exception:

Winter in the city . . .

Has a beauty,

Like no other.

Can be too cold!

Too slushy!

Give me Los Angeles,

Smog and all,

For warmth . . .

Without clanky pipes;

That never come on!

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• Thought LaLa Land was okay (not great).
• Currently Angela Theresa Egic lives in NYC