The Poetry Marathon

One hundred words
to grace a page
requiring wordsmiths
to count seems
risky, even
for marathon poets
who trudge through
when sinking
in uninspired quick sand. 25

Better to ask a bird
to quiet her song,
a fish to hold its breath,
or a bear to whisper
a bedtime story. 41

Easier to find a leprechaun
counting gold at the end
of a solid orange rainbow,
or a mermaid skiing
on snow banks in Africa.57

Easier even to plea
for pardon from scorned lover,
a stoic judge,
or grandma on a rainy day
when kids crowd around feet
unable to go outside and play. 73

Still I type and count,
type and count, disregarding
the credibility of the muse
perched upon my shoulder
whispering in my ear.

Eighty-eight and counting
with the clack
clack
clack
of keys
spilling letters
on this page
until they reach
completion.

Swallowtail Jig

Inspiration did not come
through bow and string
though your sound beautiful

Instead of words pouring
from fingers to screen
my feet longed to join
the swallowtail in her jig

The Funeral

Bodies shrouded in black
rock forward and back
under siege by the dark
cloud of mourning
seeking light in this tunnel
but finding none.

Shades of sadness
and supplication
run through the air
an ebony chem trail
infecting all present.

I am swallowed by envy
while you lie there
oblivious to the wails
echoing against walls
and wearing your favorite
yellow dress.

Also Untitled

Regardless of your itsy-bitsy status,
(and mine as being tuffetless)
little spider, breath seizes in my chest
and sweat plagues my brow
at the thought
of curds and whey for two.

No Offense, But…

It’s not that I don’t value
your opinion, even as it assaults
me when I am defenseless.

I just wish you would dull
the sharpness of your tongue
and listen when I speak.

Birthday Surprise

a sliver of light in the darkness
eyes blink against the unwanted brightness

laughter seeps through thin walls
where fear sits heavy bristling fur

tiny hands lift lid
dispelling fear

replacing it with all that flows
from boy to dog

Nostalgia

Cruising Grand Avenue
“Don’t Stop Believing”
blared through crackling speakers

We were the cool kids

Before the pressure of society
on adolescence
was posted for all to see
and shame was a private thing
felt in bedrooms
kept under covers

In middle age
where we struggle to keep up
with trends and technology

We watch the cool kids

and rejoice in the good ol’ days
and our part in them
when stomping grounds and football fields
were altars and youth our god

Closing My Eyes

I can hear
your feet padding
to the kitchen
See soft, pale feet
sinking deep
into red shag carpet
smell purple shampoo
meant to save your silver
taste the salt and satisfaction
of bacon prepared
with a Granny’s love
and bony fingers
and feel the smoothness
of your cheek
beneath my kiss

That was home
where “flitter” and “sugar-booger”
rang in the air.
And there’s no going back.

Dear Red,

We knew, perhaps before today,
of the failure to disclose
even under duress
and we accepted that.

We knew, perhaps before today,
of enemies praised
for power obtained through cruelty
and we accepted that.

We knew, perhaps before today
of refusal to cooperate,
tales of “Fake News,” lies
and we accepted that

We also knew, perhaps before today,
deception, business, strange money
would be scrutinized in court.
Accept it.

Que

Eternity Now

flashes in bright blue neon

atop a dark, metal building

more rust than gray

selling a promise of forever

a secret long sought,

but never found.

Will those lined up outside

find it when they cross

the threshold?