The Poetry Marathon

We have our own

palaces here in

Buckingham, Pennsylvania.

get off the main stretches of River Road

and find yourself

an abandoned slab

of stone

a portion of a pavement

from a Hessian soldier’s hideaway.

With my hardback book, cheddar cheese,

Bucks County wine

i bask

in my makeshift haven.

i want to throw my smartphone into the River and

become

the Sunflower

in my little girl’s crayola

drawing-

Droopy hair

dress yellowed with age

a thick stalk of a sturdy blossom

Timepiece

Timed peace

I wandered deep into the only living forest to find this —a narrow rusty box

that, in the glare of the sun,

revealed a

List of Friends

a scroll of photos

hearts and smiles

Are these my earthly ancestors?

my nubile antecedents who

Talked of space travel

and equated Hell with Planet Venus

(a heart frozen over)

I wonder if they’ll like it here:

my own dwarf planet, where I can

fly with diaphanous wings

That fold into origami fins and scales

that let me dive into my

oceanic haven.

alternating between flight

And

Blue Fury

i

Yearn for

Moss

Autumn

The chorus of trees

The flurry of bees

I want to know if those

Strange creatures called

Birds

are indeed

the great great grandparents of my

Pterodactyl

I’m waiting to be born

squatting on the Welcome Mat

of the world

i mimic my bullfrog totem animal and croak and burp and fart

but no attempt

can match his Majesty

my bullfrog jumps on my head and creates

a halo of mud and slime above and around

my eyebrows

a taste of what’s to come

he starts the chorus

and I pretend to be a coqui

the Caribbean crooner

Exiled to a Hawaiian luau

i am impatient

wanting so much to be born

I want to jump onto that sea of stars

And fall into the Big Dipper’s

domain

my body is heavy my head even heavier

Bullfrog says my parents have seen my

Huge Head

my Outlier brain

and

Return me to God

i don’t know it yet

but

No More of Me

will be born

Ever

I’m a Down’s Syndrome Child

and I wear

my Star-Helmet

with pride

Whose woods these are I think I know

my friend Candy

posted her
Not for sale

sign here

ten months before she died

i should have known,

that evening of our twentieth high school reunion

when she didn’t show up

and no one knew her address nor number

that I could have looked behind

the ancient beech and oak

on

the banks of the Delaware

on Riverside Drive

The Trenton historian said

that that oak was the

Last Rebel Standing

one of the few remaining trees

that witnessed

General Washington and his troops crossing the river

for the Battle of Trenton

the birth of our  nation

Little Candace, with her five year old clairvoyance

picked the rebel tree for her rebel heart

hid there, placed her Jean Nate scent there

And cried her eyes against the ancient tree’s arms, it’s shedding bark absorbing her sweat

She didn’t just die in her sleep in an inner city tenement

she is there—within the wings of  the guardian owl
sentinel of the lone canoe

Since I was five I’ve been learning to swim

I don’t know if I’m trying too hard and losing momentum

like what often happens when I want so much for something to happen

i might have to sing underwater

because

like swimming and learning violin

my attempts to sing ‘seriously’ often failed

i wanted to sing champagne

when my voice is river water

i thought myself operatic

when plainsong, the elegant ease

of a Beatles song, more suited me

am I trying so hard to prove I’m strong and athletic, so adept at operatic scales

when Mersey mermaid scales are more my

trill?

Bereavement is derived from ‘rievers’

those border bandits in Britain who terrorized and killed citizens

my grief continues to steal time

but who is more stealthy?

death or its afterthought

if death comes as a thief in the night

Then what is its wingman?

is grief the more charming criminal?

lingering, quiet

The companion to a life in limbo

Almost time

Hello everyone!

i like to think of this marathon as the writer’s version of stand-up comedy and improvisation. Loads of fun ahead I’ve noticed that I do well when put on the spot with no time to procrastinate. Spontaneity and limited deadlines can be good for the body and soul. Think of it as a mischievous bungee-jumping version of The Artist’s Date.