The Poetry Marathon

I was so excited about this year’s marathon but went on an unexpected last minute holiday and have been without Wi-Fi all week.

The poetry marathon has already started – I have just got home (9.30pm UK time) after a 7 hour drive, and so cannot participate this year.

I will still engage and write and read

Love and luck to you all

Always green

Always green but rarely seen

The scene that’s green.

Through the door

Will it be there any more

If I try and reach it through the door?

In shadows we will watch you

As the light tries to tempt us in

I reach for you, an unseen force

From there? Or from within?

I try to connect on a level plain

And realise that I want more

Reflections; reactions can’t be forced

So I’m walking through that door

I walk

The streets laid out before me like a thousand unbidden promises.

Which way?

I could walk down here toward

The little antique shops which sell dolls without limbs;

Faintly scratched vinyl records;

A copy of “The Merchant of Venice” missing its last page;

Somebody else’s life.

But I don’t want somebody else’s life.  I want mine. That life I had with you.

I could go to the park.

Lying in the sun, knitting daisy chains and talking about the future that we both knew was scorched by lies.

I could go home.

But home is not down these streets.  That is where your home is; your home with her.

You call out as you see her, but as she turns her head to cross the road, you know it is not she.

I will go home.

I will lie tonight on the back garden and look up at the same sky that is above you.  And wonder if you are watching it too.

I write a pattern in the stars that tells how this girl met this boy. And though he wasn’t hers

He became hers.

I am that girl.

It turns out that you were never really that boy.

Can you smell it? The rustle of the crowd?

Can you feel it? The crackle in the air. Electrifying

Can you see the dust molecules swirling around the 1000 watt bulb, as it fades into life.  Bringing with it illumination and promise.

Can you see them? The girls behind a mask.

Can you see them? The people you know and work with; looking so different as they slip behind the facade. The costumes. The hair.

You stand.  I stand.

In the dark.  A moment of solitude. Everything is quiet for a second of time. The lights are down.

The audience rustle and then they shush. There is a crunch of candy papers,  but for this split second, it doesn’t register.

This is your time.

This is my time.

The lights fade in.

Curtain up

So I go strolling

And it isn’t very long before I find

I’m in a place I don’t belong

I wandered down this alley because I’d switched off all my thinking

And now I’m here I understand that I’m figuratively sinking

Why else would I be on a muddy river bank?

If not to wallow as I wander. Look through the water dank.

It swirls so dark before me, cold, unfriendly, thick and grim

And I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to just sink in .

And then I see them sitting, coloured umbrellas in a row

With men lined up in uniformity, sitting cosy below

They’ve boxes and they’ve lunches and they’ve snacks and they’ve solitude

And I certainly shan’t disturb them. That would just be rude.

But I find irony and humour in this crazy juxtaposition

I wandered here so black of heart, and these guys are simply fishin’

It’s always a good morning when I wake up naturally

And it doesn’t hold a five year old yelling out “MUUUUMMY

I need the toilet and I think I’ve spilt milk down the stairs

And can you get the vacuum out, ’cause I’ve pulled out some dog hairs”

It’s always a good morning when I’m not woken by a bark

And the Patterdale at the window tells me it’s no longer dark

“Be honest” he always seems to say, “you know you want to take me out”

And then he gets his lead out and my dreams are filtered out.

It’s always a good morning when the alarm clock is switched off

And I’m not woken by the husband’s snuffling,  snoring,  sneezy cough

I look out of the window onto my rainy street

And can feel the pull of nature and its dancing, rhythmic beat

It’s not a treasure island, and it’s not paradise

And on a rainy grimy day, it’s not even very nice

But it’s my house and it’s my street and it’s where I’m calling home

So I’ll go back to bed now – Queen in my lie-in throne

It’s dark

And though the sounds are dense, I hear so clearly

It’s cold

And though I can hardly move, my mind moves freely

It’s a world away from what I’ve ever known

And submerged inside this world I’m all alone

And you cannot hear my call

Unless you’re a narwhal

Hello
Thought I’d post a quick note, to make sure I know how this works before Saturday.
I am from Nottingham, England, and I am thinking how nice it might be to include a bit of local heritage and history into what I write.
We’ll see!
Looking forward to “meeting” you all!