The Poetry Marathon

My poem wears a warm cloak of anonymity.

It has green eyes and red hair.

It eats like an omnivore evolved from
the T-Rex and the Brontosaurus.

It dreams about children and schedules and love and violence.

It drives a modest car.

It lives in 1000 square feet where there is
too much art and not enough walls.

On weekends it likes to stay up to watch
the sunrise and then nap until noon.

It fears for the future of her children.

My poem is in love with humanity.
But, if my poem tells you she loves you,
you should not take that to mean she wants to marry you,
to have your babies or
to wash your socks.

And it wants to use words to paint pictures and evoke responses.

And it needs to open the skin to let the images bleed.

And it wishes that everyone who calls themselves a writer, then states that they never read poetry would realize they are only half the writer they could be.

And it wants to get into the hands of a million people so they will nod their heads and say ‘Yes’ I know exactly what she is saying.

The plastic rat tacked to the wall
The crystals hanging from the door hinge.
The people stepping outside in lawful smoking compliance.
The jaded bartenders ignoring your drink request.

The aftermath of a great show.
Musicians past their prime but still magical.
Low ceilings and laughter and Halloween lights.
Done by 9:30, Metamucil time.

Jamming,
Playing now with four guitars
When one
Rick Nielson
Was previously sufficient.

Big fish in a small pond still
Believing themselves
To be Rock
Gods.

Let me finish
and we will,
we will
get some breakfast.

*slurp on my coffee cup*

Let me go
and you work,
you work
I’ll get food.

*slurp on my coffee cup*

What’s your favorite?
and you like,
you like
cherry, coconut, chocolate bavarian

*slurp on my coffee cup*

“My gawd, your efforts are waning, you need to step up your game. I’ll be back.”

It’s so early in the morning
or so very late at night
depending on perspective.

You offer to make coffee
as I feverishly write and post
write and post
write and post.

I lean over to kiss your shoulder
to thank you profusely
to love you
my moon and stars

You give me the visceral gift
of completing this small task
this loving offering
while naked.

Only once every
3,600 years
the black planet
passes through our
solar system.

Reading stories,
theories, postulations,
scientific papers,
crack pot conspiracies
disaster planning.

Will it pass
unnoticed or
will we experience
worldwide extinction
as dinosaurs.

Will we plan
gather, hoard
stockpile provisions
or love with grace
and ignore.

Secrets
will eat you
like worms in the watermelon
oozing juice on the countertops.

Secrets
will harm you
like kites flying into power lines
burning up at the end of your rope.

Secrets
will stun you
like a head on auto collision
leaving only blood and tears.

Secret
will kill you
like atomic bombs on unsuspecting villages
leaving stunned devastation.

Secrest
will vacate you
when released like butterflies on wedding days
light as a moonbeam.

Now, you walk away all
smug superiority and I
am relieved that the charade
is over.

Now, you escape from the city and I
can return to my throne
of art galleries & local restaurants
in peace.

Now, you retreat to silence and I
chatter endlessly at every
encounter, grateful for renewed
human connection.

Now, you are shattered and I
am stitched back together
by a band of monkeys
moving on.

You turn your head
sorrow
masculine cliches
fear.

You catch your breath
shame
masculine pride
tears.

What?
What is it?

The joy is leaking from my heart.

It’s the little things that
make up my personality.
All those tiny tidbits
that cling to my brain
like cereal-box stickers
on bedroom windows

The telephone number
from my childhood home
the patterns of the turning dial
on the single rotary phone
at the desk in the dining room.

The way grandmother smelled
like mothballs and
burnt coffee and
Sunday roast beef dinners and
Bible school flannel graph lessons.

The flash of fireflies on
muggy summer evenings
in the Kansas summertime
peels of children’s laughter
as we filled jars with phosphorescence.

It’s the little things
that shine as silver threads in
the quilt I am still stitching,
bringing comfort, continuity
character to my waning days.

sad songs
patio sitting
poetry musing
ice clinking
husband shifting
dog patrolling
birds alighting
sun setting
clouds passing
sad songs