The Poetry Marathon

When spring comes, I look out at my forsythia bush

and daffodils.  A few tulips pop up as do

the chutes of  hostas  and rhododendron  blossoms.

Soon the huckleberries’ create

an intoxicating fragrance that draw the squirrels

and birds.  There is nothing like planting peonies

chrysanthemums and impatiens and patting the dark

earth down with your fingertips.

 ‘In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us.’*

From Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer

I can fly when I’m on my bike

spinning away uphill, downhill.

Running faster than light,

sweat dripping down my back.

Now, I ride through the preserve

everyday.  Passing people wearing masks,

Couples holding hands,

skateboarders smoking weed and singing.

But the most wonderful is going downhill by the pond where the ducks flock.

The air smells sweet, and the wind fills my lungs

as I pedal faster than light.

Claim the power it brings

and you will do great things.

Love your neighbor as yourself

And no one will be without wealth.

Trust in a power greater than you

and  spiritual gifts will come due.

I have dissipated into air.

I smile at sun and shine on dewy blossoms.

I look into horizons of anguish and false smiles of survival

and relish spring breezes – the scent of voodoo rose.

It’s been a long rendez-vu in verdant pastures

of blissful banishment and enchanting streams

of weeping willows’ song.

Ah, swaying again in droplets of vapor

remembering the muse’s words:

“Sweet Angel, revel in the words,

Wander and sow your seeds of ecstasy.”

Had I forgotten?

Had I hardened into gross mass?

Had I frozen into an austere demeanor

producing slavish insolence?

The seasons, that’s it!

Yes, I remember the movement of stars,

and tides and moon’s chanting of rhythms and vibrations!

How sublime!

Looking for the silver lining

in all things is the way to go.

However, I cannot do this

because I am a pessimist.

The glass is always half empty.

I know it’s wrong to think this way

but when I was an optimist,

I was always disappointed.

So the silver lining is better explained

as making lemonade when

things go wrong.

I’m not afraid of spiders –

Maybe because they are so manipulative

and beguiling –

Maybe because of their silken webs –

Or because they are vulnerable if you stick

your finger through their webs and they

swing away on a string and fold themselves into a ball.

But there was once a very large white spider

that intrigued me so much, and I got so close to it

and touched its body,

and I felt something pinch my pinky.

“Welcome to my web,

said the spider to the fly.”

They knew their stuff and clutched the soft spots

of the ocean floor for that was their job, and they were blind.

But in the weirdest sense, they did see:  the solitary sea floor

and the larger fish-stealing food through murky fog-water, swimming faster,

pushing with mouths wide open.  The shark-like fish

swallowed hard, desultory, robot-like.

Far away from the seashore, the urchins saw much more:

a small teakwood sewing machine with ornate legs,

Dutch-made, lying on a Harlem Street

as November-slanted rain fast-warped the soft wood

and rusted the bobbins and motor.

The urchins closed their eyes.

It didn’t matter that Frank, a homeless man, was slinking

along again in a valley of tears, desolate and drunk.

Looking into a puddle by the sewer,

he saw his sad reflection, wiped his hand ad stuck it into his pocket.

The urchins felt his presence though they were invisible to him.

There, the locket rubbed against his thumb.

So he took it out, cried as he saw the face of an angel

looking back at him.  “It’ll be okay,” it seemed to whisper,

as he closed the clasp and let out sobs from the back

of his throat, in a man way, until he was able to choke them down.

He looked again at the puddle and saw a trapped pigeon stuck

in the sewer slots.  With a quick maneuver, he pulled its broken wing

out of the grate and it hobbled away.

And now the urchins could rest and bless Frank.

An angry pandemic explodes throughout the globe.

It leaves havoc wherever it settles.

It destroys lives and dreams.

It injures bodies and kills many who cannot fight

this strange contagion.

Some think this is the Season of the Witch

or the Season of Death that comes along every century

to unfairly eradicate certain populations.

Is it nature, super nature, or a political conspiracy?

Will we ever find out?  Will we ever heal?

We must wait for the Season of Love to come.

Some nights it is present in blue-black night.

Other times, it cannot be found.

I search for the Big and Little Dippers,

but the haziness of smog and cloud

leave it hidden.

I frolic in the garden of gods and goddesses

with fairies and figments of my id.

I frolic on roads with lotus flowers and chalices of rum,

on pastoral roads with warm breezes, lack of scrutiny and amoral love.

I stand naked in moonlight mist with arms outstretched

defying smirking faces and complacent stares knowing full well

it is my own judgment that matters.

I have danced to a lyrical romanticism as my superego analyzed every step.

That sweet pantheism rebels the Victorian ethic

as it pushes the ideal into the lost dream where Arthur

wandered and Prufrock lingered with Selwyn’s yellow eyes,

wasting away in early decay.

Birds are fed by the earth, free of karma.

With clenched fists, I open fingers and fall asleep

back in the forest, after the gods have turned to stone,

and history has explained itself as fallen angels or ambitious egoists.

I reckon the desire to kiss the abyss

without falling into black waters, drunk on a temptation

or an ease that might be heaven or a nu age

or nothing new at all.  And in the reckoning

comes the answer, the snap-snap of sacred eyes.