The Poetry Marathon

Appetite, I am tired of you.
Truly, I am.
You wax and wane like the moon,
gurgle like a rushing brook
over too many rocks.
Can you please be still?
Please?
Think of what I need,
not what you want.

Another cookie…
six pieces of bacon…
and crackers?

Really?

Yes.
And the rest of
those stewed tomatoes.

I see…
Let’s sit down together
to make some collective decisions
on what you say to me,
and how you say it.

Yes, I do have time
to make a salad
or cook some carrots
instead of grabbing cheese
and half a sleeve of saltines.

Yes, I do have time to clean up,
and I hear you saying it
right this very moment!
I’m not listening!

When we eat as much as
YOU want to eat,
we get sleepy.

You shush that still voice
saying we’ve had enough
with all that fear mongering!

“Waste not, want not.”
“don’t let it go to waste”.
Blah, blah, blah.

Well, guess what…
it’s going to waist.
MY waist!

I love my body,
and I am beginning to wonder
if you love it, too.

Are you even a part of my body?
Or have you somehow
separated yourself from us?

Ok, look,
decades ago I wanted us to get fat
so that the stupid asshole
stalking us
would lose interest.

He’s gone now.
He’s old for sure!
Probably can’t even
get it up anymore.

He’s bound to know by now that I won’t marry him.

I think the danger has passed.
We can be healthy again.
What do you think?

Ah, yes, the bacon…

Buy-fly Die!

Damselfly freely fornicating on the wind,
Your act sustains your beauty for those who see.
With us, the blind define life as evil –
a veil for their own ills.
There exists no pornographic rape
in the world of wingéd creatures.

Lay your eggs, damselfly; you must fly away.

Do you marry in the wingéd world?
Someone must surely know,
for we have all been wingéd
at some moment of broad expanse.
Are there husband-flies whose damsel-wives cringe
at the sound of midnight footsteps?
Some drunken fly stumbling to find fault,
with face glowing rage and reeking lust?

Lay your eggs, damselfly; you must fly away.

It is a lazy coward who seeks to own their own.
Whose idea was it to oppress sacred life?
Some morbidly grotesque Kahn
robed in silk and fine ribbon, bereft of worth?
Torpid aristocrat! Flies above you toil for sustenance
and vie with dance to nurture life.

Lay your eggs, damselfly; you must fly away.

1. Knowledge
2. Self-Confidence
3. Effort
4. Compassion
5. Patience

Gather the appropriate skill set, and begin with the knowledge that you are good at what you want to do. In fact, you are perfect for someone out there in your world. Each morning, wake knowing someone needs your talent, your intellect, your creativity, your compassion, your intuition, your services, your product, and your contribution to humanity. Someone needs you, and they need you now!

When knowledge of you is solid, by daily repetition, self-confidence will bloom and bubble, like rising yeast bread. Now is the time to make an effort. Get to know people. Make phone calls. Get on the internet. You now have the knowledge that what you do is good, and the self-confidence that accompanies that knowledge, but other people are not yet aware. You are a hidden gem, so get out into the sun, and shine!

This is the time to incorporate that vague understanding of simply being human – most refer to this as compassion. There are people in the world who are still at step 1: knowledge. They are not secure in their understanding that someone needs them, so let them know it. A rising tide lifts all boats. Be part of that rising tide. People will need you even when they don’t know it. And so will you need them.

Finally, be patient. Think of it as making bread from natural yeast. It may take a bit of time for you and your perfect job to find one another. Repeat steps 1 through 4 as needed along with step 5, and enjoy.

“Not her, not her, not her…

write about her later,” He says,

“Not time, not time, not time…”

Yet.

Cosmic map of consciousness;

man of men and women,

you led me here,

then say “stay silent”!

I play along,

laughing at your wisdom.

“But, you are writing

about her!”

Yes. Lovely, beautiful her.

Every day, it seems
The news, and many memes
Feature stories of what men are
Doing wrong.
Famous men of means,
The few, act as if they’re queens
Or kings as the case
May be.
Their penis is their sword
And, without a word
They penetrate the
Woman of their dreams
It seems.
Never a woman of means.
Another one bites the dust!
Each day we simply must
Put away these awful men of meanness!
These mean men of means.
It seems they’ve lost their minds
Left empathy behind
Love, they’ll never find.
Mean men of means.

Section 1 – Zero to Three

Those were the days

When my mother was alive

I thrived

Like never again.

There was love

And hugs

Peeled grapes

With paté sandwiches.

Section 2 – Three to Six

Insanity took me

Not within me, but without.

A crazy man who,

Paid to make me cry

Never wondered why

He was so sad.

Section 3 – Seven to Eleven

I remembered Mama’s name

At the end of school one day

And so, we had to move

All my fault, he said to me

Slapped into eternity,

This devil at my side,

Bruised my legs

Then to jail he did ride.

Section 4 – Twelve to Fourteen

All for acting was my life

Despite the fear, the pain

The strife

Of wealth pretend, did they.

Much to my dismay

The rode upon my back

Empathy their greatest lack.

Section 5 –High School

Both my loves they hated so

Acting, and a man from

Over there

In the pear.

But what did I care.

They were crazy!

They pop up from the cracks sometimes

The flowers.

Tiny buds, stepped upon by all whose time

Is more important.

They bloom where edges,

People pass

Not noticing the wedges

Of their beauty.

Blooming gardens push their bounds

Where some find mounds

Of dirt appealing.

And those,

I picture for repose

Hello cat

My but you are a large one

Stalking my steps.

Your spirit dwells within me

I see.

Now I know that I am you,

And you are me.

We are one with eternity,

Cat. Large cat.

Imagine that!

(Includes an excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot – in italics)

I was once a young child

Desperate to find things good and mild

And never did I question their bad taste.

Years ago I was a teen

Desperate to be our high school’s prom queen

And always did I wonder was I liked.

Later on I was a mom

Desperate to be with children at my home

Whom I love with all my heart.

I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled

Power is all mine as these days part.

Two Fish, Carl Sandberg

Their speech could not possibly have been scarlet

Unless they were dead,

Then, maybe, in the throes of being

Pulled in by a hook through the lip

MAYBE their speech could have been scarlet.

Or did you mean “scar-lipped”?

Late night typo, perhaps?

Oh, I get it… he kissed her, and she’s a biter.

But they kept on talking, bloody water and all.

Wait, though… they met in a bowl of molten gold air?

How did they breathe enough to speak,

Much less kiss? Must have been painful

On those gills – aquatic asthma!

Molten gold does not typically float around

In fishbowls, by the way – at least not in this

Universe.

That swinging from an arch thing?

Those seven rainbow sheens?

Was that one of those fish sex toys or something?

I’m confused. Swinger fish?

I’ve always thought of them as a rarity.

And, about the grotto, didn’t you say it was a bowl

Of molten gold air?

Or did he take her home?

Ok, I’ll buy the grotto bit.

The little boy fish hailed from the projects,

So to speak.

Ah, but the green feather dust…

Dead bird in the water?

Makes sense. Shaking their fins

As they each nibble a drumstick.

Ok, so, I guess we’ve got it straight now.

Two fish, met, had a one night stand

At his place,

Then grabbed a bite to eat

When a bird dropped dead.

Probably one shot by a hunter

With an old bird dog.

Ok. We’re good.