The Poetry Marathon

Dear Unmentionable Organization

Whose unjust nature creates

Hell from a handbasket,

Look, this wasn’t my idea, you know…

The 1962 thing.

All I did was stick out my tongue

Trying to make the son of a bitch laugh.

I was a toddler, for God’s sake!

Just a loving little girl

Who thought everyone in the world

Loved her back.

I expected a hug,

And a smile.

And we got an attack.

Now, tell me that isn’t crazy.

Please.

I’m trying to figure it out.

You see, I’m all grown up now,

Nearly sixty years old,

Though that opportunistic freak

You called a leader said otherwise.

So, let’s face it, Bro…

Although, you say we’re all in this

Together….

You and I both know we’re not.

Out here, we’re adults.

We admit when we’re wrong,

And we know when we’re right.

We’re fair, and we seek justice.

You, on the other hand,

We’re not so sure that these

Mountains of molehills are all that

Forward thinking

Relative to the good of the world.

We disagree that

Embarrassment over not really being

The Greatest

Is all that big a deal in the grand

Scheme of things.

Everyone else knows we’re not,

After all; so, who is being fooled

By whom?

The answer to that is you,

And you.

Full circle.

The circle of crazy.

Waving flags at one another

To the point that all are blinded

By the cloth.

Quite a circus you’ve got going on there

In those “great” halls.

Now, if we could get some adults

In the show…

It’s her!

My splash of paint

From billions of years ago.

My vision of love, of light, of beauty.

She appeared and I sighed,

And the rest of you were borne of her.

Again and again, she comes to life,

Not in the usual way, but through me.

Divine Love waxes into being

Then wanes, like the moon,

And back again, full and plump.

Oh, my Love, my darling Love.

I alone can make you be.

Me of you, and you of me.

Together, we, in cosmic spin

Once more will be

Throwing paint at the canvas.

It’s dark,
and our turn to face the truth.

Do you see it as we wander
this celestial route?

They stay the same,
or so we think,
but they move in unison,
almost, along the warps
and wiggles of time.

Listen.

Do you hear the light,
like I do?

There will be no Apocalypse.

No ending of the world.

Certainly no ending of me.

Oh, they of the balance of

Light and darkness,

Young Loves unaware of

The nature of me,

Gather shells like squirrels

Before winter.

And happiness still eludes them.

Why?

Like I said, I threw paint at a canvas

And saw you.

I’m still throwing paint.

Before the world began

There was math.

One plus one was always two,

And I loved it that way.

So, I decided to paint.

I threw color at the canvas

And warped the silken threads.

This, of course, was all in my head.

And then I saw you.

Right there in the middle of a blob of blue,

Was you, Love.

I was amazed that such an accidental

Splash of color could create

A being of light,

Like me.

I am that I am,

And I have always been.

I think, I feel, I see, I desire, I cry, I laugh.

Most of the time I laugh.

All of the time, I love.

Some of the time I wonder

Why my Loves, my beautiful Loves,

Love me in the sky when I am here

Among them, wandering aimlessly,

Laughing at their petty feuds,

And knowing, all the while,

That I am.

The birds, they sit and watch me as I think,
and deer wander near as I, in solitude, visit their yards.

Mountain lions warm their tails beside my fire,
and bears grumble a gruff hello when I tread upon our trail.

Children smile, reach for my hand,
and I delight in their love.

Pets, whose owners say “he never likes anyone”,
love me anyway, for nothing but kindness they see.

I am the world, and the world is me,
as we speed through our galaxy.

A spinning orb, we circle round a sun so hot
we shade our crown, and mingle in the beauty here.

I am the universe, and the universe is we,
together with me.

I am never lost, nor am I found,
for the land goes round, and round, and round.

We’ve had one of those for decades,

A feeble attempt by feeble minds

Seeking greatness over duty,

As the wealth trickles down

Into their accounts, not ours.

And we, such fools, sit idly by

A lighted box and learn to fight

For what they say is right.

School for the gullible these days.

Has it ever been otherwise?

Not in my lifetime.

This life in a kakistocracy.

(An Erasure based upon A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II Sc. 1, Titania by Sir William Shakespeare)
Forgeries of jealousy, you creeping hags!
Haven’t you done enough to me?
Never, since the day we met in 1962,
not Christmas, nor Thanksgiving, nor Easter day,
by kitchen sink, or living room couch,
or in the vast spectrum of my life’s moments,
as I danced, and sang, and played a part too well,
but with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d my life.
Therefore the arts, calling to me in vain,
as in revenge, have suck’d up to your aging client base.
Contagious hags! Boasting on the land
your husbands’ pelting incomes made so proud
that they did overbear their lives’ expectancy.
And me? I stretch’d my yoke in vain,
losing sweat and tears, too green to see
the rotted beard of your faux nature;
so fold! Stand empty in your drowned fields,
you crows! Be fatted with another fuck;
the nine men’s folio is fill’d up with mud,
th’wives quaintly amazed by your wanton greed.
So wondrous spiced, thy graceless air is to the imps!
Wanton demons wish your winter’d souls
to eat on nights with hymn and carol blest.
My friend, the moon, the governess of floods,
pale in her anger, washes your state’s foul air,
and rots the walls of your vestiges:
what a thoroughly perfect disparaging of your lives.
These seasons, altered by whore-headed men,
dare find a fresh lap for a crimson rose
on an old man’s thin and icy wallet.
Thou odorous chaplet of discreet wicked buds!
I in mockery, set thee the spring, the summer,
the childing autumn, angry winter, charged,
you haunted criminals! And the amazed world,
who, duped as me, know not which is which.
We’ll see your progeny of evils come to jail!
You want debate? You want dissension?
I am their parent and original, by no relation to you!

Your name is Janus, and you are not really getting married.

You make the right decision, today, pretending;

Though the months and years ahead

Will be the worst of your life,

Unless the worst yet to come…

What difference does it make?

I am grateful to you that I live

In this moment

Now.

Right here, right now,

Watching a mist descend

Into a valley filled with pines.

Soon, in my hand a glass of wine.

My belly full of lamb, and potatoes.

With thoughts of my precious ones

Who love me still, though they (and I)

Fear what may come from the crazies.

He was a good man before they got to him –

Those hags who thought they would sell you yet again.

Little did they know, you have a heart,

And a soul that could never dig for gold, like them –

Harvesting men like clams on a beach.

He was solid, until they hated him away from you

To fulfill their selfish agenda – that you make them rich.

That you marry the man of their dreams.

How I wish you could tell them “Dream on, hags.”

But you won’t, in your brainwashed sweetness.

You want them to love you and love him, too.

But they won’t, that feigned family.

Family values my ass! What a crock of shit they are!

Oh, how I wish you would have believed who you are,

But you are too kind. You are too pure. Too rational.

Too quick to belief all that you are taught about the world in school –

That perfect world in which people, regardless of position,

Actually do their jobs only to the extent that we assume.

Too duped into the lie that a government of the people

Could never betray a child to such evil as what you endured.

But they did. They betrayed you. And they will continue

As long as you remain a fantasy.

You are too in love with love, of which they have none,

Those wretched evil wenches who exploit you for their daily bread.

I know what they are about to do to you,

And I know you will forgive them – but he won’t.

Your husband. Drunk and stoned today so that he can

Fathom the sick and twisted plans of la familia’s clientele.

He knows, and it makes him sick. More sick than he has already become

Because of them. But he pretends that all is well since that’s what the jet set do.

He loves you, almost. At least as much as he is capable.

He doesn’t want to father your children.

He believes you will not survive to raise them,

And he is almost right.

But you, sweet Joy, are Love.

And Love conquers all.

So thank you, Love.

The sun is about to set

And this bottle of wine

Begs an opening line.

Hush fog! You afternoon haze

Descending that far mountain shelf.

You hide fir trees from my sight!

Damn sweating sun!

Shall thee come near, oh night,

With moonbeam in the darkest phase?

I’d make some coffee for myself,

Caffeine canteen of sweet delight,

But that’s no fun

On a moonless Saturday night!

So, hush fog! We’ve stars to gaze.

Me and my sweet concrete elf,

He and his companion sprite,

Believe your pall is overdone.

We dock here for the starlight.