The Poetry Marathon

Each night at three, when stirs not a peep,
why, bird, must you sing another song?
Do you not know that people sleep?

I thought one night you were in league
for theft of sleep. You’re a deadly weapon!
You give me, daily, CHRONIC FATIGUE!!

But it’s you on a limb, alright;
not some fool’s dot mpv tricks
disturbing my dreamless night.

They’d wake me up on purpose –
my life’s basket of lunatics.
Oh bird, sweet bird, must you of sleep usurp us?

Surely, no other birds want to hook up.
Go find another branch, another tree, another yard!
Will you please just shut the fuck up?

Of this day’s indulgence,

These pine trees, pinot noir, and smoked leg of lamb,

I love the pines the best.

Of this day’s refulgence,

My children, all the world, and Old Uncle Sam,

I love my kids the best.

I am a typical mom!

Resurrection?

What an interesting thought…

Living proof of the soul of this planet

Whose clothing is us.

And when a strong strand loses her head,

She thinks herself into form.

Exactly the same as before…

With his permission, of course,

After her apt logic gave him no choice.

“You said I have everlasting life!”

So he repaired her in the ether

On the carpenter’s bench.

She chose her eyes.

“Orange!” she said. “And my nose like a bird.”

“You will scare them,” he laughed.

“You will scare them enough as it is.

Are you sure you want to go back?”

“Yes, I am. I want to be a grandmother!”

Nothing dies.

Death is never death where there is love.

We are all life as life has become,

Evolved throughout the measures

Of this universe.

We spank along through empty space,

Like jewelry round the neck of a flame.

Her face, glowing, seeks nothing, being light.

And we, her children, travel along,

As children of her living child.

Resurrection?

She simply won a fight with God.

A ceiling inches from my face

Hides the kitchen and my rocker,

Collapsed into a tidy bundle.

I turn carefully, legs cramped from stillness.

Another month or two, then, perhaps I’ll be free.

Are they gone? Am I too late to save

Only those that I love?

Or will I save us all?

I jump to a conclusion.

Surely their boundless evil knows no limits;

Or am I their sole exploitation,

Plucked at least a thousand times

By names nameless to me?

Are we really led by frogs and stalwart toads,

Blinded by tattered fabric, kept sewn by the votary public?

Flying over flooded streets

I see the water rise.

My car is over there!

I think.

No.

Where did it go?

Let me drive from back here.

Backwards.

Who are you that leads me?

I’ve knocked you off your perch at last,

You wretched bird faced creep!

And there you lie, all black and ragged,

Downed by your criminal past!

It wasn’t such a cosmic leap,

You being just a maggot

On the face of a zombie cast

From a herd of sheep

That take the money to bag it.

It’s L’homme Mort, not Pour Homme, dumb ass.

But I have to admit he was cute – the zombie, that is.

And I strongly recommend the Chablis.

Christmas smells like this sometimes in homes of

wretched women, jealous of my mother.

Those who would be “foul defacers

of God’s handiwork.” Such “excellent grand

tyrants of the earth! They reigned in galled eyes.”

My “weeping soul.” They chase me to my grave.

Yet still, their homes do smell like this fresh pine

on days they call my blessed births their own.

They laugh, and celebrate that I, alone,

Am not with love – my loves, they stole from me.

How I resent that they exist within

My stratosphere! My world is peace and love.

Their world is strange… those cunt brained scheming hags!

They stole my Christmas cheer from me and mine.

I pine for my sweet loves, my angel babes,

each day their wretched world distorts the truth.

I am alone, an only child of two

whose love the Nazi horde deplored.

Oh faith! Christmas smells like this sometimes.

“Quantum leaps herein upon belief!

Though I truly hate my mom’s fake beef…”

Zelda idly paused in almost thought.

Her face of beauty glazed as sadness brought

the vision of the one boys thought most fair.

Skip, skip, skip oh magic rock!

Touch, touch, touch, this water NOT!

I am Geraldine!” Kerplop…

“It tumbled when I threw…”

“Oh why!” Kerplunk…

“Can’t I!” Plip, plunk…

“Be YOU?” Splash!

Those

confused

souls

refused

(I wonder why)

to say who I am.

Lamborghini visions?

The best of the call troupe?

Bosoms out to… there?

And bare?

Such emptiness confuses

who I AM!

My laugh is pity

and almost scorn,

for I am torn

between sorrow and dismay

that they,

who know

WHOSE I AM,

refuse to say.

OY VEY!

So, kill me once,

shame on you.

Kill me twice?

Thrice?

I am your vice!

Be nice…

What joy is truth?

A tranquil peace!

So, cease

with this tomfoolery,

you…

who know who I am.

Pre-dawn darkness
lights my mind with
the view through my kitchen window.

The seasonal creek
white-capped for weeks
last winter, after the rains charged
our parched patch of earth.

Cooper’s hawk shrieks betwixt
oak branches.
schooling her
fledglings of the hunt

An owl, white,
“who” speaks each night
of mice and rabbits.

Precocious woodpeckers
perforate my wood siding
hiding ranched worms
In carefully examined acorns

And the birds of all colors that flock
to eat green toyon berries
leave plenty for me for
jam next Christmas.

Dawn, before the dogs awake,
timid deer investigate
my Machu Picchu,

while squirrels emerge from
dry rotting logs –
enough to burn fifty winters.