The Poetry Marathon

A “Carnal Cur” she called me.
One that had my teeth first free
To lap the gentle blood of lambs.

Me! Once a king, now accursed of four feet
A wet, cold nose, in this wretched heat.
Never did I buy a single soul!

Indeed, mine I sold for providence
And England. And now I am hence
A slave to fight for men’s merriment.

She cursed me, that Margaret, Queen
And wife of wretched history.
Chained here to fight for death.

And so, I fight. I fight the kings
Of ages past, all wicked things.
We fight, we kings returned.

We fight to tear the faces off
The others, surrounding us a trough
Of blood, and spit, and flesh.

Our flesh. And at the end, I cry.
I grieve my cursed soul and the lie
That bore me here again to death.

I am King Richard III! Do they not know?
Across from me, red eyes aglow,
Was once a Caesar snarling.

Yesterday, I ripped the throat of Hitler
As they cheered. His bones now brittler
Than a chicken’s neck.

I am done now. Weary of my fate,
I whimper to no one. No love, just hate.
Done. Spent. Blood at the light of end.

My face would prefer a nap,
Having slept loosely and lightly,
Worried about a multitude of decisions,
None of which life changing or changes
In the long and short of things.

There’s a head that hurts behind these eyes,
A stomach full of bread and fish,
And a heart missing two children.

My neighbor’s child graduates tonight.
And a party across the field
With food, and punch.
A proud moment indeed.

Why do I eat when I am not hungry?
Because I am old, not wise.
I’ve saved my wisdom for the next life,
And used it poorly in the last.

My stomach hurts!
Head foggy with sedentary gloom.
I need a walk.

It’s beautiful out.
Cloudy, chilly, hot,
With birds chirping,
and breeze blowing

I haven’t walked in my forest for weeks,
And weeks and weeks,
Too busy escaping the drum and drone of
For next, until if then.

Oh My God, how I hate
An hour and a half
To and fro.

Last night I escaped a DUI check.
Not drunk, just nerve wracking
After three hours in construction traffic.
Miles of red lights.

I need a job closer to my forest.
I need a job within my forest.
I need my forest.

It sucks being smart and female.
Let me bitch just a little here.
Smart, female, pretty, talented, creative,
And as a result, largely unemployable
Outside the scope of women’s work.

How strange that men are so strange.
Truly strange.
We are told we need one,
Like a fireplace needs a match.
But now I am convinced they need us far more.

I cannot pretend I need a match,
So, I am un-weddably large
For all practical purposes.

I cannot belong,
So I cannot belong. Sigh.
If only they had the staying power
Of masking tape on a wet surface.
I have so little patience.
If only I had more time.

More money and more time.
Money is the key to it all.
Money to pay the bills,
To live,
To exist,
To eat,
Too much.
To be.

Money coming in like waves.

We need more truth in this world.
More truth. Real truth.
Truth that doesn’t hide behind
The spin we have to mind.

We need more love in this world.
More love. Real love.
Love that doesn’t pretend it’s real,
Amid the foghorn’s peal.

We need more trees in this world.
More trees. Real trees.
Trees that don’t get chopped down
For all the paper crowns.

We need to let go of God.
Each God. Real God.
God that doesn’t need our fist
As reason to exist.

We need more life in this world.
Just life. Truly life.
Life that doesn’t imagine death
As means to keep our breadth.

A tissue box of ugly roses sitting askew atop DVDs.
Their broken player’s four short green lines a disturbing lie.

My guide holds children in a painting of orange, black and yellow.
Stevie Ray and Jimmie, a rare photo, on a shelf marred with grime.

A dirty plate where a sandwich is but a memory of homemade bread
And salmon with fennel dust and arugula.

Bieres de la Meuse, the old tile of an art project not yet begun
The gift from my son. Poetry on the mother’s bearing.

A photo of the woman who saved my life, Saint Ann of Santa Monica,
And me, dressed for Halloween.

My mother, in a frame I need to change.
Photos of my two loves, Johnathan and Seane, as children.

The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition Box set,
Unplayable, in Irish format.

Stacks of music, CDs, DVDs, relics of near history.
Musical stone coasters.

The palm I ignored, still thriving on the patio.
Boxes. And the mess I’ve ignored for months.

My red sweater, dry on the arm of the couch.
Green sweater, taupe sweater, scarves.

The ugliest wall hanging ever. It was a gift from a friend.
A screwdriver, and some pliers.

Open drawers in the kitchen. Dishes that need to be put away.
Pine boughs gently swaying in the cloudy breeze.

Candles, half burned. Cameras, undeveloped.
A couch unkempt.

Dusty ceiling fan. Beams and screens.
Gift baskets and wine.

All mine. Too much. Mine.

She stared at the stone arch for hours after he left.
At the field beyond, and the tree.

The single tree where he first stole her kiss,
Her heart, and her sainthood.

The single, innocent tree
About to be murdered by her husband.

“I shall burn it until the flames light the dungeons of hell!”
He screamed.

Her husband. Her old, worn out husband,
With the breath of a dragon and the heart of a wasp.

Her husband. The one who paid for her in gold, five stones,
Before she got too old.

Her husband. Who could no more give her a child than could
A cuke left too long in the sun.

“He’s not coming back, wench.” he screamed. “he’s on to the next
Ripe fruit, to lay bare and pluck.

She stood, barely listening to his feeble rage. His voice,
Hardly a whisper of the bellowing old goat he once was,
Rattled like a bat in a cage.

There was a child in her womb. Not her husbands, but his.
She stared at the distant gate, beyond which lay her peace
In a welcome grave of peasantry.

He said he would meet her there. She had to believe.

I am the Lady Bartholomew!
Not some poet’s muse!
How dare he write of me
In lust! Yet gracefully…

That he doth dare to think
I may, in some dark corner,
Spread my blessed wings,
Or entreat his push of things.

“Long and thick,” the maidens say
Chattering I dare not hear.
How dare he come so close, so near!

His scent entices me, like woods and sweat.
His voice, rustic and deep, witnesses the thrill
He simply shall not know. Not now. Not Ever!

My husband would not care for
My curiosity of this theatrical bard.
Is he really, truly as hard
As they say?

If I may, for a moment,
Lie in wait here, nearest his gate
As I prune these roses
For the dinner plate.

I shall not look too long
At what lies beneath his kilt
When I bend to fetch the fallen blossom.

Perhaps I shall trip, and land
Gracefully upon my back
Here in the grass, where none shall see.

But him, and me.
In the shade of the abbey.

He comes!
And I dare not look.
I am his Lady Bartholomew.

Deep in the Woods of Vladimir it lies
In wait ten thousand years amid the cries
From up above where music had been lost.

The wicked beast no seraphim can kill
Had cast away the harp to make us still.
We danced too much! The harp was gold embossed.

Ten thousand years it lay in wait until
One day it caught the eye of little Will,
A boy so young of heart and old of soul.

“What’s that,” he said, “there in the stream below!”
“Beneath the boulder, speckled gold! What glow,
It has! Like wizards used in days of ol’.”

He picked it up and put it to his lips.
And she appeared in sparkling mystic whips
Of flame. “Don’t blow!” she cried. “Don’t call it forth.”

“Call what?” asked Will. “The dragon!” she replied.
“A dragon from beyond the veil denied
Us all its music. Banished from the north,

It used to be the light o’er all our lands,
Until it came and took it from my hands!
Ten thousand years I’ve searched for what you’ve found.

Please give it back,” the fairy queen implored.
“But finders, keepers; and besides I’m bored.”
Will blew the harp. “It doesn’t make a sound!”

“Not one that you can hear,” she cried. “I fear
The worst is yet to come! He’s coming here!”
The Fairy Queen was gone. The deed was done.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

The water smells of rubber soles.
Downstream they know
And hide.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

A strange insect
Of feathered wings
Lands, then jumps.

There it is again!
Perhaps a swarm
Of feathered food!

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Stupid insects!
How they dance
With rhythmic respect.

Here we go!
Dance, oh thou
Feathered wings aglow.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.

Gotcha!
Echos from the wiggling space.

Sharp.
Pain.
Pulls.

Tastes of unfamiliar ions
And birds.
Gills filled with air,
I am caught.

Beware the fisherman, they said in school.
Beware the fisherman who makes a fool
Of even the wisest of trout.

He fishes down at the water’s edge.
We know him, they said.
They told me so.

You know him by the fins he wears
Nothing in the water bears
Such stench or undertow.
They block the flow,
You know.

I scream and fight
And warn my hundred brothers
Hundred others
Who survived the journey here.

Beware the fisher…
They do not hear.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.

Not a good morning was this one –
Just to be honest.

A late night at my treasure island of a job
Had me staring through miles of brake lights
In the soft moonlight of
After hours freeway construction.

And then…

And then!
After filling two tanks,
Both mine and the car’s,

Three hours later,
Yes, THREE, two in the
Soft moonlight of construction,

Nearly home, within minutes, of my front door,
Driving through a welcome mist
Called rain here in the drought,

Flashing lights.
Caution cones.

Police cars in the soft mist of hallelujah
Water from the sky!
No moonlight.

DUI checkpoint ahead.
No one’s dead.

Hallelujah!

“Good morning, Ma’am.”
Oh, yea…. I did leave the office at ten.
It’s nearly one in the moonless misty morning.

“Any alcohol tonight?”

By now, don’t I wish!
Slowed by providence another ten minutes,
To ensure a triple commute.

Thou shalt not save time
Playing hooky
Just to clean the house!

Teens at the curb
Wear smirking smiles
Of mischief
Waiting for Daddy
In pajamas.

Could have been worse.

I’m home!