The Poetry Marathon

At the edge of the earth
is a china sky
lit by golden flowers.

A bouquet of vibrant lilies
tied with ribbons to each corner,
pulled by giant geese through eternity.

Right there on the chair
Flowers that must have been for me.

An orchid corsage atop a box.
Inside, a white dress – my size.

His jacket draped over the chair
and a seat cushion from an airplane.

I waited by the window,
where was his car?

Where was he?
No text, no call, nothing.

That’s when I saw it,
a thread on the floor.

Long, red, so close to the
cherry of the hardwood

that I would have missed it
were the sun not so bright

through such clean windows.
Clean windows! Such clean windows!

My mind raced… were they clean
the day we signed the lease?

I sat waiting for as long as
I thought reasonable, given, well…

You know… the strangeness of it all.
Then, as the sun left the floor

creeping up onto the wall
the tiny hands appeared.

One by one. Handprints about the size
of one of those tiny monkeys

you see at the zoo. They were all
over the wall. Just the hands.

Then, behind me, footsteps!
Not human footsteps.

No. Not a ghost, like a human ghost,
a dead person or something.

Tiny footsteps running fast,
as if a crowd of them were gathering.

I tried to pick up the flowers and
the dress, which had fallen to the floor,

But they became so heavy,
as if suddenly made of lead,

like gravity had somehow multiplied
by thousands and thousands,

yet I could move effortlessly.
Needless to say, fear took over,

and I ran to the door.
When I turned around,

everything was back as it was…
the dress in the box,

his jacket draped just so,
and the orchids like a bow on top.

He met my mind one day while
perusing the dialogue of birds.
A chirp here, a cricket there.
Sometimes a growl.

Yes, a growl from a grumpster.
He almost broke us up!

Yes, almost! The jerk!
But we knew. How? I don’t know.

We knew. We just knew that the time would come
when men in the dragon’s pocket would lose their way.

That was, what, 20 years ago?

About that, yes.

A spearmint wind speaks my name to darkness,
“Let us make her think he wants her, desperately!”

“Lamb impaled upon lettuce?”

“Let us traaaaace it all back,” eyes drool oily spice
as lust inverts its greed, hot to the mind of myth.

“So foolish be Persephone to escape the dead land!”
it snarled, slithering in mephitic stench.

“Murimuria needs a queen.” agreed a mindless mole,
“Lettuce! Stay in the present day.”

“Vegan moth balls in a light chimichurri,” offered an
overdressed snail of kitchen funk, its slime melting
into the verdant pool of sludge.

“If Earth2Joy becomes herself, I cannot consume mankind!”
it rasped, “So, tell me, top one, did she accept?”

“No, oh gloriously fetid one, she declined,” sighed the mole,
“Fortunately, I was unable to convince him to attend either.”

“She cannot approach, she cannot approach!” squawked a one eyed parrot,
hanging upside down from a volcanic arch.

“I know that, Noshbag! Om Namo Shivaya!”

“Once upon a time! Once upon a time! Squaaawk!”

“White chocolate covered crickets in a short moose earwax crème anglais.”

“Shut up! The script is written around the premise of her grief!
The Oracle of Delphi says she will find him. She shall approach him,
thinking he sent her those stupid love songs.”

“And then? And then, oh putrid one?”

“The men in my pocket will take her to ….”

“To the funny farm, where life is happy and all is gay,
hoo hoo, ha ha, hee, hee, ho, ho.”

Credit “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” by Jerry Samuels, 1966

The white ferret shall chase its tail around a black and gold pillar.
As above, so below. So it is, and so it shall be.

“Shut up! SHUT UP! There is no funny farm!” he snarled,
wings ablaze in dragon fire. “There is no farm! Anywhere!”

“Uh, excuuuuuse me, oh great pestilence of earth,” choked the cock
emerging from a broken marble throne, “you wear no pants.”

“So….?” It hissed.

“Therefore, you have no pockets.”

“Altoid, anyone?”

It’s not a ladder!
Why climb and jostle just to fall?
Why pull the pant leg of the next above when no one is there?
Competition – the myth outside the sphere of self – obscures one truth:

Life is light!

“This way, beautiful,” he whispered, not there.
Hands imagined intertwined
as pines mist our morning air.

Glories still asleep lead a pleasant dream
into cosmic light – a fire hiding
beyond our sphere unseen.

Kisses! Oh, kisses as we laugh and play
in busy days imagined.
I wish, in my naivete.

LOL!

I mean, seriously…

LOL cubed and cubed again.

That was “Stoop Id” to quote a fellow poet,
assuming it was really him…
not the FBI who took my statement
so many years ago about the Nazi
who called everyone “stoop”
for dropping a potato chip.

He was part of that “Great Re-Set”
fourth Reich, enslave humanity
(especially children for the pedos)
boys’ club…
drifted to hell a few years back.

By “boys” I do mean children
in adult male bodies,
as in “boys will be boys…”,
except real boys – little boys –
are born with compassion.

Great Re-Set my ass!
Boys, we don’t need it.
Really, we don’t.

Yes, I know you think you’re big now.
You believe you’ve grown up.
But, to the rest of us, you’re…
gosh, how do I say it…
spoiled brats, maybe?

That’s a close approximation.

Little boys in big clothes
throwing tantrums –
scripted tantrums –
read out loud by other
“trusted voices”.

We don’t trust them anymore,
and they don’t trust you anymore,
boys.

Seriously, didn’t you think this thing through?

You have some rich guy with a German accent
telling us all how we will be happy, contented slaves
using vaguely floral language
and you expect us to believe it?

Then you come out with bio-warfare
and a cancel culture.
Did you really think my friends
would dump me when FB disapproved
of my truthful, science-based opinion?

Or when Instagram decided I was Russian?

No one believes you, boys.
No one. Not even your talking heads.
They get paid to read the script –
the one they go home and talk about.
“Boy, you wouldn’t believe the bullshit I had to talk about today…”

Next thing you know, you’ll be telling the world my original poetry is AI.

It’s not!
Frankly, most of it isn’t that good,
in my opinion.
But, as we all are,
I am my own worst critic.

Nonetheless, my poetry and my rants are from my organic brain. Thanks.

I am left wondering just one thing…
you’re rich, you’re powerful, you have all you need
and access to all you could ever want.

Why is that not enough?

What do you get out of the notion
of domination over all humanity?
What do you, personally, get out of
our fearful compliance?

Doesn’t it make you sick when you lie?

The rest of us feel the darkness within…
do you not feel the pain of sin?
No? Because Jesus is bearing that pain
for you? To set you free? To sin again
and again and again?

Don’t you think he’s a little tired of bearing your illness?

Imagine him in the afterlife
trudging along with a load,
heavier every day,
while you heap on another bucket
of sludge every Sunday

in exchange for a new neon halo.

How about give the man a break?
And by MAN I mean a mature soul!
One capable of deciding to be good.

What do you do each day, then?

Go home, pour yourself a golden scotch
and think about how you’ve finally got control
over everyone in the world?
You don’t, really. That’s impossible.
I just wonder if that’s your thought…

What do you get out of all the fear mongering?

Votes? Gee, we thought you didn’t need those anymore.
Don’t you guys just choose who gets what office
and leave us to waste time going to the polls
to cast a “vote” that you pretend to count?

Don’t tell me I’m mistaken – I heard it from one of your own.

We don’t need re-setting like we’re a bunch of
microprocessors. Your Fiat system is imploding
as you knew it would – so pay back what you stole!
Yes, it’s that simple. Sell the scotch! Sell the houses!
Sell the cars! Sell the yachts! Free the slaves!

Keep what you need to survive – like the rest of us.

And a bit of wisdom…
If you want to change the world for good,
think in terms of a Hollywood screenplay.
Yes, you have to suspend disbelief –
but no one is going to believe

anything reminiscent of Hitler.

Talk

Think

Be patient

But whatever you do…
don’t create chaos
just to get attention.

Chaos is like the croc
that roils the waters
so no one can see truth.

He lurks there, like
a mountain of death
and destruction…

waiting

watching

hungry

ready to grab the solution
feeding in the shallows…
so the world will never see.

So many seek it here
in America…
in these separate states
with their separate
confusion.

That’s a good thing.

Privileged? No. Not at all.
What is the privilege of
simply being?
Of simply living
as humans?

Simply not a dream.

Pity the bored leadership
whose job it is to create
something to fight for…
to fight over…
to fight about

so that we can be human.

As with all humans,
they, too, seek safety…
seek support…
and an income…
to feed their loves.

They deserve compassion.

Deep within, at the root
of their conscious being,
they fear the dream
of others being more
than a little tiny thing…

A miniscule infant of death.

Not knowing, these divinely
corrupt beings all over
everywhere deny progress
for the beings that dream
of just being human.

The American Dream is.

America is a contract!
Not a person, nor a party,
nor a dreamy philosophy.
America is an obligation
to humanity…

though just paper.

Leaders, fear not, for…
whatever the reason…
fear the word “not”.
Fear it like a whole
ghost pepper, because

oppression is not.

Not nice, not appropriate,
not worthwhile, not effective,
not sustainable, not accurate,
not peaceful, and most of all…
by the power of our earth

not being human.

America, whether living the “dream”
or not, is unmistakably human.
And, so, as much as it is
just paper, it is also
life everlasting,

everywhere. Just live it.

It was the title of a news article…
and, I knew it would get your attention.

Nothing to see here.

LOL!