The Poetry Marathon

One true love I never thought I’d meet.
“Move on…” the psychic told me.
“We have many mates to our souls.
He was just one of them.”

Was he really? What color were his eyes?
I don’t recall, except for the way he felt
in my arms, and the warm glow I still feel.
Darling, I still feel you near.

I gave up long ago. I gave up
before he played his guitar.
Before he stopped at the sight of me.
Before he walked away.

Before she claimed him,
I gave up on love.

No such thing, I thought, when he tried
to say it, when I tried to say it,

when I said it in my heart and in my soul.
Lust! What is lust but longing for love?

Once upon a time…

Isn’t that how these tales always begin?
Tales of fay folk, elves, and angels…
Of devils in dark suits void of briefs
for the sake of convenience.

Well, here we go…

Once upon a time
there was a little girl
living in a great big house
filled with beauty.

Mostly her beauty…

And, I speak of mother
not child. Children are more
precious than beautiful…
with a dose of precocious for spice.

But, I digress…

Every man in the kingdom
of freedom wanted the child’s
mother, not for true love, however.
There was a notion about her.

She was a fantasy…

One day, there in the dark
and narrow halls of a
haint white kingdom, a sheriff worse than
Nottingham crossed eyes with the child.

He was evil personified…

Such a sad, bad man, he was
that when the child smiled
he believed she was taunting him,
And so he swore revenge.

He swore to kill the child…

Instead, he did far worse.
Aware of the King’s disdain
for murdering children,
he had someone else do it.

To both of them…

But, like magic, or rather
with the help of the magical
universe, whose control is
absolutely perfect and in tune…

They both came back…

Mother as child, and child,
well, years later when the mother
found a young man with the
same birdthday (spelling intended).

They were all birds…

That is, in the in-between.
That part of life’s cycle where
tomorrow is yesterday, and
bygones pass away…

Eventually…

Mother, knowing her beauty
was at fault, took the beating
as any mother would take
from a monster for her child.

But, there were so many….

Many, many monsters,
both male and female,
young and old alike, aching
to beat up on the Mom.

And so it went….

So it went for 60 years,
until Mama finally got
pissed off enough to shout
“Enough already!”

Do you want to fight?!!!…

Silence. A deafening silence
fell over the land, like water
crashing down from a broken dam
where too much rain fell too soon.

And then it happened…

Her every thought of revenge
came true, because she refused
to give up and marry the
Sheriff’s disgusting son.

That was part of the deal…

Or so he thought, when he
thought he was King. He said,
“You have to marry one of these boys.”
Mama, just a child, didn’t know marry

from soda pop…

“Put a baby in here?” she pointed
to her tiny abdomen.
“I think it’s too small,
after all, I’m a baby.

And babies can’t fit into babies…”

They tried anyway, and tried,
and tried, and tried, having forgotten
the laws of nature and rebirth.
They tried of all ages.

They tried of all times…

So Mama got a revenge of her own.
She said, “Let him live unnaturally long,
let him live in pain and distress.
Let him beg for death.

And so mote it be.”

Meanwhile, the real baby,
far, far away in another world
grew up and met a handsome prince
who took her to France to get married

In a castle!!

The End.

The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams
I was Amanda, and he missed the poignance.

There at the end we sat as in family montage.
No bows, odd applause, though we had done well.

Just a few in the audience, a small black box
theater in Miami, post 9/11, before I remembered.

He sat two feet before my face, staring a loving smile.
His child had done well, that being me, since now I know.

“He has my nose, poor guy,” I thought to myself,
then looked away. It’s impolite to stare at the audience.

A party after the show, and he so shyly approached,
I, in pure ecstatic bliss, a bit of a drunken mess – that fast.

“I’m your father,” he said to me.
“I believe you,” I laughed. “I knew my mother had an affair!”

“You didn’t have to be rude!” he said, and walked away.
He was serious. I was just kidding, not believing.

“No, wait, I must just look like her. I hope you find her.”
I implored, attempting to heal the wound I’d made.

“I already have. It’s you.” He turned, and left.
Not one more word did we speak until his death.

When I finally remembered six months later,
his words saved my life. I’m not crazy!

I am not the person on my vital statistics!
They lied! They cheated! They tried to paint me crazy,

but I am not crazy. I am his child.
And, the power he gave me in so few words,

just like a father would – he gave me peace.
Just like a father does – he saved my life.

Turkey Day! My few last days to spend with my sweet babe
My little girl has all grown up, and married now.

Those days we spend, as I listen to her sweet voice
and sit with her and him for movie nights and wine.

And cook together full gourmet fare of quality divine,
with wine, of course, and cheese and things

to keep us full before we eat. Oh, turkey’s done!
So perfect brined, and all the classic acoutrement.

Each paired with wine at the perfect time,
we dine, and dine, and dine some more.

Black Friday be damned! We care not to jam
ourselves into a frenzied spree.

Instead, we wake up peacefully
with eagerness to be just us together in harmony.

Chortling birds, amused by my sleepy morns
chatter and clatter past my window

to the trees where roosts the hens and chicks
of buzzards, turkeys, eagles and hawks.

Turkeys are the funniest things
with Toms that strut and puff like kings,

Tail feathers spread and beards abloom
gobbling for a quick boom boom,

say “look at me! Big as a tree!
Fine tail feathers, my pedigree!”

Amused, I see the hens ignore their mating calls
to jump beyond for worms just past the wall.

Here fishy, fishy! Come here, fishy…
That’s right. Over here, babycakes!
Aw, so sweet, and slimy,
curled up against my leg.

Pretty little fishy…
want to be my dinner?

Jack Rabbit swept up in my snare!
Who knew they spoke
and reasoned with such flair?

In ancient British words he said
“Dear lady, can we not be friends?
We eat only a bit of the cabbage head.”

“Oh, my gosh! I hear you speak!”
“Why, yes, of course, m’sweet.
We kiglioffum are just meek.

We wander twixt the mage phinkepit lore,”
Struggling to escape my net,
his weeping eyes met mine as to implore.

“Please let me go, I eat not much,
we leave a bit for you to munch upon.”
Too late, my garden razed four-flush.

“I’ll take you to my magic place,
remove this web! Remove it please!”
It turned to gauze, and did erase.

“Be gone, you fool! I’m done with you.
Take you to the Gugenmaze, I will!”
And with that word, away we flew

where heat began the day in crowded halls.
Where am I now, oh Jack of Rabbits?
“Asleep between the tiniest of walls.”

Saltines! The only crackers ever anywhere in the 1960s,
when women wore skirts and children didn’t matter.
Well, at least I didn’t matter – or so I was told. (ouch!)

Saltines with squares of American cheese!
And then came Velveeta… that liquid gold
when mixed with Ro-tel tomatoes created movie night.

Oh, saltines! You, with homemade chili on a frozen night!
Impossible to replace the bland, salty balance
against jalapenos, beef, and beans.

Saltines! A step beyond water crackers that do nothing
for a piece of cheese, with a few exceptions,
like a nice aged brie, or Manchego from La Mancha.

So, diet be damned! Saltines are always on hand!

Jagged beauties! The art of earth and stars made real!
Molten crust breathed into sandy caves cools with infinite adagio.

Slow and silent. Motionless, if you please, deep beneath the roots
of fungi, trees, and dinosaurs, molecules align like soldiers on a quest
for perfection. Aligned in time, bound by space and movement unseen.

Beautiful smoke of the earth holding fire, occult and primordial,
the greatest of antiquities to admire in our brief flash of life.

Smoke of creation, carbon pure, breath of life radiates from your points.
Electrons fly, and back again in timeless synchronicity.

Yet, you are still and poised, reflecting sunlight through smooth facets
of jagged beauty! The art of earth and stars made real!

Beautiful smoke of the earth holding fire, occult and primordial
I have witnessed from that place without age, glimpsed as you grew
into pointing this way and that, rainbows from a pure world of love alone,

Hear the whispers of your astral guides – their destinies, like ours
hurtling through space wrapped in time’s back and forth agenda.

I wait below
on this wire of missing you
on the same side of barbed wire.

You love her.
I know very well you do
Look deep down the stem to see.

To love two,
and only be with one.

On the same side of barbed wire,
Missing me.