The Poetry Marathon

Dear Joy,

I love you, too. I always have.
From the moment I saw you.

Remember? I stared. I couldn’t play anymore.
I couldn’t think. “I just had to tell you that.”

Who was this woman standing in the crowd?
I walked away frozen in time.

She stayed. My wife. Wannabe wife.
She chose me, and I couldn’t escape.

Like you, I could not escape the control.

We are old, and I can’t write
Poetic letters projecting pain.

I am sorry you felt that way.
I am sorry you were hurt.
I am sorry your mountain of baggage
from birth kept us apart.

We are one in the afterlife.
I am the one you love.

Yours eternally,

Her Husband

Yes, that was an interesting poetic prompt. Write a letter to yourself at 3 am when your muse is the right guy who came along at exactly the wrong time. Then again, exactly the right time in so many ways. He was the catalyst, and now he is my muse. So, really, what would he say – realistically? Let’s try this again.

Joy,

Thank you for not contacting me. I appreciate that you have left me alone, though it does bother me a little that you still think you love me. I mean, come on… that’s scary. So, I’d appreciate it even more if you would at least TRY to move forward. Find someone else, please. You’re a beautiful, talented woman. What are you doing alone pining over me? Please move on, sweet Joy. You were good. It was just bad timing. It’s just not what I needed at that time, so no offense. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I mean that. I don’t want to lead you on. Please move on.

Sincerely,

Her Husband

Then… I’d be tempted to write back, acknowledging that I was hung up on him periodically over the past 3 decades. I laugh at myself in retrospect. So silly of me to remain hopeful. But I did for far too long.

No, I wouldn’t write back. I’d write poetry, but I wouldn’t write back. Why poetry? Because I’m a poet. Because I love words. Because I explore emotions. Because I am experiencing being human.

Then… oh, then… my creative mind would go into all sorts of movie plots. Scenes I’d play for the screen, which never make it to the page as good as they were in my mind.

And finally… I’d go to bed because I have a job. Like right now. The end.

“No one reads hardback anymore,” he said,
sunflower glasses perched on a perfect nose.

“Beats knitting,” I replied, his beach bag brimming
with yarn and cheddar cheese crackers.

“Clearing my mother’s space,”
sadness. A splash of mud.
“Just finishing.”

Wine glasses.
A mile of thick threads
crash

at last;
the pull of pavement
buckling pull of lust.

Nail broken on oak headboards,
my satchel by the door.

No one reads hardback anymore.

No. Never.

She was a twinkle in Grandfather’s eye
my lovely, precious mother

Objectified. An icon. Not human.

But she was my mother!

She would be 96 this year
were it not for erections
and selections of commodities
like me.

She was my MOTHER!

My mother, my mother, my mother
the one who brought me
from the timeless layer
of infinity.

Let me ask, then…

Let me ask of you
who on high took her
took her, took her, took her
for having me.

Let me ask, then…

Do your children need
their mother, the gun bearer?
Do they want her?
Their mother, mother fucker?

Let me ask, again…

Do their babies need her children?
Grandchildren yours, who
above it all should be below?
Below, below, below.

Bored rubes!

You’ve nothing better to do
than maim and command.
Not a relevant thought
to rub between brain cells.

Ah, to steal and do nothing!

Put on a show to lie
about my mother.

Fuck you.

And fuck the hags you rode in on.

All in my head
thinking I might find my love

All in my head
praying to the stars above

Wondering
what it really feels like
to be held so tight
within his arms

Yet, I know that
he’s searching for me, too

All in my head
trying not to feel so blue

All in my head
that he might take away
this loneliness
I feel each day

And, I know that
he must be searching for me, too

All in my head
Could it possibly be you?

“Between the woods and frozen lake”
fire draws me to its glow.

The moonless night, still and opaque,
bears witness to lay low.

There, in the distant trees I hear
his voice, deep, rough, and hard.

A melody of love and fear
has caught me full off-guard.

Who is this man whose fiddle plays
in distant woods alone?

I search through ivy walled keyways
to glimpse his mournful tone.

“I see you there,” he sings aloud
“through vines that tie you down.”

“Be not afraid, and be not proud,
that day I come around.”

“For joyless tears I turn to beer
from chaff he left behind.”

He sings for me! Do I go near?
“I sing for humankind.”

Then, all at once the keyways closed.
The man I heard was gone.

Yet smoke still in the air imposed
a strange phenomenon.

I turned toward the lake of ice
reflecting every star.

And, Oh! Before my naked eyes
appeared a strange montoir.

There he stood in horseman’s tack,
white stallions made of bone.

“Fair lady, may I take you back?”
I wondered of his tone.

Then I awoke in my own bed
from one more stress filled dream,

reminding my creative head
life isn’t what it seems.

Credit: “Between the woods and frozen lake” from Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Earth is water
spelled sideways,
in a way…
The way of poets.

Being water encased
in a mesh of flesh.
Our minds sometimes
a mess of less, less, less,
lessons learned

from watered down hag-
splashing pointlessness.
Her face without
a trace of truth.

Hags and baggarts all!
Liquid lies!
Insipid ties!
And I, bemused by it all,
spell in the way of poets.

It’s small in comparison to this big place
with its resident poltergeist.

I’ve not for a moment felt at home here.

But my little van is another story
with its soft, comfortable bed in the back.
Just one seat for the driver,
and plenty of space for an ice chest
and camp stove.

Oh, to wake up in the forest
after sleeping on a cloud!
Putter to a fire pit to cook some eggs
and watch deer in the distance.

Though here, the deer eat my flowers
and this poltergeist must have come
from somewhere to battle me for these
three bedrooms and a back yard.

Curdled and perplexed…

Don’t get me started!

Cheese! Are you kidding?

Despite too many varieties,
I’ve found the best cheeses
pair well with…
well…

Almost anything.

Saltines in a pinch,
but those lovely
odd cracker toasts
with the nuts and fruits
are delightful.

Wake up!
Start another day
Shower first with orchid gel,
moisturize, blow it dry,
and divine some clothes.

Soon after, a cup of tea
or chocolate coffee
here lately.

A protein bar, and off to work
just steps away …
a five level login.

What meetings must I attend
as I would rather bend my time
toward figuring it all out.

Wake up! I’ll wake up tomorrow…
Today I think I’ll just sleep.

Oh, Mother! I remember you so clearly.
What a gift to recall your love,
the sound of your voice,
and how you held me
even when you were in a rush.

I recall peeled grapes and pate sandwiches
the crusts cut off to please my soft baby mouth.
Group hugs with daddy before bed,
teaching me words to read,
and numbers to count.

You played your guitar to help me sleep
just one note. I wanted just one note
so that I could learn the sound.
Too many notes kept me awake,
so you played just one
and let it fade away
as I faded into slumber.

Sometimes I went to your closet
just to smell your clothes
when you were away at work.
I knew your scent
and you knew mine.
How I loved the soft silk you wore.

Too few years we had together
before they took me from you
and took you from the world.
A far greater tragedy than the one
they played to the public.

I love you, Mother.
I will always love you,
not just for being my mother,
or for being who you are,
but for everything that we are together.

We are love, my mother and me.
My sweet, kind, cherished, beautiful mother.