The Poetry Marathon

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I watched a snail today

crawling on the garden path,

facing only forward,

looking neither left nor right.

It had a purpose,

its armoured house heavy,

its head bent and focused

as it inched its way

forward towards the lettuce,

the cabbage, the carrots,

the scattered leaves

in my untended garden,

the sluggish, sleeveless

afternoon of my retirement.

.

.

1

he is no longer there

but she calls out his name

and then waits

to see if his favourite chair

will move by itself

2

I wish to die

way ahead of you

that way I’ll know

someone will be there

to pay the burial fees

3

even today

I think of my two dead sons

only when my heart

has turned to earth again

will they be buried

4

death poems …

we die a little death

each borrowed day

yet live again because

we have to pay

5

sometimes a death

will have more meaning

after a life well lived

said the cockroach after

getting crushed by a shoe

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.

So many colours to choose from, so why must they always be red roses?

In the restaurants, boutique shops, flower stalls, everywhere – red roses!

Gardeners call some of them tea roses, but it isn’t about tea, or love.

It’s all about size, and the fact that they have no scent, like dead roses.

Last year, we noticed two children at the airport, waiting for their luggage,

As their parents unpeeled candy to sweeten them – two pink well-fed roses!

Heaven uncoiled its garden hose this morning, an endless, thick, grey snake

Of dirty-white water, which flooded the backyard, giving us a row of wet roses.

Some time ago, I visited a friend, who found out her husband had another,

A much younger woman looking to harvest from another’s bed of roses.

Returning to what I’d like to think of – other colours, more detail and scent,

Wild bouquets of cornflowers and carnations, anything instead of roses.

*Please look online for the definition of a ghazal.  Thanks.

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Left it all behind there.

All that sand from my shoes.  All shaken off.

All that salt from my hair.  From my eyes, too.

Nothing stuck as I shouted it all away.

Yelled at it, but quietly, you know, inside.

Sounded like nothing worked.  Nothing did.

It died unassisted.  After all I did to revive it.

Even the pain went away by itself.  Overnight.

No longer mine.  We disowned each other.

It used to embrace me, it was my old mother.

It was a warm facelessness, a punched cushion.

I didn’t have to make it up.  Scattered feathers.

I have proof.  I told everybody so.

Everyone could see how well I carried it.

Left it all behind there.

Half my life gone.  Strands of moaning rain.

I had gotten so used to it, the ordinariness of it.

The cold familiar arbitrariness of it.

I used to make coloured screen shots of it.

Long rectangles and graphs of explanatory text.

Now that it has flatlined, I wonder if I’ll miss it.

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the solstice

on the swing I watch

the flowers fade

solstice events

the neighbour’s television

and barbecue

start of summer

two hours added

to happy hour

solstice evening

the end of the schoolyear

and my mortgage

the longest day

a hundred and nine essays

waiting for feedback

in the distance

clusters of grey clouds

a line of laundry

waiting for the shrapnel

of piercing rain

what makes me think

a cup of chamomile tea

will set things right

the saucers are chipped

with arguments

I’d like a bee

to fly the gauntlet

of my garden chimes

the sound coated

with lavender

some news today

about the wars in the world

while we tend

our garden of strawberries,

peaches, and lime

summer solstice …

I paid all our debts

last week

that nothing should disturb

this long afternoon

To have reached the Finish and found

not the peace which follows writing

but an anguish that so much remains

missing;

the neighbour’s cherry tree is weighed

down with new fruit, all for the birds –

these verses will be devoured in much

the same way;

to the fire, to the fire they will go, after

all has been written and done, to the

fire to be burnished or burned, and

what will remain

will tell me if I should run this race again.

©  Ella Wagemakers, 14.14 Dutch time (=  8.14 EST in the US)

Once, I could predict the gender of infants before birth.  If I

focused now, I could still do it.  But how do you do this?

By getting to know the parents.

These days, though, I let it go.  I see the flood and release it

where it needs to be.  Sometimes, pretending not to know

is better, although not for myself.

Lately, I’ve been struck by certain deaths.  I haven’t uttered

a word, but I see them walking around, the stones around

their necks, waiting to jump into the sea.  I see them looking

around, searching for gaps between the rocks, hoping and

not hoping they’ll be noticed, their eyes straight ahead

and then, with unbelievable suddenness, jump off from the

heights, seeing only peace at the bottom of the cliff.

©  Ella Wagemakers, 13.59 Dutch time (=  7.55 EST in the US)

We only want a beach with white sand,

something we can sift through with our fingers

the way sunlight filters through the trees.

But something else will be at work here as we,

too, pass through the warm days like waves

weighing nothing.

Perhaps it is the water that will pass through,

clinging to our bodies, seeking to fill us with

what we’ve lost, that fundamentality city life

has robbed us of, clothing us with its own

brand of affection, embracing us, reminding us

to return to what is less.

We will live again in a hut, waking with the sun,

forgetting for a while the rush of all that we are

not, the dark office walls, the callous desks and

chairs, the indifferent floor, the department

voices, the hands holding phones and tools, the

feet encased in steel boots.

Near the beach, we will eat each day, closer to

the earth, closer to the water and the sky, necks

not needing to strain, fingers to grasp, eyes to

pierce.  We will speak gently again, genuinely,

meaning even every word we do not say, giving

more room to own time.

©  Ella Wagemakers, 12.55 Dutch time (=  6.55 EST in the US)