The Poetry Marathon

I was on the verge of
Losing it.
Tears, angry ones,
Face in the palms,
Sweating through my glasses
And back into my eyes

I could not explode
Here…
I could not let myself
Detonate in the house.
In the sanctuary.
In the calm space.

But the calm space is exactly where
The pain pulses
Through the pipes
And wires.

So I have to hide it again.
Take a breath and wait

Because I know it will start over

It always does
Because meltdowns only stop
When the brain ends.

The Walrus and The Carpenter

When I was young I thought
The Carpenter was angry that
The Walrus had EATEN all the oysters.

What I did not realize was that
The Carpenter was angry that
The Walrus had eaten ALL the oysters.

Blank
White
White and black
Black and grey
Grey gardens
Gardening in the sun
Sunshiney day
Days and nights
Nightmares
Afraid of it all
All is happening
Happenstance
Standing on the fence
Fences break the cycle
Cyclical wounds
Winding streets
Straight or gay
Gay 90s
1990s
1890s
1790s
Where have we come from
From here to there
There is a puppy in the window
How much is it
How fond of me
My name is
Fear

Today’s trek to the mall
full of masks and unmasks
mostly staying six feet apart
eyes are tired
trying not to be obvious.

My voice was obviously tired
annoyed
exhausted
and yet the cat calls still happened
only today we weren’t asked to smile
we were offensively political
asking the cashier where the ear-savers
were located.

She wanted to go home.
She did not want to work today.
I feel the same way most days
where the office is so quiet
and there are no other voices
to hear.

So we are done at the mall
after walking one lap and sipping
a light smoothie through straws
too thick
for ice, fruit, and honey water.

In a few weeks I will go off-
grid. I will hang in a hammock
supported by trees I have not named
and will likely ignore except
when I thank them for their
small sacrifice of bark
because I am not adept at camping
nor survival, aside from the
few moments I was forced to
endure
But that is a story for another time,
another poem.

Someone I do not know
Wrote me a poem.
I do not know her name
Or her credentials
Or her demeanor
But the language she chose
From my voice
Made me realize
That I have one.

So today as I focus on my ability
To paint portraits with my words
And imagination
I know my voice is more important
Than I thought.

No impostor syndrome here today.
Just a knowledge that today
Is a day of creation
From nothing into something
Like god.

As my daughter naps on my lap
On the couch
Under her baby blanket
I wish I didn’t want more
More time
More things
More energy
Because she should be enough

It is not that I wish for more
From her
But for her
For her future
For her energy
For her time

Because her time with me is
Likely limited to
What I can do for her
As she grows
Into a young girl
Who will always be young
And small
And naive
As a sparrow
Taking its first flight.

I have lost track of how long I have been
Doing this.
Hours run past like mice or hamsters on a wheel
Going going going
But leading nowhere except
Toward the grave.
Duty bound to complete this task
Or any task
Feels like a frigate trapped in the shallows.
We want to work
Hit the gas
Pump the motor
Forward then aft
And forth and back again
Until.one day we look at our progress
And notice how much time we wasted
When we could have just
Pulled up the anchor
And gone on our way.

Faye, I need to use your words
this morning.
No statement has ever made more sense
than the gaseous courage of your voice.

I can visualize these words.
This scene.
The tandem feeling of loss and
Losing.

What wonders language may create in the
Mortal version of combat.

I wonder if I still have this document
somewhere on my computer,
maybe in a folder marked sad?

Sad is the only word.
Not wearisome
Worrisome
Fearsome
Or unfabulous.

But the standard
Sadness.

“Jellybeans don’t have gluten…”
She offered, as if that negated the fact
That she ate half a bag before
I woke from a sound sleep.

I stood at the side table
Watching her munch on
Unsafe foods for her
Gentle belly
Knowing she would soon experience
Pain
Cramping
And a hundred needles
Pulsing through her
Gut
Ill since birth
Since
Pre-birth
Since I couldn’t feel her kicking
My own insides

It’s almost worth seeing her in pain
If it means I am seeing her.

How awful it feels
To admit that…