The Poetry Marathon

“For where two or three are gathered together in my name there am I in the midst of them.”–Matthew 18:20 (KJV)

Intensity is multiplied by crowds

when more than just a few gather round.

But does this still hold true virtually?

Rows of zeroes show nothing to see.

Are kids still “tuning in” via the Web,

or “tuning out” and playing War games?

Teachers can testify it isn’t the same.

Still stifling that nagging, worrisome snicker,

yet holding back a titter more than a tad,

gulping down the loudest guffaw you ever had,

canning that wee chuckle, suppressing that squeeze?

Chill, with synonyms, one can cachinnate with ease.

Once there was a lordly sheep, a ram “I am”,

not following the herd but breaking new ground.

Challenging the sheep dog while seeking new pastures,

preferring the rapids instead of still waters.

Never was he a sacrificial lamb–not he.

Nor was he like Mary’s lamb–meek and lowly.

Orwellian and all so very contrarian,

a mad Frankenstein mis-cloned his pedigree.

A tin of light tuna in oil–“Chicken of the Sea’–

once passed as gourmet at least with me,

so it might come back with a recession,

for once all were skinny (without question):

First blend dallops of white flour and butter.

Once the butter melts, take this cue from Mother:

Let the mixture come to a rolling boil

before stirring in tuna and then enjoy.

For from shooting for the stars,

some days I have lost my marbles

once housed in separate pods.

I find it harder

to hone once much well-worn skills

while upping my game.

Whether shooting rare jade

or healing brown onyx, I strive

to keep playing awhile.

For whoever stays in

the longest goes on to win.

Looking for a role model,

choose a Great Depression Dad

for strength and honor.

He had a soft heart,

forged by hardship and war,

and a gentle touch.

With a little humor,

he gave much well-earned praise,

while home by dinner.

My pup likes to party,

but it’s all so very sad.

that treat he hasn’t had.

For thirteen years,

He has given me much joy,

for he’s a “good boy”!

Now, we’re seniors,

I’ll throw a birthday party,

for time gets leaner.

For in people years,

he is now turning seventy

like his owner–me!

Sat by the pavement

at a chic Champs-Elysees Cafe,

reading a hardback,

emptying my wine glass

while munching some cheddar cheese.

I’m knitting a plot

for a romance novel

set in war-torn Ukraine.

To nail down that plot,

I’ll now get out my laptop

from my old satchel.