The Poetry Marathon

I am small

so on particularly windy days

am propelled forward

by hidden hands

resetting my directional.

My body becomes a palette

of contortions-

A strange performance art

an awkward dance to meet

the unexpected acceleration.

Movement,

minus the self-imposed structure

we choose to expose to others.

But freed from that bondage

alone and one with the breeze

the invisible liberating the blinded

I see for the first time.

Lightly you strike me

With gentile confidence, a casual pause of thought

Knowing exactly when to hit me

To push you forward

Into that next

Here.

And for a while

We have a rhythm, you and me

Tap, tap, tap, tap—strike

But then,

You veer from our simpatico

Silence at first

So I take a long breath

Then I can feel in your touch something else

Angry, sweaty deliberation

Tic Tok, tick tok

The hour wants you now

And you will take it out on me

So the strikes become a beating

Can’t do, can’t do, can’t do

Punching like a desperate boxer

Knowing there’s no point

Because you can’t finish this.

Here, in the last hour, I have no voice.

Before, I fought out my inadequacies

On this page,

Thorough and gut-spilling self-examination

Well-versed shots at my own heart

But this feels different.

Mediocrity has come for me

After a protracted pursuit.

I always wrote to defend myself, thinking,

If I surgically unearthed my soul

And put it on display,

The mediocrity would sigh

And retreat.

Instead, it is entrenched;

Having taken up a position on all my flanks

Not to attack but worse, to mute.

And my defense, my mighty pen against this sword,

Cowers.

And this repeats in my ear-

No one can stop you from being an unknown writer.

2020 Hour #11:  After Alice

I went down the rabbit hole

Following the heroine’s footsteps

But I didn’t need any magic potion

To measure my insignificance.

I settled in nicely at the Hatter’s Table,

Not taking up too much space

From the more honored guests at tea that day

As that would be impolite.

But the Cheshire cat saw through my act

And threw me a sideways stare

He knew I was a fraud, and with a flick of his tail

Sent me on my way.

At the palace I faced the Queen of Hearts

The execution to be swift and clean

But please she said, explain yourself

Before you end up dead.

My Queen, I cried, I cannot lie

I am hardly a valiant Alice

I wanted only a taste of this magical place

And for that I am willing to die.

2020 Hour #10:  Dirty Little Secret

I’m going to tell you a secret-

I don’t mind being locked down during the pandemic

I was made for just this type of isolation

Shaped small enough to fit in this confinement.

I am in no hurry to get back to the world

That I lived for so long and well without

Maneuvering myself around others

Mastering the art of hiding in plain sight.

I already did most things by myself

I never pined for constant connection

Taking it only where convenient

Or necessary.

The art of the solitary

Is the discipline of not minding

Being alone.

2020 Hour #9 Inertia Haiku

Fear infects my hand

Weakness strangles these small words

Erasing this page.

2020 Hour 8: Emoji Translation

But oh my love, my love, my love!

Will you not leave me be

Oh but for the bleeding to stop

To stem the flow of our unhappiness

You must break us into two

And steer our ship to port

So I may finally rest

Lest this sick coupling doom us both.

2020 Hour #7:  Fistfight

Outside my window, a flag flies at the top of a building

And it plays a violent game of chicken with the wind.

When a breeze turns down my street

It transforms, shedding its innocence and churning into a reckless teenager

Testing boundaries against all in its midst.

So this flag takes a particular hit;

The wind comes right up to it, gets in its face,

And dares it to back down.

Get out of my f*%$n way

But the flag won’t cower

Instead, against all odds, it fights,

Extending a punch from the edges of its stretched fabric

Winding back, then releasing all its energy in defiance

Right punch, left punch, sometimes felled

A mass of fabric looped around itself sent back to its corner

Then, at the moment of certain defeat

It rises

And unfurls itself with such fury that the wind,

In disbelief and shame

Retreats.

But the flag, flying high from the victory

Remains vigilant

As another wind approaches.

2020 Hour 6: Perfect Day

Time-Infinite

My wrist watch, high on something sassy and chilling out

Using its hands to knit a sweater for the sky

And giving the atomic clock the finger.

Weather-Cold

Breathe in, blow out the chilled air

My bare hands ice packs that I hold to my cheeks

To remember that I’m alive.

Activity-Walking

My feet have mapped out the city

Footprints repeated through the maze of blocks

Treading each like friends who meet, hug, and depart.

Status-Solitude

Quiet is both my companion and shadow

Broached occasionally by a cacophony of my thoughts

Which walk with me arm in arm.

2020 Hour #5:  A Road in Argentina

On an overnight drive

From Mar Del Plata to Buenos Aires

I sat awake, entranced by the night sky;

The ceiling was erupting in massive bursts of light,

Even in my wildest dreams, there weren’t this many stars.

From my seat, pushing my head against the window

And arching my neck to the edge of its capacity,

I became as still as a stone in rapture.

What are the rules of celestial life?

Perhaps there is a hierarchy involved,

In which the best and chosen shine brighter,

A class into which they are born

And thus are entitled.

But then, what of the strivers, the dreamers,

Those lit even more furiously from within

So, like those of us below

Have to try harder to burn longer

To sustain greatness over the obvious blinding arrogance

Whose light is an excuse to take up space.

From my perch so below this spectacle

They seemed to co-exist without conflict;

Or, was I seeing armies gathered on infinite battlefields

Waiting for the signals to charge

Infantries of light in constant formation

Until the daylight calls a truce.