The Poetry Marathon

In Praise of Yang

I’m sitting in eighty-degree shade under cottonwoods in a line where moisture from the roof of a longhouse once gave them their start. Tribal Camp Lane looks a lot different than back then.

Lapping wave are now just an interlude to jet skis, motor boats and lots of alcohol. Pot bellies, laughter and kids figuring out the latest water devices and a few of us swimming.

When I sit back and take it all in, I see ospreys floating above nirvana. A promised land that’s just down I-95 and no one wants more.

Boardwalk

I never could have dreamed

of craggy snow peaked mountains

as the matter of fact backdrop

to the lakes and rivers of the west.

The skyscrapers that defined tall

would be a speck against them.

And the boardwalk that I trek almost

daily along Bellingham Bay

reminds me that I’m free

from childhood chains and expectations

city streets with altercations

smoggy skies like fabrications

and a life lived on cement.

Once I hitched away

from a place I couldn’t stay.

Did a hippie form of a ballet

from trashcan alleys

and their decay.

I see a boardwalk in a picture

by a lake that is a mixture

of rugged mountains and a walkway

like a doorway from dismay.

And when I got here

the world said play.

Politics

Politics has become
like the beating of a drum
talk instead of mum
but our lives can come undone.

Like the beating of a drum
talk show radio has its scum
but our lives can come undone
like you’re a tree and they’re a plum.

Talk show radio has its scum
Politics has become
like you’re a tree and they’re a plum
too much talk instead of mum.

In the Night

You may wonder what a retired guy who gets to take creative writing classes for fun as a takeover of sorts for the compromise of an earlier life of being responsible enough to make a living got to complain about.

Well, listen closely, because when hardly anyone was watching a thief in the night took clean air and its light, left the land like a blight so his pockets felt right.

Gleefully walked away for the others to pay. And I just have to say, it ain’t right.

Different Towns (a Haibun)

Perseid meteors blaze across a sky darker than the ones I see in Bellingham. This flare in the night, white as morning light, gives me hope to get it right.

White and black are accentuated here in North Idaho where Republicans and rifle racks on rigs rule. I’m now used to the Bellingham bubble where more often kayaks are on trucks and the tone feels softer, like rain bouncing up from a puddle.

Having lived in both places I know that most people here are the salt of the earth, will help a stranger if they can. Maybe life is like Halloween and people wear different costumes in different towns. But deep down they are the same.

An osprey drifts by

With certainty in the sky

While I wonder why

Data

Data’s complicated

overrated and I hate it.

You’ve used too much

says Verizon like I see

their tech horizons.

I turn my hotspot on

but my allotments

more than gone.

So this poem goes ka ching

but at least it’s not too big.

Minions of Mindlessness

Theirs was blight not as big as it seemed. I used to start my car after

work in Coeur d’Alene, knew it might explode. The crazies had no

limits though we could have been friends. They were lost in a hate that covered

their inner sky with dark brooding clouds blocking sun, moon and stars.

Last night’s Perseid meteor showers were like messengers

across a black sky in North Idaho as I slept under the stars.

The Aryan Nations that banded near here remind me of Trump.

Muster like mustard gas in World War I. They lost their bluster

and were forced to go away. I hope that the minions of

mindlessness raging across the county right now don’t

rise from compost as if no one has learned from my

ancestors that died because they were different.

Before Darkness

Perhaps my brightest light

will be just before darkness.

But while life may be boot

camp I can’t figure out

who is the Sarge.

Polarity

Adam and Eve shoulda known

that apples are sweet

but can also be tart.

That bees give us honey

but sometimes will sting.

The bee inside me

has drunkenly sought

a sweetness that often

turns into leftovers

left out too long.

Yin racing for yang

in some grand design.

And I am left to wonder

if dissonance is beauty

or is it a cosmic cement

that holds us together

and yet never sets?

The End

Maybe the end is a beginning

since nothing ever stops.

Rocks are beehives of molecules

whirling, buzzing and circling.

Am I a hamster on a wheel?

See things I wanted to be

crumble like rock to sand

beside the sea.

Not noticing treasure chests

of red rubies and gold

handed to me

unknowingly.

Perhaps my sputtering jalopy

heading toward a cliff

will shape shift to Maserati

and race into the night

on my way to somewhere.