The Poetry Marathon

Each night, peeking under my pillow

Waiting for the eight-legged monster

To strike.

Each day, opening the front door

Waiting for the furry arachnid

To attack.

Every visit to the zoo, lurking by the terrarium

Waiting for the fanged creature

To escape.

He didn’t strike, or

Attack, or

Escape.

He just sat there

On his furry ass

Eating bugs.

His darkness I must bear and Take.

His broken promise consecrated by This:

All it took was just his Kiss.

My heart and soul, he cast his spell Upon

A prisoner of manipulation and deceit; The

Only love breathes with that deadly kiss on my Brow

A Dream Within a Dream, EA Poe

Paint blobs

Toothpaste gobs

Eye goop

crane’s whoop

Lava drains

Tears stream

Heart aches

Love breaks

Passion burns

Souls yearn

Certain doubt

Everything comes

from inside out

Does she craft a necklace,

Craft a song,

Craft a poem

To lament the fading dawn?

Does she tie them around her feet?

Does it changle,

Does it bangle,

Does it shine upon a tree?

Beneath a quivering sound,

Does she plant them in the ground?

As she harvests innocent souls,

Does she weep,

Does she sing,

Of all the unseen things?

Does she whisper,

Does she breathe,

Does she burnish her mark upon the trees?

Does she plant them by her bed?

Will she grind them into soup,

Will she paint them in the sky?

Does she use them as her dice,

Tempting fates with the price?

Does she craft a funeral dirge

As she plucks souls with her knife?

Will she ever take your life?

Pickup trucks, 80s music, and teenage delinquency

“Arthur’s” was our hangout

“Party at Arthur’s!”

Traveling down dirt roads,

windows down

somewhere among a maze of county roads

and cornfields,

we arrived

at “Arthur’s”.

Talking with friends,

meeting new ones,

smoking Virginia Slims Light Menthol

He hosted many parties

for us country kids

with keg beer,

pick up trucks,

and boomboxes.

Banana clips, friendship bracelets,

Aqua Net overload,

marathon makeout sessions . . .

Arthur witnessed it all.

My heart sank when,

years after I moved away,

I read that “Arthur” had to be torn down.

I sure miss that tree.

Hurt veils her face with a mask of smiles and laughter.

The mask eventually shatters and leaves shards of Shame and Betrayal.

Hurt lies down at night,

in the stillness of the dark,

and embraces the cuts of Truth.

Hurt veils her face with a mask of smiles and laughter,

while Honesty seductively whispers in her ear,

“It will never be the same.”

Shame ridicules her vulnerability

and her willingness to trust.

Hurt veils her face with a mask of smiles and laughter,

Ambivalence wrestles between the uncertainty of

Loving fully and protecting her heart.

Courage trickles down in tiny droplets.

Hurt veils her face with a mask of smiles and laughter.

Perseverance tells her that life will go on.

Holding Mama’s hand

The sun blistering my face, my body

My feet burning in the sand

My throat scorched

Nothing to drink

But Mama held my hand

In the middle of the Arizona desert

Waiting for Jesus to save us

No cross

No crown of thorns

No white robe

In the middle of the Arizona desert;

Instead,

Sirens

Flashing lights

Fear,

But finally, the gentle hand

Of a stranger

Carrying me to safety

To a new home

With Grandma, Grandpa, Sisters

Dogs

Art

Music

Safety

Faith

And

Love

In the middle of the Arizona desert

Of all the words

I cannot speak;

Of all the longing

I cannot touch;

Of all the feelings

I cannot write;

Of all the pain

I cannot weep;

Of all . . .

Instead

I paint

I draw

I pour

I blend

With the silence of my heart

Caroline to Henri

“Henri, I’m right here. Ici!”

She lounges on the sofa

Naked and bare

Waiting for the artist

But he doesn’t care

For what he sees

At that moment

At that time

Is not the beauty,

Simply a paradigm

He feels the warmth of sun

Shine through the shuttered window

And the whisps of wind

Dance through his hair

Nature’s blend

He arranges the flowers in the vase

On the blue table

“C’est moi!” Caroline shouts

Knocks over the vase

She dresses and walks out the door

Silence

Until

“Foutez-vous!”

Henri picks up the vase

Rearranges the flowers

Wipes the dirt from the

Blue table

Sits back down

And looks

Everything aligns perfectly

The garden flowers

The window

Blue table

Vase

The oranges

Yellow

Blue

Red

A simple paradigm

I love the Poetry Marathon and look forward to the event every year (this will be my 3rd year). This year, my plan is to try to write poetry that pairs with pieces of my art. I usually use the prompts, and I still may write from them, but I’d really like to create something (a chapbook, even something as simple as a binder) pairing a painting with a poem. Good luck to my fellow poets. Onward!