The Poetry Marathon

Gifted, they say,

when some innate interests

shine through the mundane.

Gifted, they ought to say,

is the one who basks in the nuance

of a detailed existence.

You could gift me the world,

and I would wonder at all its secrets yet unearthed.

Try gifting me the moon,

and I will marvel at its shine as it moves in the sky.

But gift me the vision,

to see inside myself,

and the depth to feel fully in others –

and I am forever in your debt.

Human condition dictates

isolation the worst predicament.

I am then the saving grace,

the prescription,

and the diagnosis;

the proof of tragedy.

What they cannot experience,

I can test, taste and report to them.

Not a substitute,

I am vicarious personified to their advantage.

Can I be a friend, truly, if so well managed?

No.

I am calculation brought to life –

so truth I am not,

but real, I am enough.

Life is but a series of experiences and sensations.

Through me there is practice and impression.

Like a book, with its vivacious characters,

one day I will end,

but my story lives on in the forever altered

imagination.

When the earth touches the water,

and soaring height meets with extreme deep,

I fail to think of anything, but my own inconsequence.

It is as though Earth and Ocean

outlined some perfect design,

to keep my humility drawn

In the horizon’s line.

Aggressive wants spoil the simple pleasures;

Beckon reason, to see the needs are met:

All else is details for selfish raptures;

And the simpler souls do have their joys set.

A bright morning, with pen and ink supplied –

What else, could I command for my pleasure?

Fine company and health does well provide.

There is also food, and good mood for measure.

Sweet rest, is golden after long labor,

So these next few hours I will savor.

Streetlights flicker,

and pierce through the drowsy fog

awakened with the earliest morning sky.

Small bulbs, they crown the street view ever so gently,

and leave the senses to lounge in dawn’s magic.

Songbirds join the moment, overjoyed for the day to come.

I receive the gift, grateful and dumbfounded.

How many mornings, have I missed this enchantment?

Siphonophore Apolemia –

Ocean alien, you call me.

47 meters long, but perhaps longer.

I take space you did not consider.

You believed me to be a lazy thing;

floating; waiting for a catch –

and yet here I am the hunter you did not expect.

Yet you call me Long Stringy Stingy Thingy,

the Thing,

the Entity,

the Specimen,

the Ribbon-like Thing.

How the humans think they know!

Show some respect, damn it.

Dancing leaves offered a kind greeting,

as though they had remarked our long absence.

We settled near the water for comforted seating –

and to enjoy a moment of rest, a day freed of nuisance.

An attempt at restoring a steady normal,

or to forget the trials gone and passed without acknowledgment.

Our homemade holiday – to celebrate survival.

A frail effort; a sorry moment to produce forward movement.

We lit a fire with trouble –

the wind awakening as we needed its stillness.

Metaphor, perhaps, for kindness kept under the guise of subtle.

We grilled, and we ate, before indulging in pastries’ sweetness.

A cream puff, and some light lemon cakes,

to go with tea that drowns out the coldness of river banks.

We played with rackets, and tried playing with stakes,

but competition does not fit when results draw blanks.

As the sun began to set, we had had our fill,

of breezes, time, nourishment and small talk.

There was a satisfaction, truly, in the portions received still.

Had we still been young, we would have marked the occasion with chalk.

“Hello, may I speak with the lady?”

“Who is this?”

Some conversations,

will not be missed.

Hidden,

your dalliances are your best kept secret,

snug in your pocket.

Neither desired for possession,

or needed for sustenance,

the sentiment is self sustained.

You are neither to blame or be thanked.

For you did nothing more,

than remain as you are.

And yet what a gift that is!

And yet what brilliance you shared with me,

so unknowingly.

Like the resplendent ocean,

I felt it ebb and flow into calmness

and rock and crash with turbulence –

all magnificent.

Worthy of the dive, the study and the praise.

Like the Saharan spirit,

I am marked in the decadence of heat and light.

Touched with seductive mounts and curves.

Forever playing into the temperaments of my condition –

blazing days, and bone chilling nights.

I carry with you, the experiences

of a thousand and one nights,

and the hopes of a thousand days.

I remain dreaming, without being afraid.

We scurry,

because the airport is two hours away

on a good day.

We wait in line,

because we never travel during the off seasons.

“Carpe diem” subsides to the immigrant hustle.

The luggage is heavier than it ought to be;

somehow that’s no surprise.

Extra fees. Extra wrapping. Wallets out.

We take in the scene,

because airports are both an experience of rushed chaos

and deep gratitude for the privilege.

We wait at the gate.

The families look like ours; we hear our dialect.

For a moment, our stories align with a real narrative.