The Poetry Marathon

Hey

Universal God Source Energy

Could you throw me a poem?

Anything will do.

A Haiku,

A Sonnet

Just words that make sense

Somehow

Throw me something

a morsel

A word

a Syllable?

Really

Please throw me a poem

I have my catcher’s mitt ready

Pen available

Computer open

Ready, ready

Throw me that poem

Come on

Help a girl out.

Would you?

Hey Universal God Source Energy

Are you there?

I could really

Really use that poem.

The muses are not amusing,

or easily amused.

In fact they are bemused.

Often used

and sometimes abused.

Yes, they confuse.

They have been accused.

But they are only a muse.

Who may refuse.

So give them their dues.

Let them infuse,

Listen to your muse.

Ten years ago,

My head floated like a balloon

above everything

imagining the best.

Ten years ago,

my body worked better.

It has always felt weighed down.

But not like today

as it holds me prisoner.

Ten years ago,

Hope was still in every dream

Hope now is

erased in events and cynicism.

Ten years ago,

all was as it should be.

Ten years ago,

the world didn’t scare me.

It didn’t wake me up at night,

it didn’t cry for my help.

Today I see more darkness

than light.

More coldness than warmth.

More grief, more anger.

Ten years ago,

I was a shell of who I am today.

I am not the person I was a year ago.

I cannot grasp the dark world around me.

The changes within the home I love.

The pain palpable,

it permeates every breeze.

It beats in every heart

including my own.

A warning beat like

a ceremonial drum.

I am safe, unharmed.

My bones are not a part

of the Maui world.

I am an interloper.

An Invader, a settler.

But my heart bleeds.

It aches from every cell.

My tears always at the ready.

No words can

fill this new void.

I wail in the darkness,

feeling more tenuous than ever.

Safety gone.

Hope set ablaze.

Lying in ash.

All that was, is no more.

I am not who I used to be.

Welcome newcomers! Welcome back to all you crazy return offenders. Let’s do this thing!

The hour has come for me to sleep

Another marathon, mine to keep

The night is dark the body tired,

What once was alive is now expired

What once I kept, I now delete

I am off to bed to sleep

I don’t know who I am any more

Names mean nothing now

Words are just letters strewn into a blurry line

What is a poem?

Can I even write one at this point?

No. I am just typing sequentially right now.

I guess I am typing.

Maybe it is someone else.

I am not sure

The part of my brain

That is used to these things

Has taken charge now.

l cannot be held responsible.

I know, I am whining

Why not? Where am I?

I should write something profound

Something with deep meaning

Something with pizzazz

Instead, I shall type along randomly

Acting like I have some inkling

Of what the hell is going on.

I need an idea

to reach out and grab me

Shake me awake

Pull me out of dreamland

Bring me back to the almost alive

An idea to pull me back from the precipice

I need an idea

Something to fly with, drive with

Or at the very least cry with

An idea I can sink my teeth into

Throw in some words,

some sentence structure,

and mix them all up.

Just one small idea

Something, anything at all.

Toss me a word, a generality

A token or a snippet maybe

Just not the word “tenderness”

That won’t do it

I need something less soft and

more word worthy.

No, I won’t do it

I refuse to place an almond and an umbrella in any poem just randomly.

It isn’t raining.

I have cashews.

Why would I do that?

Why should I advertise almonds like that?

Especially in hour 21.

Next thing I know you will draw faces on eggs.

Hour twenty

Achieved at last

Things go better in the twenties

The teens last forever

In the twenties you can see the end

Those voices aren’t singing about the lady in the top hat.

They are excited about finishing

The second breakfast is now the third dinner

We aren’t beginners any longer

If we ever were.

There will be no self-help books now

No beds lying beneath palms

Our own beds are whispering

Excited for our return.

Hour twenty

A Milestone

A countdown to completion.

We can see it, smell it.

It tastes like old clothes and hope

Hour twenty, my old friend

We really are going to do this thing.