The Poetry Marathon

I grew up in small cities

Asphalt coexisted

with huge lawns

Sprawling green/ blue parks

Houses nicely spaced so you couldn’t hear

What the neighbors were watching on television.

We had the best of both worlds i suppose

Well placed schools,

Public Libraries just the right size.

Every fast food you could want.

I moved to a bigger city

A place with tiny lawns

and three units on one property.

Walking distance to a huge mall

And a bustling downtown

Intimidating, daunting

Scary, exciting.

I visited San Francisco and LA

Where the concrete eats everything

The bustle raises blood pressure

The traffic murders people daily.

So much to see and do

But I wanted to crawl home

To those sprawling lawns

And big spacious houses

I was used to.

A compromise was reached

And I found a place

Not too busy, not too quiet

Plenty to do and see.

I miss the lawns

The house I will never own

But I needn’t lose myself

In a city too big.

Or decay away in a place too small

And now

Your moment of joy.

This marathon is done

Another bunch of poems tucked away

Your head hits the pillow

Your body folds into a soft mattress

NO STOP

Not yet

A moment of joy.

A pot of coffee

A cup swirling to cozy quiet

My eyes drift

Closing, darkness

NO STOP

not yet.

A moment of joy.

Garbled words

Smashing into each other

Like bumper cars

I black out

Silently dreaming

NO STOP

Not yet.

Brass bands

Drum circles

Cold water splashing

That’s better.

Yes, splashing cold

Iced coffee

Bright lights

Timpanis

Adrenalin

Clapping, dancing

Spinning

AWAKE!

The real monsters

are the ones in suits

who bellow about Jesus and immigration.

They spew fiery lies

Inciting, dividing

The real monsters are the ones

Who think they have a God-given right

to make decisions for people

who don’t need their help.

These monster in suits says whites

are discriminated against,

gay people are hated by Jesus.

and women know nothing about their own health.

The real monsters carry guns

Into Subway and Starbucks

They want to arm teachers,

defund education, and carry their AR-15 into Congress

The real monsters wave their flag

as if it means something to them.

The real monsters worship trump, the NRA and white supremacy.

They bow at the feet of Hannity and Carlson

The real monsters use the blood of others

To score their political points

They don’t care about children dying

They will do anything to win a donation

and steal a vote.

Nothing is coming to me now

Those words that were zipping above my head

have all been used now.

I am struggling to find new ones

Not even Perry Mason could help me now.

I sense the brain needs caffeine,

or a nap,

protein maybe

Those are words I can use

And have though, often today.

This is the point

bordering on tediousness and exhaustion.

Here word soup and word salad are matched

with a word and mayonnaise sandwich.

Genius won’t happen in this place

The ideas are trapped

In a hollow cavern

Just a few knocking around.

I imagine they are lonely.

Contrite.

They don’t want exposure.

Words, where are you?

I need your loveliness.

I need you to make gallant sentence structures.

I need you to come and play.

Words where have you gone?

The prompt says to write

About something I lust over

At this point in time

That is a good night’s sleep

A quality ice cream,

and those magical 10 days between semesters.

Once upon a time

I lusted for the perfect partner

I found him.

The ideal job

I don’t think those exist.

A nice car

Better to have a practical model.

I used to lust for a nice house

Now, the cost and the hours cleaning are prohibitive

I guess my lusty days are gone

I am too practical for that

Too sensible.

Life has taken away my wants

And replaced them with haves

My lusts have subsided

Replaced by much better things.

Once upon a time there was a young woman named Cinderella

Who cleaned and danced at a ball and married her prince

who became a king and she a queen and all that.

Okay, maybe I’m just an old woman named Cindy

I already knew my prince and married him outright.

I clean the house and tends to Prince Duke (the cat),

who is as demanding as any royalty.

Once upon a time there was Sleeping Beauty

She ate a bite of a poisoned apple and slept for a hundred years.

Oh, I wish. I could use the rest. Truly. Where can I get that apple?

Anyone? Anyone?

Then there Rapunzel

who lived in a high tower, a prisoner.

She let down her hair so her handsome prince would

climb to her and rescue her.

Wait a damn minute.

Do you know how hard it would be

to keep hair that long tended to?

And when the prince climbed it, can we say ouch?

Was she bald when he reached the top?

Her hair pulled out in a big clump on the floor?

No thank you.

I prefer my hair short and unpulled.

He can get himself a ladder or a hang glider if he really wants to play hero.

Once upon a time there was Little Red Riding Hood.

Seriously did anyone get her eyes checked?

She couldn’t tell her grandmother from a wolf?

Did she ever see a picture of Grandma? Every meet her before?

Her mother is just going to send a stupid little girl into the woods alone?

What kind of parents did she have?

And good old Hansel and Gretel. I am truly on the witch’s side.

See what happens if you try to eat my gingerbread house.

Boundaries people. Boundaries.

Snow White and those Seven Dwarfs,

okay, well having seven guys worship me would be nice,

even if they were short.

But I am not cleaning up after them.

Grumpy needs to chill. Dopey needs some education.

Get Sneezy an allergy tablet already. Didn’t anyone hear of Flonase?

No, my life is not a fairy tale, far from it.

I do have the handsome prince

and the royal cat son.

I live in an apartment above the garage

that no self-respecting woodland creature

would ever want to clean.

Fairy tales are suited for others perhaps

Just not for me.

Is that apple some sort of special melatonin?

Something bad

that is really something good.

It hurt

but felt good when it was done

How much does the bad and good have to connect?

Is there a piece of gold

hidden in the cracks of a

broken heart?

Sure, there is

We cannot see it yet

We know it’s there

Hope it’s there

Although sometimes bad isn’t good

and

good isn’t bad.

Sometimes it is wrapped into a ball

spinning, swirling

Making us dizzy

with its incongruency.

We want to believe

it is all for the best,

but the best may not be good

It may just simply be.

Here on Maui

we poets have a tradition

of beaching our poetry.

We shlub our chairs

across the sand

Wood, backpacks, jackets

Bags, a table, pens and notebooks, dinner, snacks

Booze, Water-bottles.

We make a circle around

Where the campfire will go

We write some poems

We make up challenges on the fly

We eat a cheap meal

The sun sets, we take pictures

Sometimes a whale or two will jump

Turtles peak out of the water

We build that fire

it takes two control freaks and a boy scout.

We pull out our lanterns and book lights,

pocket flashlights and headlamps.

The poems continue.

We share our products

our readings are almost drowned

by the ocean,

the wind and the campers.

We swat the bugs.

Someone starts playing music.

a song we have heard a million times.

Fishermen walk by

they wave their poles hello, like wands

We munch and churn

The wind picks up

then dies down

The sand blows as does the smoke

An ember takes flight, diving into the water.

Airplanes fly overhead.

We write and think.

We tell stories of poets

who have gone before.

As exhaustion overwhelms us,

We douse the fire,

collect the garbage.

We schlep the stuff back to our cars

always parked too far away.

We hug goodby

and drive back home

Bringing the beach in our shoes

I enjoy a good ha-ha now and again

When your stomach rolls

Tears come out of your eyes

You and the other person

Exchange knowing glances

And the mayhem continues

These are good times

Great times

As the soberness

Expands to silliness

The silliness breaks down to

simple insanity

The greatest joy two people

Can have

A guffaw, a chuckle,

Grows to a howl and a whoop

Side splitting, roll in the aisles

Rip-Roaring Funny

In my textbooks

They list suicide analytically

Brain chemicals

Neurotransmitters

Depression.

But they fail to mention

The devastation

The brutal pain left

For the survivors to face

The questions no textbook can answer

Why, what were they thinking?

What was missing in their heart?

Or worse why was their heart so heavy?

Left notes don’t tell the whole story

Neither does the broken heart stories

Others share, but answers evade

Suicide is like walking in dark woods

At night

Fighting for a flicker of light

To guide us back.

A light that isn’t there,

that can’t be seen.

Adrift in guilt

In shame

In loss that never heals.

Always wondering, always broken

Nothing a textbook can fix