The Poetry Marathon

Point guard (#1)

Playmaker of the team

Excellent ball handler

Makes great passes

Think Magic Johnson, tallest point guard in history

 
Shooting guard (#2)

The marksman, usually scores the most

Hangs in the backcourt with the point guard

Is M.J. or Kobe better?

Small forward (#3)

Most versatile

Long-range shooter

Primary defender

Larry Bird, Dr. J or LeBron

Power Forward (#4)

Rebounder

Big guy who blocks

Doesn’t mind playing dirty

Bill Russell, tho Dennis “the Worm” Rodman is probably better known

Center (#5)

Patrols the paint

Strong aggressive rebounder

Imposing presence, like Shaquille “Shaq Attaq” O’Neal

What am I doing wrong?

I pour myself into witty conversation, but you remain mute.

I stir in sugary comments designed to get you upset, but you’re still mum.

I sip your love and wonder if I return it in full. Doesn’t one always give more?

We’ve been together virtually every morning for decades, yet

I know so little about you. Yet without you, I would not function. You, however, would find somebody else.

You pick me up in the middle of the afternoon and our souls dance together.

You talk to me in a different language that I’m slowly learning, oh sexy, four pumps venti, white chocolate macademia nut frappucino.

Once upon a time in a land very far away, lived a wonderful Prince who couldn’t seem to find a real Princess. There were beautiful women and thoughtful ladies, but how to find a real Princess?

He went to his computer and googled and poof! Up popped www.findahotprincess.com

There before him, was the profile of a hot princess. But, with all this modern-day technology, how could he tell if she were a real princess? His mother, the old queen told him to invite her to the castle and then let her handle the test. Ask any old queen and they’ll tell you that a real Princess can spot a real Birkin bag from throngs of people and half a city block away (Didn’t the whole world learn that in Legally Blonde?).

So the old queen made up the guest room with just one catch. At the very bottom of the 20 mattress bed, she hid a Birkin Bag. All 20 mattresses with 800-count Egyptian sheets and imported-from-France throw pillows were put on top.

It was Hurricane Sandy, so the Princess showed up looking like what the French would call a drowned rat. Surely, this couldn’t be a real Princess, but the old queen was from the south (aren’t all old queens?) and knew manners and invited the Princess to spend the night. The Princess was thrilled.

The next morning, the Prince, Princess and old queen had a lovely breakfast.

“How did you sleep, dear?” asked the old queen.

The Princess debated. “Well, actually, the feng shui of the room might have a been off. The sheets were wonderful but I am bruised: black and blue!”

The old queen arched an eyebrow, code for “she’s the real deal.”

The Prince rejoiced for he had found his love and wondered if he should email www.findahotprincess.com. Perhaps the publicity would lead to a reality show in his future.

Moral: Always trust etiquette and taste to an old queen; she’ll come through every time.

Dearest e.e.,

Does it bother you that you never CAPITALIZED on your success?

In poetry,
jc

Do you think about suicide? Often?
Everyone does (it). Right?
Artists at least have created something before parting. What is your legacy?
Tell a therapist. Trust a friend. Try not to dive too deep.
Hope. Staves off the temptation to join Robin.

I vowed not to cave in to my fear, but my heart wasn’t listening and was acting like it was running the race of its life.
The coast was clear but I heard laughter.
Am I losing my mind? Was that the scrape of boots on the hardwood floor?

I dashed behind the cupboard, nearly knocking over my Great Grandmom’s prized antique jars. Which would be worse?
The Karma payback or the wrath of my mother?
Panting, I beg my heart to slow down.
Outside the kitchen window, the ferns waved in the wind. Were they mocking me?
I imagine their response to my imagined intruder. But he’s there! He’s taunting me.
I debate about grabbing a lantern to go outside and confront them all, but this is not a Dickens’ novel and I’m not dressed properly.

Fear be gone!
I am strong.
I yank open the freezer door and pull out my beloved Ben & Jerry’s (New York Super Chunk) and (Cookie dough). These troubling times call for backups. I reach for a spoon reminding myself that by not putting it in a dish, this will save water.
That’s my good deed for the environment.
My inner critic tells my thighs to expect company.
My heart is back to normal. Fear a distant memory.
Resolutions are made to be broken.

Is history re-written?

Buy booze but not new boots.
Liquid creativity, she claims.
Her choices are a map indicating her true north.
Is her compass cracked or perhaps she is geographically-challenged?

She awaits the half summer light.
Swallows more white lightning, but holds Time in a bottle.
Maybe she’ll buy new sandals.
Or booze and go barefoot. It’ll be summer, after all.
She reads others’ work and makes a new resolution.

Positive space is sometimes as important as its counterpart.

The next page opens to sand on a beach.
To what and to whom does one say no?

****
Caryolyn Forche’s poem Elegy (from the book angel of History), “The page opens to snow on a field: boot holed month, black hour/ the bottle in your coat half vodka half winter light./ To what and to whom does one say yes?”

Great work makes you think.
Cheap tix. New plays. Lots to see.
Well done, New York Fringe!

my computer is functioning fine
and while I’d love to blame my not promptly posting on wordpress, 
that’s not the truth, either.
I keep my promises. I don’t promise often. Easier that way.

But
a chance to audition for Oscar-winning director Steve McQueen
is an opportunity that comes along maybe once every 12 years…
So I made a compromise.
I went uptown writing along the way. All the way to 145th street, to be exact.

The line snaked for several Manhattan-sized city blocks.
I stood out. No, it wasn’t the poet glowing from within. Tho that didn’t hurt.
I was the only blonde. One of 3 females.
A rep looks at me and says, “I’m sure you’re very talented BUT I don’t think you could play an African-American male convincingly.”
I smile.
Fair enough. But to audition for Steve McQueen…
“The notice said, ALL people welcome and I am a person.”
We both grinned.
“Misprint.” and seeing my disappointment added, “Unfortunately.”
Do I trust him? Is he speaking the truth?
“We are accepting drop-offs.” he encouraged me.
I look at the line snaking around the block. and another block. and another block. and still going…
Thanking him, I hand him my headshot and resume.

Today, my creative energy is better spent writing poetry.

I’ve never done wordpress, but for poetry, I’m willing to try. Should be interesting.

Beaming you all inspiration and encouragement – rock on!
jc