The Poetry Marathon

Ingredients:

1. A book off the bestseller list or just something from the $1.00 bookshelves. Anything will do.
2. “The Big Three.” Otherwise known as your trusty beach umbrella, chair, and sunglasses.

[Sunscreen is optional as it could stain the pages of your book]

3. An endless amount of sand under your toes
4. The sun burning hot on a cloudless day
5. Ocean waves rolling endlessly before you

Instructions:

1. Put on your sunglasses.
2. Scour the beach for the perfect place. I suggest one near a lifeguard. When asleep or engrossed in your book, you may not see the tide rising. It is best to play it safe.
3. After reaching the perfect place, bury your umbrella in the sand. I suggest anchoring it securely so that it does not blow away. If that occurs, it will ruin the ambiance created due to the frustration brought on by chasing your umbrella across the beach.
4. After securing your umbrella, set your chair directly towards the ocean. I suggest an unobstructed view of the water for maximum relaxation.
5. After the chair is to your liking, sit in the chair and adjust yourself so that your body is out of direct contact with the sun. I suggest you watch your feet, as they always seem to inch out into the sunlight and become sunburned.
6. Now, bury your toes in the sand and squirm your derriere until you are most comfortable.
7. Pick up your book and beginning reading.
8. Let yourself drift away into endless euphoria.
9. Repeat as needed.

Alice has seven sons,

but six are actually hers.

I just include myself,

seeing that I am the one

she calls whenever she needs

something “important” done.

Number 1 in her heart;

number 1 on her speed dial.

Master of nothing, I’m a jack of all trades.

“Just Google it and get me a hammer.”

Doctor, gardener, poet, psychologist,

pool boy, chauffeur, secretary, chef,

friend, personal trainer, greeter, host,

beach buddy, delivery man, lifeguard.

The list goes on

like a rollercoaster without an end.

We often finish each other’s sentences,

and we accept the never-ending salad bowl at

Olive Garden as a challenge.

She loves Shakespeare, lasagna, and

“It’s to die for,”

is uttered after almost every desert.

I hope I have her energy when I hit 80.

Just talking with her can make me exhausted.

Everyone needs an Alice,

because she makes life go on

with laughter and love.

I sit alone in the darkness,

tossed in without a prompt

by those damned judges

in their fine black robes.

Fettered to the wall,

all I hear is the swish

as the pendulum drops.

Panic sets in as time ticks away.

Confusion clouds my brain.

I am in the depths of despair.

Crying, pleading, shrieking, flailing,

until I realize by the stench that

others have been here before me.

I grope the littered floor for any

scrap of paper and writing utensil.

My hand stumbles onto a stub of a pencil

and a crumpled piece of paper.

The swishing sound of the pendulum

increases,

and I can feel the breeze it creates.

I scribble faster trying to scrawl

a couplet containing a coherent thought.

As the blade brushes my shoulder,

Poem #1 falls

unfinished

from my hand

lost forever

before I could even begin.