The Poetry Marathon

Dove Chocolates

I hid the bag, knowing it was there
second shelf of the pantry behind
the box of stale crackers no one wants.
But still I left it there, waiting, waiting
for a time when need was greater
than patience.

I knew this day would be blazing
with stress so I rescued the bag
yesterday and put it on my desk.
So far today, which has morphed
into tomorrow, I haven’t opened
the bag.

But time is not playing fair, stress
is building like a skyscraper, so
I deserve one. And besides,
the foil wrapper has inspirations
printed on them that I could write
a poem from. I peel the foil slow
so as not to tear it, pop the square
into my mouth, savor that first
smooth melting.

I flatten the foil and read
Joy is contagious.
Ok, I agree but I am not inspired by it.
I countermine the thought of another, yet
find it open in my hand, dark chocolate
square a nub of deliciousness and read
Find holiday magic in all things.

I sense a theme here, check the bag,
good until December, still 6 months
away, no festive pictures on the bag;
not stale, they are as decadent as
I remember.

Without warning, another
Bring in the holiday together
and here I have to gather willpower, seal
the bag and wonder what holiday together
with whom?

Not as inspirational as I’d hoped, but
an intoxicating, delectable, wanton way
to de-stress. Ok, maybe just one more
if I can unwrap the layers of packing tape
I wound around it, unstick the super glue,
and remove staples without stabbing myself.

On second thought, the bag is already sealed
and it will stay fresh until December.
Yeah, let’s see how long that will last.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 24

Midnight Poetry

Desire takes me to a galaxy of stars,
newborns, not yet named,
and I can only hover in waiting.

Desire guides me down a mountain
landscaped with still-life moments
I’ve nearly forgotten; my brow collages
with a sweaty yearning I cannot control.

Desire refuses to allow me to stop
on my journey to fall into an abyss
of grief, a bier of stones rises from the pit
of my stomach to lodge in my drybed throat,
choking me.

Desire drives me to you, pulls over
at the curb and throws me to the street.
I crawl to your door, pound to let me in,
let me be all that you need, one more chance,
but your chilling indifference sends me back
to the stars, calling me to name them after you.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 23

Dear Karma

Trust that I believe in you
fear your power to know all,
define everything I have ever
thought, done, expected.
I bow to you, Karma.

I pray every day that
my fate lies safe in your hands,
I look for happy rebirths as
my intents are good
and so my karma is good.

I also believe that you
will protect me from those
who wish me harm, or disease,
or dead. I beg you, keep them
away from me.

Punish them tenfold
for their misdeeds, thoughts,
and intents. Boomerang their
greed, jealousy, and avarice
back at them ten times over.

Yes, I do trust you to do
right by me, Karma. I know
you are busy. But, I think
you’ve forgotten a few people.
Here’s a list.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 22

Water Water
a haiku sequence

stormy weather
for the first day of summer
perhaps a bad omen

rain pelts gardens
tender annuals just planted
float in rivulets

I quell maternal instincts
for fledglings fighting
for a chance to bloom

lightning strikes a tree
on the next block, a sizzle
the power goes out

hum rain rain go away
does nothing to ease
my ire or the downpour

thunder rumbles once
rain stops, a peek of sun
parts empty clouds

lights blink on off on
step out in tall boots
survey the damage done

I pat mud down around
plant stems, hope they will
survive their drenching

sun radiates full power
beds soak up water
the day turns steamy

weather forecasts
high heat all week – sigh
I’ll have to water the garden

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 21

Chalices

Trumpet vines in the church gardens,
a halo of orange over the St Francis statue
where I converse with Dad on Sundays and
Holy Days. Birds hover on the fence, wait
to bless themselves in the font below the
Saint’s feet. Cabbage white butterflies
flit from trumpet to trumpet, collecting
their sacrament of nectar.

Light breezes carry the voice of angels
humming a choir of hymns, their wings
ruffle leaflets of rose bushes burgeoning
heavy heads of blooms; they bow under
their own weight, kneel to scatter velvet
petals to an altar of impatiens below.

A butterfly, feet sticky with pollen,
lands in the chalice of St Francis’ hand,
wings beat a slow hallelujah, graceful
takeoff, visitations to all the blossoms.

I chuckle, look up to heaven, tell my dad
his gardening skills have improved,
the flowers are breathtaking, the birds,
bees, and butterflies languish in gratitude.
I feel his soft reply on my cheek, barely
felt, but I know his hands held mine,
clasped in prayer.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 20

Understory

This morning I fell in love
with the Tropical Rainforest shower gel
I bought yesterday in the dollar store.
No mind to curtains of snow falling
outside my bathroom window, I was
transported through the steamy veil
to stand beneath a misty canopy of trees,
caw caw of birds, screech of monkeys
trapezing from limb to limb, air heavy
with humidity as I inhale the heady scent
of jasmine and mango.

I step into the spray, my feet hover
over a floor of ferns and loam adapted
to low light. I shiver in sheer delight.
A lustless devoid of compromise, and
lacking a vow of monogamy, I revel in
the freedom to bask in naked admiration
of a scented mirage.

Tomorrow, I may find myself falling
for the new and improved polar mint
fresh taste of toothpaste…

how I love falling
in love.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 19

Muted

Finally, the pandemic is loosening its grip
on our lock-downed lives, stores and offices
opening, events dormant for nearly two years
reappear, though it is a slow process.

Zoom hit its peak, now people prefer
in-person to virtual. Muted becomes a joke played
and replayed to sniggers and chuckles.
Variations of You’re Muted and Unmute Yourself
celebrate a closing of the covid cocoon we’ve
been living in.

But for me, I want to start a new trend.
Mute Yourself every time someone complains
about not needing to wear a mask. Enough of
the masks already, accept that we are moving
forward with or without you.

And for those conspiracy theory spreaders,
convinced that the government is injecting
us with drones to control our minds, please
mute yourself.

And while we’re at it, your constant complaints
about your little aches and pains are giant aches
to our ears. Get over it, take a pill and please
mute yourself.

Whining about the weather will not change it.
It’s cold, hot, often somewhere in between.
If you haven’t adjusted by now, do it.
In the interim, please mute yourself.

Yes, I like this new trend. Polite, not
your/my typical shut up already, with or
without the addition of two key words.
Lastly, think about things that cause you
annoyance, make you want to grumble,
groan, moan, squeak, squeal, or screech,
please refrain; instead, mute yourself.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 18

Manipulated

Day did its job well,
the chore of lighting alleys,
brightening dark corners,
moving clouds and pedestrians
through their errands and obligations.

Sometimes, the day drizzles
a suggestion to focus on the task
at hand, sometimes downpours
a warning to step up, keep up
with your prayers.

In winter, day reminds us
of all we push aside, almost
forgotten, moments banked
in silence as flakes fall,
introspections, reflections.

Night flexes in the wings
waiting for a chance to shroud us
in dark despair, reveals that day
will never shine again, kidnapped
and wrapped in black velvet.

Stars know where Sun is hidden
but they won’t shine an answer;
they can rule beside Moon both
night and day. They’ve threatened
clouds to stay quiet or else.

Day manipulated by night,
Sun spurned by Moon, the planets
out of orbit, the galaxies tipped
off-kilter, darkness reigns the world.
We are imprisoned on our own planet.

Plants wither and die, no crops to feed
the world; children pale, restricted to
stay in, too dark to play outside.
Humans become ghostly apparitions,
traveling in flashlight beams.

Mother Nature appeals to Moon,
to stars and clouds; Father Time
chimes in to propose a compromise.
Sun will reign day but Moon will
gain extra time each cycle.

Night is delighted to hear this plan,
agrees to release Sun in the morning.
Mother Nature and Father Time
rejoice, secreting that there will be
no extra time for a night.

Moon is manipulated by an empty
promise but he doesn’t care. All this
shining 24 hours is too much work.
When day breaks at dawn, he’ll settle
in for his much-needed beauty sleep.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 17

Disorder

It only happens in the dark,
fragments of thoughts lose breath,
the voice of undone tasks relents,
filaments of the day break off to
tumble in freefall, rest begins,

but that’s when we intervene,
grasping at things we need to release,
sleep eluding us while the brain
stokes the coals and fires up
to keep us alert when the body
slumps in exhaustion.

A disordered file of what to keep
and what to let go of churns
virtual pages of notes jotted
in margins of books, on pay stubs,
in banks of computers in our brains.

Why do we have such a hard time
letting go of the day’s crumbs,
leftovers that will be stale
by morning when we will still
be awake and groggy?

Imagine the things we release
piled a foot high, the burden
gone from our brain, trash can
packed to the lid and put
at the curb til morning. Now
see the small satchel of things
we keep, zipped and stored
under the bed until we need them.

Disorder reordered… sleep.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 16

Best Buddies

Scribbles and Wiggles
are best friends;
they go everywhere together.

Wiggles carries Scribbles
on his back, and Scribbles
pretends to be a cowboy.

Wiggles whinnies
Scribbles shimmies
and both fall over laughing.

Scribbles wants to go to the lake
but Wiggles can’t swim, so
Scribbles draws them a raft.

Wiggles climbs on
Scribbles steers and they both
have a fantabulous day.

Scribbles likes to invent
wild stories and Wiggles
listens with gleeful attention.

Scribbles holds the pen
while Wiggles wriggles it —
that’s how they write their tales.

~ J R Turek
June 26, 2021 Hour 15