The Poetry Marathon

Hour Seventeen

I am convinced
flies have genetic memory
to the swatter-
dashing through the air
landing upon
naked skin crawling
a constant hum of buzzing
afflicting my quiet.

I pick up the swatter
and the nerve-grinding melody ceases.
I scan the room and cajole them
out from hiding,
eyes narrowed in annoyance
and after a few moments of pause,
I set it down and go about my way.

Preoccupied with my current task,
I forget their existence
and venture further off into my own world
when it so happens to flirt about,
bouncing like a pinball
off surfaces and my being
in an angry squabble of
buzzing interfere to the depths of my thought-
an annoying static-
and disappears.

I bat them off and shrug them away
shooting daggers from my eyes
my features contorted by
my grievance.
I pick up the swatter
and they disperse-
the army of black flies
going AWOL in their defense.

I set it down slowly,
mindful of their presence
and threat to concentration.
One lands upon the table in front of me
zipping along zig-zagged lines
teasing me with it’s curious presence.
I hold tight the handle and slowly raise
holding it aloft like Anne Wilkes
as their number one fan
and blessed is the silence.

Hour Seventeen

I am convinced
flies have genetic memory
to the swatter-
dashing through the air
landing upon
naked skin crawling
a constant hum of buzzing
afflicting my quiet.

I pick up the swatter
and the nerve-grinding melody ceases.
I scan the room and cajole them
out from hiding,
eyes narrowed in annoyance
and after a few moments of pause,
I set it down and go about my way.

Preoccupied with my current task,
I forget their existence
and venture further off into my own world
when it so happens to flirt about,
bouncing like a pinball
off surfaces and my being
in an angry squabble of
buzzing interfere to the depths of my thought-
an annoying static-
and disappears.

I bat them off and shrug them away
shooting daggers from my eyes
my features contorted by
my grievance.
I pick up the swatter
and they disperse-
the army of black flies
going AWOL in their defense.

I set it down slowly,
mindful of their presence
and threat to concentration.
One lands upon the table in front of me
zipping along zig-zagged lines
teasing me with it’s curious presence.
I hold tight the handle and slowly raise
holding it aloft like Anne Wilkes
as their number one fan
and blessed is the silence.

Hour Sixteen

Sequestered away in fear
like a deer in the headlights,
wide-eyed at the atrocities
of human nature.
I once wore a misanthropic hat
lined with burs of Burdock
that clung to the scalp
ripping out my hair in chunks.
My experience with humankind
taught me in years past
that love equates pain
and is tantamount to hate.
Images of the evil and suffering
that filtered out hope
replacing it with depictions of abject terror
of the propensity of human error
and the clouded expressions
and dire tones speaking
in monotone at every media outlet
regurgitating the vomitous acts
of those negligent and self-serving,
thoughtless and Godless
stomping through this world
with entitlement creasing their stature
branding themselves with a beastly mark.

I had closed my doors,
donned my hat,
and sat in muted silence
waiting for life to pass-
the self-proclaimed hermit
cantankerous and disillusioned
to faith or hope or the dream of being loved
and having someone to love purely in return.
I devoted myself to silence, learning,
a detective in search of an absent
realization that I would soon learn.
What I had learned at first
was how so quickly the heinous
rebellion of humans
had overridden the softness of humanity-
the fragility and fleeting existence
forgotten of how precious it is
by hardened hearts.
It was within the stillness
I realized that, I too, had hardened
and by blockading myself from
the outside world,
I posed no threat to the avarice
that exists outside my doors.
How broken and cutthroat
we all have become-
ignoring a problem
instead of facing it head-on.

It was the I decided
to open the floodgates of compassion
the windows of empathy,
and the doors to the opportunities
to create a small corner-
a hearth to warm the hearts and hands
of those passerbys-
to offer shelter in an absorbent shoulder
catching tears in my palm as though my own
as I allow myself to feel their pain with them
and wipe away what I can with kind words
and heartfelt gestures.
No longer adding to the problem-
I hung up the misanthropic hat
and warmed myself by the fires
of humanity’s potential.

Hour Fifteen 11:11

I once had a friend named Bitterness
whose caustic nature ate away
at the very core of my being.
Memories, a swampland I slogged through
with years of mud caked to
the tattered soul at my feet
while Bitterness urged me toward my defeat.
The pain, a prickly blanket
tearing at the flesh of my persona-
souring the taste I once had
for the life of present or future.
Bitterness took my hand
and led me down the
dark recesses of my past
with empty tables and empty glasses
and food that sustained my ashen tongue
that did nothing but articulate
my fragmented heart and destitution of life.
A mere existence of breath
and rapid heartbeat
pounding out of breath
as the well of optimism ran dry-
thus dehydrated pleasantries
clung to the surface of a parched soul
like the remnants of an ancient banana
clinging to the stillness of a table-
the former fruit of my labors of kindness.
Biting the bit in which Bitterness led me,
it cajoled me to linger within
dusty hallways of
what might have been
and the cumbersome load of
what if’s spurning another
onset of optimistic senility
stunting growth and movement.
Chained to the ground-
burdened by the perceived slights
and desperate attempts to
condemn my heart to a
purgatory of charcoal existence.

When one day, Grace and Mercy appeared,
their blinding light cutting through the
melancholic shadows
spotlighting my wounds.
Their illumination an antiseptic
stinging like nettles
burrowing within the fleshy bits
of wounds ages old
that had not yet healed properly.
Layers of scab grew up on scab
with each turn in the past
they caught up on the amassing agony
tearing on the edges like paper.
They plucked the darkness from me-
hushing the protests of Bitterness
and it reluctantly stepped aside and back.
As years of pain and trauma that had
grown like a cancer onto my countenance,
Grace and Mercy, with delicate touch
and a hush of love to quiet my cries
exhaled a breath of life into
the cancerous unhealed darkness
and it shrank at the warmth,
skulking away in a huff of offense
and shaking with fear
at the strength I had to slip
from the evil of it’s gnarled grasp.
The two new friends with the touch of warmth
defrosted the icy bits of me
that had caused me to grow hard,
reminding me of what it’s like to feel soft
and that those who inflicted pain
also suffer from the same ailment as I.
With a smile, they sat with me
threading a needle each to
bind the wounds-
covering them in a poultice of
God’s word and refreshing my memory
of His love and the sacrifice made-
of a love that covers a multitude of sin
and from Him,
my healing begins
and is completed, creating a whole me
as opposed to the fractioned self
Bitterness encouraged me to be.
My resolve resurrected as He is,
I’m ushered to continue my path
leading out from the darkness
of a perpetual death
and into the light of day.
For the sun shines upon Him
as He leads the way-
To be forgiven one must forgive
He states,
so Bitterness had no choice
but to walk away.

Hour Fourteen (The Other Side of the Coin)

They pay it forward
and press upon the smalls of backs
urging one to continue-
they hush the noise of conflict
and like lampposts, guide the way
with experience latched to their backs
and wisdom tucked into perception.
They offer a myriad of alternative views
and are skilled in the fine art of
objectivity.
No pandering to ego
or caressing it with tender hands-
instead, massage the aches from one’s soul
from the battlements of life
that cause one to stumble.

Beautiful souls edged with lace ribbing
with hearts tucked under sleeves
overflowing with insight and prophecy
and clever things to assist one’s growth.
Each a cornerstone to a futuristic humanity
with well-intended natures-
that laugh, cry, and feel offense
to the slight of the less fortunate.
They offer dishes of kindness
freshly baked with care of creation,
a welcoming aroma that sates the hunger.
A spray a cool watered sentiments
washing the dust and eggshells from feet,
humbling themselves as it is understood
that we all fall short-
we all climb mountains-
and with their expertise
of the perils that lay ahead,
they assist others on their journey
so none would fall the same.

They console the lonesome and distraught
with encouraging concern
and their words and prayers
create the steps and anchors
that keep us all in the right.
“Keep going,” they say
their voices a golden fluid
rich with heartfelt sentiments
that embrace the shaking shoulder sobs
of the lost and confined
while straightening their crowns.

Yes, the kindness of strangers
surpasses expectations
an overflowing waterfall of human decency
shouldering the burdens
of other’s calamity with compassion.
The woes in hearts burst with new life
from cauterized wounds of days past,
with gratitude, a confetti
of sparkling examples of how
humanity is intended to
treat itself as a collective-
with dignity, understanding,
and respect for life.
The extravagant diamond souls
that grace this planet, but for a time-
chisel away at our sculptured selves
the harsh edges that slice through us
and polish the bitterness from our housing.
For the kindness of strangers
desire nothing in return
but to shine together.

Hour Thirteen (One Side of a Coin) 11:11

Cracking the shell of identity
tiptoe down the minefield
of popular opinion –
to where even the waters
of emotion are infiltrated
by metallurgic constructs
intended to eviscerate
the existence of personal desire
and choice.
Mindful and with agile movements,
slink through with nimble reflexes
in one’s pursuit of happiness.
Bone white shells empty
of the embryotic components
of the potential future life-
exiled into the bellies of opinion
and methods with which to avoid
the tripwire –
of enemy landmines shrouded in rubble.

There is no map
or destination set-
just a juggernaut tumbling
through an emotional gauntlet.
The eggshells tossed haphazardly
like a Rorschach test
that can never be passed,
despite it’s obvious intent
of metaphorical subjectivity.
Jutting edges crushed under
bare feet bearing the
teeth marks of projected shame-
a shaking of heads
knitting sweaters on brows.
Bottles swing over barstools
with inebriated idle passing curiosity
and drunk from the power of influence
well-intended or otherwise
and then…

…another explosion
rapping like an unwanted guest
at the door to the outlook of destination-
inner monologue, a stammer
tripping over the vice grips
of crowd control.
The sting of well-intentioned advice
some, averting a potential threat-
others a lead to cause to question
whether shadenfreude the main pursuit.
Listen to the click and clatter of
shell casings within a
machine gun spray of
yes’s and no’s
stops and go’s.
Pulse cocking back the hammer
filleting the insides of my chest
with the knockback
as yet another dull crack
rips open the firmament-
a delayed response to prospective dreams,
conquests, and purpose.
Feet enshrouded with padded guilt
tripping over thoughts and decisions
balking at every opportunity
before another rumble from
the bowels of misstep-
the punishment, a barrage
of cut-downs with the crowd’s arsenal
of serrated objection.

Walk upon the balls of feet,
slipping upon the curvature
massaging the arch of back of yet
another stumbling block-
each movement tentative
until one considers the subtle
voice of truth whispered
in spiritual ears that can become muffled
by the sounds of a silent roar-
a clamor of impression.
Indentations pressed with nails to palm.

When one finds stillness within oneself
the noise becomes muted
like cotton on a speaker.
Whisper a response to that voice
a prayer for clarity and confidence.
Steady the swallow of breath
catching like a love knot
within one’s throat
tied up and twisted
until intuition and discernment unravels
the barbed-wire chokehold
and watch as personal truth
and decision-God’s voice and timing
smooths out the path.

Hour Twelve

Pause and reflect
for cause and effect.
They ask me to wait
as I watch the hands
of a clock hold time
more than I have been-
no rush, just wait
biding my time
in the midst of rhyme
They tell me, “Wait.”
For the next season.
The next opportunity.
For the next day.

Wait…

…on the Lord, I say
as the pieces to God’s puzzle
fall into place-
I wait.

Hour Eleven

How many grains of sand on a beach?
How many minds can one teach?
How many atoms make up this land?
How often should each soul lend a hand?
How many leaves fall in the autumn?
How many have been beaten down by criticism?
How many planets and stars in the ‘verse?
How many dandelion puffs disperse?
How many words describe my heart?
How many times does one restart?
How many days have you loved me?
How many hours spent daydreaming?
How many years should one spend in lack?
How many whispers behind the back?
How many eyes gloss over a person?
How many instances should be allowed to worsen?
How many raindrops imprint the earth?
How many return home to the hearth?
How many snowflakes build up the drifts?
How many times does the world and societies shift?
What digits constitute the number “a lot”?
Quantifying the total would be a longshot.

Hour Ten Kyrielle form

Will you still say you love me when
the fall of age when it begins
and when my waist is out of place
upon my features will you trace

The outline of my eyes that look
like jeweled sunflowers pressed in books.
When crows land upon corners lace
your fingertips will you then trace

The sculpture of my body when
the folds of skin need a surgeon
will it be my heart you’ll still chase?
Your eyes, will they then leave a trace

Of true unconditional love
the kind that spreads wings of a dove
locks of silver- an age-old grace
upon my features, will you trace?

Hour Nine Dansa form

Think Twice before you burn the bridge
or one must learn to swim
in a stalemate none can win
unless the slights one acknowledge
for a new start to begin
before you burn the bridge.

Think Twice before you burn the bridge
or fashion yourself a boat
and sail back to where hope does float
before you burn that bridge.

Think Twice before you burn the bridge
For there’s no traveling to the past
Time moves forward with no room for ash
when you burn that bridge.