The Poetry Marathon

Mount Olive, Part II

Now that Covid has hit, the sign has changed.

No longer hiring sales professionals.

In need of groundskeepers. To rake the grass,

to dig the holes, to lay the bodies down.

To hold the hearts of families and people

forgotten, plastic flowers covering,

littering, marking their lonely, unkempt graves.

Tang

When I kiss you I taste Tang,

the bitter sweetness lighting

up my lips, my tongue. Memories

of an old you play in my mind.

But that you really wasn’t

you. It was him, before

he left and took my heart

with him hundreds of miles.

The Tang on your mouth tastes

like his old cigarettes,

sticky lip-gloss, and music

playing way too loud as wind

brushed hair against our cheeks.

I kiss you and remember

who we were: the best

of friends, lovers meant to be.

When I vacuum, I sing

worship songs, praises to God, wishes

for another life, a life that won’t fall

apart with every turn, every look,

every glance in another direction.

A better life. I sing for mercy,

for love that swells, swirls the heart

until it bursts, leaving me a fragment

of who I was, who I am, a flame

of who I will be. With the rumble,

all I have to do is sing.

Daddy’s Fixing a Pocketknife

He stands in the kitchen and twists

the screw that holds the blade in place.

He hunches over, the glasses

that magnify firmly on nose,

and drives it as delicately

as a dancer. His hand pliés

and pirouettes near the blade

never losing balance. He stops,

looks at me, and sighs, wanting to teach

me a dance I never want to learn.

The Hiker

When the sun gleams against the mountains, the birds begin to glow,

singing sons of innocence. Squirrels frolic in the heat,

toppling on one another, dancing to their own beat. A row

of ants climb up, up, up, trading coarseness of bark for coolness (the chill)

of fresh morning leaves. Dew dries away, fog begins to form,

the sun creates a whole new world, ready to explore. Warm

air rises fast from heavy lungs as the hiker climbs the hill,

he looks to the tress and smiles. A brand new day, a fresh start.

He removes his jacket and his bag, places them on the leaves.

He watches the sun rise in the sky, dangle above the trees,

knowing it will only last moments before having to part.

Mommy’s Cooking Soup

Better Than Bouillon boils in the pot, waiting

for Mommy to stir. She twists the spoon in her hand,

grazing scraped metal, watching for the water

to pop!, for the vegetables to rise and fall, waves

raging against the sea, reaching for the sky.

I don’t tell her I hate the sound of the spoon

crawling across the pot, metal on metal,

sloshing the contents until they gurgle.

I smile and nod, watch her stir, hover

over the heat like it’s her purpose in life.

This is my third year doing the marathon. The marathons of 2017 and 2019, though, had a core focus. This year, however, those focuses have melted away, leaving nothing behind. And as I sat and wondered what in the world was going to be my muse, I realized something. This year, it’s all for me. I’m my own muse. It’s my turn. My turn to work through who I am, my turn to find out who I am, my turn to really soar and churn in my heart all the things that need to be churned. This year, this marathon is all for the jumbled mess that is me — no outside influences needed. 2020 isn’t the year of the other people in my life, 2020 is the year for me. So here goes nothing.

God speed and Gd bless. We all got this, together. One poet to another.

Still

I want you as the morning stills, birds not

yet singing their songs, clouds still unformed, hiding

beneath the red horizon, waiting.

I want you as the noon shines down, blaring

like a trumpet’s call, paws and feet pounding

against the soft and hardened ground.

I want you as the sky turns to gray turns

to black, and stars begin to swirl, as the dust settles

for the night, ready to rise again day after day.

Mount Olive

I saw a sign at the graveyard, Now Hiring:

Sales professional. But who would want to work

there knowing you’re the cause of more Dad,

you’re the coolest balloons floating in the wind?