The Poetry Marathon

Vibrant colors

Colors, chosen with care

Care given to painting

Painting a silly birdbath

Birdbath for the garden

Garden abundant with colors

Colors, patterned hues

Hues to help distract me

Me from having to wait

Wait for news of a baby

Baby thoughts in my head

Head bowed while painting

Painting the birdbath bowl

Bowl of vibrant colors

Colors of confetti

Confetti baths

Baths for the birds.

Iridescent, invisible strands

of webbing are affixed to

the taillight and bumper

of the old car in the space next to mine.

The round brown body of the small spider

patrols the web

looking for passengers

or any others

waiting for a ride.

Original line is from Howl, by Carl Ginsberg: “who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish”

I cannot tell you how or who

creates poetry out of the scribbled,

mush-mashed ramblings told by all.

I cannot tell you day or night

of the rhythmic, deafening rocking

of time as I waited for you and

in that moment, angrily rolling

in our bed, with the sheet over

my eyes and ideals, be they lofty

or just simply the incantations

that clear my mind of whose or which

still too angry to truly speak in

harsh prose.  Stammering over the

anger to get past the golden yellow,

to start the new morning

no longer ‘we are’, but now ‘were’

forming meaning from stanzas

that cut brutally short of

creatively giving love or worth to gibberish.

My baby girl, full of Grace
strong, beautiful, radiant.
Seeing past the pain
until
it overwhelms and engulfs once more.

My baby girl, full of Grace,
trying to breathe
trying to calm
until
she can rest, but not progress.

My baby girl, full of Grace
trying so hard,
over time and pain
until
there is progress with no results

My baby girl, full of Grace
given an emotional decision
without food or sleep
until
she chooses the necessary, but not emergency

My baby girl, full of Grace,
until
her baby, beautiful Grace
open eyed, ready to be
In her arms and heart.

Already the pressure is felt,
seeping into the corners,
the crevices of my mind.
I cannot speak, or act or write.

Thinking becomes short
pressed between breaths
unchained thoughts
without anchor and purpose.

Bleary, unfocused sight
calm, yet angry movements
stalk my memories,
allowing decisions to cycle once more.

After the long journey through the night

through the ink black of northern Wisconsin,

through the AM stations crackling polka tunes.

began the Minnesota mornings

of misty rivers and dewy fields,

sleepy cattle at peace in the meadows.

Tired, squished and impatient children

wanting release from the cramped station wagon

on our way to the Farm.

Our young and tired eyes

kept peeled for a glimpse of Paul Bunyon

or his equally elusive blue ox, Babe.

Past the town where they blasted rice and corn

out of a cannon to make breakfast cereal

on our way to the Farm.

Childhood vacations at Grandma and Grandpa’s.

Days and nights filled with nothing but

– Picking raspberries,

– Finding kittens in the grainery,

– Hide and seek in the arboretum

– Exploring the outbuildings and barn

– Finding bones in the farthest rock pile

– Swimming at the quarry

– Counting shooting stars

– Dancing in the northern lights

– Playing cards

– Figuring out if the electric fence was on

off.

Near, although several miles away.

where Herbie’s bar burned to the ground this year

generations of memories, now smoke.

Where the Church can seat a thousand,

and the population is three hundred, fifty-six.

Where cousins live

and family is buried.

On our way to the Farm

Please introduce yourself
Among the poets here
Among the new friends
We have yet to meet.

Please introduce yourself
Tell us who
Tell us where
And especially tell us why.

Please introduce yourself
Give us a tiny glimpse
Of you, as a poet
You, as yourself.

Please introduce yourself
Let us welcome you
Read your poems
And, above all, understand.

Viewed from above,

the beauty of the ocean is a lie

that stretches as far as the eye can see.

A painting or a photo: flat and continuing past the frame’s edge.

Hidden from above,

the beauty of the ocean revealed.

Reflecting sunlight conceals the cold dark waters

Deceiving foam masks the rocky crags and coral shoals.

Shimmering waves, inviting and serene,

Fooling us from above,

The pounding force cannot be seen or heard.

Blindly seeing the countryside

as it speeds by.

The rhythmic swaying of the train car

crowded wth the distance between the passengers.

Short phrases in foreign tongues

add another blanket to the isolation,

enveloping me in my silent desperation.

As I lean my forehead on the cool window,

the train slows its arrival to the station,

As if it teases me with expectant hope.

My longing is as effective as paralysis,

while passengers come alive,

gathering their belongings to depart –

to become –

where they belong.

To no avail, I seek a hint on the station platform.

Resigned to what will not be, I slowly exhale a frosty breath.

Woodenly, I raise my finger to draw my heart on the transparent canvas.

My small and beating heart,

alone, for him to notice.

Silently pleading, “find me.”

You see yourself above me,

like wind in Starry, Starry Night.

You see yourself as my support,

the earth, dry and warm,

You see yourself as needed,

life giving water, quenching my thirst.

You see yourself as passionate,

with a fire dangerously close.

I see you as elementally different

needed and wanted more than hoped.

Elementally different,

life forces throughout my days –

I learn to accept and accommodate

and have and live with you.

Elemenatlly different,

life forces throughout my nights –

I learn to accept and accommodate

and have and love with you.