The Poetry Marathon

Heatbeat. Heartbeat.

My brother – Sixteen years older than I

At 56 years, 6 months old:

Heartbeat. Heartbeat. End.

My sister – Thirteen years older than I

At 56 year, 6 months old:

Congestive heart failure

Mitro valve replacement

Transplant list

Heart and kidney transplant.

Heartbeat. Heartbeat.

My sister – Five years older than I

At 56 years, 6 months old:

Heartbeat. Heartbeat. End.

I am

At 55 years, 11 months old:

Writing this poem.

Heartbeat. Heartbeat.

Round up your GMO

With smoke and mirrors.

Un-natural nature enables

Chemical toxins to enter the food chain.

Normalizing cancers and disorders

Exploiting the exploitable

Corrupting the corruptible

Monopolizing the conversation

Sickening and weakening

Nature evolves slower

Than corporations make money.

Ed is an old man.

One hundred and seven  years old

Number one hundred and seven on the list

Coincidence?

Long since dead.

The median missing person from Michigan

From Centerline, Michigan

Coincidence?

Argued with his wife

Front door should be open

No closed.

He wanted it open

Coincidence?

Dear Lord, I’ve had this argument.

I don’t want to drive out of life

Like Ed did

In the middle of the summer

In the middle of an argument

Coincidence?

Don’t look for him in Canada

You won’t find him

The moon bleeds into the lake,

Whitening the soft ripples of black silk.

Under the canopy of stars

On this cloudless night,

He turns to me

The glow of love shines from his eyes.

The familiar sense of panic

Builds beneath my breastbone

I breathe to calm my quickened senses.

I tell myself,

“They are only some words.”

Lights and sounds strobe around me

Sleep deprivation creates phantoms flashes

Almost taking form

Like traffic speeding by

Eyes Open!

Awake!

I make myself small.

I make myself fade.

Heart racing

Mind numb

Calm and still

So no one notices

No one sees

No one hurts

Eyes Open!

Awake!

Unsafe to be here

I stand on shaky ground

Too tired to move.

Too scared to stay

I gather my things

And walk into the darkness.

Am I able to write a stream of consciousness?

A song of gratitude and thanks?

For a year ago, almost to the day,

Some Poets was born.

Creative, energetic talented poets

The world over

Soulmate whom I have never met

And, yet met

Only on higher planes of existence.

Bursting with the accomplishments of their epic feats of the

Marathon.

Determined,

Purposeful,

Intentional,

And Supportive.

Collectively

And Collaboratively

Engaged in a Multi-dimensional,

Multi-generational,

Multi-international,

Project of

Creating,

Writing,

Illustrating,

Editing

Publishing

19,571 Words.

Senses struggle to resist

The chance to explode

To become one with the divinity that surrounds,

Envelops,

Embraces.

The deafening rings of the muted sounds of nature,

Save for the sounds of

Breaths,

Footfalls

There is only solitude.

Whispers of the slow moving river

and the humming insects.

Eyelids close,

Having had their fill of beauty.

The clear waters leave a question as to its frigid depth.

My head bows,

In humility at the omnipresence of the snow-capped mountains.

Everything is in balance.

A child built a boat                                                                                                            To race to his island
Yes, to race to his island
The child made a boat of glue

To race to his island
Made of paper mache
The child made a boat of glue
The boat sailed away

Made of paper mache
A child built a boat
The boat sailed away
Yes, to race to his island

A light breeze cools the hazy summer sky.

Green, choppy waters dance a lively two-step with the small fishing boat

As she heads out into the lake.

A new rod and reel to count how many feet of fishing line are let out

When trolling for walleyes.

Trolling takes patience and a brightly colored lure

No fish yet.

Why isn’t there a bobber?

We aren’t bobber fishing.

How about jigging?

No. The lure does the work.

Another pass. Another.

I look at the houses of rich people,

Thinking it’s funny they have to wash all those windows

So they have a clear view of me

Waiting to catch fish.

Big boats slam the waves,

Smacking them and pushing them towards us.

A couple of snags and a small rock bass.

Oh, and an old lure caught in the weeds.

Heading for shore.

No fish today.

Only a boat ride.

I am alone in a sea of people.  Laughter and voices lap at my body like waves of foam that surround me in all directions, bursting onto my consciousness that is already dripping and soaked in isolation. Flooded with emotions, the sea overwhelms me, making it impossible for me to speak, to hear, to see.  Only can I feel with too much force – messages garbled, perceptions blurred.  The tide rises, and I am adrift. No longer in control, I gasp for breath and blindly search for the rope that leads to both my anchor and my lifeline.

The sea calms and ebbs.                                                                                                          I see you through tears and smile.                                                                                          We’ve passed through the storm.