The Poetry Marathon

Wine is Food. Savor. Select.
Taste.
Enjoy.
Live.

Marshall, W. (2010). Introduction. In What’s a Wine Lover To Do? (p. Vi). New York, New York: Artisan.

Late at night, my flaws shine bright.
They magnify and become permanent convictions.
Conditions,
Apparitions.
Devotations.

Why can’t I wake and do, act, think, look as I want? Wish my worries and flaws away. Wish them away very hard.
Almost pray.
Don’t waste a prayer on something that won’t change.

Time flys:  Reading Facebook posts, waiting for the next prompt
Time flys: I can’t retain my thoughts long enough to get them on the page.
Time flys: John asks “You wanna go to bed or what?” I fantasize about saying yes to both.
Time flys: The bars are closed now.
Time flys: It confuses me to see posts about going to church in the morning but it’s the middle of the night.
Time flys: I love writing.

A little girl of almost nine,
Gets called to the Mother Superior’s office, with the rest of her family.
None of her brothers or sisters comply with the intercom request. They were never called to the office. They never got into trouble.
It’s a mistake, they think, telepathically. Mother Superior meant to call down a similar sounding Polish name.
We were told our neighbor will pick us up. We will meet our parents at a coffee shop.
There was a fire. No one was hurt. There was a fire. No one was hurt.
Thank God.
We live with our oldest brother’s family until our house is rebuilt. Fifteen people. Two bedrooms. One bathroom.
I no longer could complain of hand me down clothes and toys. I now had only charity clothes. There must have been toys. I don’t remember toys.
Fast forward forty-two years.
I attend a speaking engagement of John O’Leary’s.

Google him.

Gut-wrenching sobs for childhoods lost. Co-workers around the table, uncomfortably avoiding my eyes. Distancing themselves from me.
I wasn’t there. I wasn’t burned. Why are you crying? No one was hurt in your fire.

Material possessions are just immaterial.
Things are taken for granted in our lives of too muchness.

Until it isn’t there.

If I could save one thing from a fire., I would. It doesn’t matter what it is – it earns importance as a survivor of fire.

He stands defiant, a child without Hope
Everyone cares and no one is Kind
He’s alone, untrusting of Compassion
Demonstrating his artistic Rage
Lonely child full of Hate
Home is the comfort of other’s Disdain

Awaken by Disdain
Devoid of Hope
First to Hate
Keeps to his Kind
Full of Rage
Lack of Compassion

Show him Compassion
Free of Disdain
Calm his Rage
Show him Hope
Please be Kind
Reframe his Hate

We deserve his Hate
We expect Compassion
Him to be Kind
We show Disdain
And squash his Hope
While feeding his Rage

Igniting his Rage
Fueling hisHate
Killing his Hope
And Compassion
Promoting Disdain
Of his Kind

He tries to be Kind
Dampen his Rage
And Disdain
He buries his Hate
Tentative with Compassion
And Hope

Teaching him to be Kind, releasing his Hate
Letting go of Rage to make room for Compassion
Converting his Disdain into great Hope

The hour of recrimination and poltergeists
Relaxed on my cloud, tears seep from my eyes.

I don’t want to know what makes me sad
I want to ignore it.

Racing thoughts disappear and it’s a struggle to remember the details. Only shells of emotions are left.

I wander through their cave-like structures marveling how I have become quite talented at pretentiousness.

At our darkest times, I remind you that you love me. I know because you told me long ago.
You remember.
We try. Politeness courteousness finding our way back to each other. Through all of this, it never occurred to me that I could walk away
From my home and my life
It never occurred to me because you love me. I reminded you and you remember.
We are better together. Child-like adults, making adult decisions and treating each other like adults.
Growing hopes and gardens. Growing fatter and older. Growing together.

Who was the genius who believed
That art can be formed in the rhythm of time,
The rhyme of challenge.
Who is the genius who believes
That verse can flow through her fingers on demand.
Who is the genius who believes
That she can stay awake.

Neon ribbons through the darkened clouds
Staring through eyelid slits, ignoring the objects that are closer than they appear
Taking advantage of the loving support that provides, cleans and walks the dog so I can pursue my whims
I want a ukulele for our wedding anniversary. I want one for each of us.
I don’t know how to play
The tones please me, so I justify that if I don’t have a ukulele I will never have the chance.
I allow John to indulge me.
I allow others to see strengths that are illusions and I deem are realities.
Forgive me my selfishness.
I do not know how to be other.

Heartbeat.
Changes. Everything.

Terrifying dreams of what will become reality. What if I’m not good enough? Know enough? Quick enough?

Heartbeat. Changes. Everything.

Reality of what will become terrifying dreams.  What if we are not together? I leave? Send her away?

Heartbeat. Changes.
Everything.

Dreams of what will become terrifying reality.
What if she’s not alright? Something’s wrong with me? I don’t/can’t /won’t love enough?

Heartbeat.
Changes.
Everything.