The Poetry Marathon

I wish my name was Lucy.

Beautiful red hair and tiny waist.
I have some ‘splaining to do.
Mouth and breasts full of chocolaty bon-bons.
I can dance.
I make my best friend get into shenanigans with me.
If only my name was Lucy.

Recharging my mind.
Warding off doubt and negativity.
I dream in metered verse,
Only to find
my words leave me,
Replaced by visions that do not contribute to my well-being.
Unfit slumber leaves me.
I am awake once more.

Lain in barren soil,
The curious seed opens
To life – come what may.

Birds on winged flight.
Unseen wind lifts and carries,
Suspended in time.

Our lovely and brilliant creativity has met a most unbecoming fate.
She is dying.
The suspect, it seems, is a succubus, using her vitality and strength in adversity against the unsuspecting among us.
We erode, our minds blank.
We can’t remember usernames or passwords. Please help us!
What time is it? Does time matter in limbo? It does matter. There is an app to help us understand, to start, to keep on track.
It’s hard when it is only around the world and 24 hours. Time puzzles away my creativity and I’m stumped.
How do I post?
Cutting and pasting seemed the preferred method.
The personal preference is draft and publish.
What in the world of creativity does tags and prompts have to do with anything?
The pen slips in, just a little deeper. The slicing silence sickening. Think.
Think. Think.
Happy and encouraging Facebook posts are counterintuitive to the surrendering to the solitude of death.
If you quit, are you still in the group? Do you exist differently.

Give me a sign!

Leaves and grass
Kitchen scraps
Sawdust, chicken shit mixed with bio char
Old horse manure and peat moss
Keep turning it over with my own compost
Bags of leaves in the fall
Turn it over and over every day
It will be ready next year

I don’t recognize anything.
Have I been on this road before?
Why does it look so different?
What the hell is that smell?
It isn’t even seventy degrees out.
It will be a great trip, if this smell goes away.
I hope we get to internet soon.
Is that commercial? Am I a sell out?
Listening to an oldies station that plays music from when I was in college.
You’re killing me, Mick.
You’re old now. I know.
You’re old because I’m younger.
Comparing; judging.
John reads signs for pot pharmacies.
What is the French word for Marijuana anyway?
God, there are a lot of pot pharmacies.
Are people in that much pain?
Halliburton – do you suppose Dick Cheney comes to Northern Michigan?
I don’t know. He looks like the penguin.
Everything is green under a sky of gray.
Maybe we’ll stop at a casino.
Wayne State University billboard in the middle of the trees.
Detroit is closer than you think.
Rich people have deeper front lawns;
More flowers.
Pass that truck. Where is it going on a Saturday anyway?
I don’t really want to buy anything but I want to look at the lawn ornaments and junk in the yards at all of the garage sales.
There’s a whole lot of oats in the fields.
Poor people in the county have a little land and no gardens.
They must live on dreams.
Cows with horns.
That joke always cracks me up
Half-baked money makers litter the country road.
It doesn’t make sense to me to live in a junkyard in the country.
People get tired before getting to their dreams.
Old Alba road is a dirt road.
Fast, straight away and we miss our turn.
Nothing about this trip reminds me of France.
Where the heck is the road?
Spinning tires; deaf child area.
Family to visit and food to eat.

Why is this? Where does all this doubt creep in?
I want to write for the sheer joy in it
Don’t want to write deep for the hurt it brings in me
The g-police are sure to get me
I compare and then I’m mad at me
Other people don’t see what I see
Other people don’t think like I think
Their poems are beautiful,
Deep, and full of visual
They inspire and they tire me
I have to keep on telling me
I do this for the joy it brings
That’s why I do anything
For the joy it brings
I’m deaf to my critics now
I don’t write for them any how.
I do this for the joy it brings.
That’s why I do any thing.

On the porch is a wooden rocking chair.
Rocking, listening to the birds,
Delighted in the mix of shade, children playing,
A humming bird
Bees at the flowers.
I’ve sat in that chair and have rocked you home to me.
Cool, spring evenings,
Neighbors surprised by me
Sitting quietly
Rocking.

Our Bandit, my baby
My old baby
Muzzle gray
Eye milky
Fatty tumors on his tummy
Often sore, he doesn’t like to be touched
On his belly
Ears
Feet
He sleeps under blankets – always has
He sleeps with us – always has

He sleeps more and more
He growls and bares his teeth when John works on his eye
He snaps

Fifteen come October
He’s slowing down and full of life
Still stupid around cats
Tries to hump any dog from any angle
(Don’t worry bitches, he’s fixed)

Terrified of thunderstorms
He shows signs of PTSD during fireworks
As a puppy, he was “rescued” and bounced from family to family until he settled with us

Bandit loves long walks in the park
Catching squirrels with John
Car rides,
Bike rides
I hope he still likes bike rides
He tumbled out of the basket the last time we rode.
He doesn’t like his feet wet.

Bandit pees in the corner
We have an agreement
We take a walk if he doesn’t pee in the house
He shook on it
He’s peed in the corner one time since and was chagrined

Bandit thinks it’s polite to drink from the puddle before gingerly walking through it.

He defends us from the murderous postman daily
He protects me from John or anyone else that comes too close to my chair without petting him first

Bandit is always concerned about our diet
Sniffing and inspecting our mouths and food to make sure

He knows when I’m sick or hungover and stays by my side

He’s a wonder dog.

He has his own theme song

Bandit, the wonder dog
He’s a wonder
He’s a dog
He’s the wonder dog!