The Poetry Marathon

“If we meet—“ and then he faded again, and kept on fading, until there was nothing left of him to hold back the Great Dark descending on the world, except his words.¹

 And the Great Dark did descend,
has descended,
again and again.

Each time the world finds a savior
Death eventually steals the presence,
stills the voice,
plunges us into the Great Dark of mourning.

We emerge eventually,
sensing that a new savior has come,
for now.

With the death of each savior
we are left with the words,
words that comfort and inspire.

Perhaps language is the only god we need—
the only one that doesn’t die.

¹Mark Twain: A Life by Ron Powers

The river is low this year.
Drought shrivels the crops.
But it’s raining today.

Summer days see record heat.
Night brings no relief.
But it’s raining today.

Sun burns our skin,
scorches our eyes,
drains our energy.
But it’s raining today.

Rivers, crops, people,
stretch, finally relaxing
because it’s raining today.

I reached into my billfold
to pay cash for coffee, black,
and reminisced about the days
when cash was the only currency.

Or pen and ink …
typewriters,
record players.

I remember the smell
of the coal-burning furnace
in my childhood home
and the excitement of delivery day
with coal rumbling down into the coal bin.

Trains on the track
going past our house.
Card catalogs.
Encyclopedias.

The cashier hands me my change
not knowing about my memories.
Or caring.

My home is filled with totes and boxes
packed for tomorrow’s move.

Some of life’s moves are joyful and adventurous.
This one is not.
Forced out by a rent increase
from a place that I have loved,
I feel displaced.

Tomorrow I will unpack,
start resettling,
learning new routines.

And life will go on.

Love returns

A vast cold and a somber quiet
leave my breath stretched tight.
I need air.

This night has gone on too long.
Darkness over the land
feels death-like and ruthless.

Softer air revives me.
Light gentles its way in.
Love returns.

*Source: “The air stretched tight, quiet, and cold over the vast land.” [Chapter 1, Two Old Women]

Metropolis

The smell, the noise, the traffic is too much.
Streets are dirty; people are rude.
I am terrified.

This is the heartless Metropolis of my imagination.

Pushing, hurrying, throbbing.
No rest. No peace.

I have no place in this Metropolis.
I cannot go there; I cannot be there.

Culture is overshadowed by crowding.
Daring eclipsed by danger.
Innovation obscured by insolence.

Tugboats, taxis, ocean liners, airplanes —
endless turbulence, constant confusion.
Brash, bossy, brazen.

Executive suites and slums.
Limousines and subways.
All that’s right and all that’s wrong with America.

Moonshadow

Guitars.
Gentle music.
Patterned shirts.
Bell bottoms.

The girl that was me hovers near as I listen to Moonshadow.
“Remember when you wore mini-skirts?” she taunts.

She’s right. I’m not that girl now.

“If I ever lose my …” croons Moonshadow.
The girl that was says, “I won’t ever.”

But I have.

Losing, losing, lost.
Lost the days of quasi hippiness.
Lost the days of quasi happiness.
Lost the slender figure.
Lost the energy.
Lost the innocence.

Moonshadow has an answer, though.
“I won’t have to … anymore.”

And I don’t.

For every loss there has been a bonus, a blessing, a better perspective.
A better me.

Trapped

A strange lethargy
traps me like
a firefly in a bottle.

Heat lightning flickers near the treeline,
glimmering at the edge of an oppressive day.

I adjust my mask of contentment
before stepping back into the cottage that masquerades as home.

Emo No No

The tekkies have reduced emotions
to little cartoons
and renamed them emojis.

Words erased and replaced
by clapping hands and smiley faces and upward thumbs.

Tekkies don’t have time for small talk.
Communication is a challenge to be coded and corralled.

Express sadness with a frown,
joy with a smile,
amusement with a gaping grin.

Perhaps language will be swallowed by ASCII.
All that boring drivel dissected and deleted.

Essays erased.
Poetry plundered.
Novels neutralized.

A wake-up call, my fellow writers:
The emojis are coming. Take up your pens!

Put your feelings into prose or poetry.
Relish complete sentences and precise expression.
Simile, metaphor, allusion, alliteration.
symbolism, personification.

If language is fated for extinction, let the finale be recorded in words —
glorious, eternal, inspiring, rousing, memorable, remarkable words!

Season of the Poets

They came together on a summer day,
tumbling and rambling across the screen.

They followed prompts or ignored prompts,
rhymed or roamed free.

They meshed and melded,
caromed and caroused.

An odd moment this Season of the Poets.
No commonality among them — not of time nor temperature,
nor interest nor age.

Still they came.

They came for the words and the emotions and the challenge.
On this day-long season, poets flourished.
They relished and resented each creative hour.

Hope, despair, memory, fantasy,
whimsy, humor, truth, and irony
marked the season.

The poets owned the season.
The season owned the poets.
Magical, frustrating, exhausting, exhilarating.

Poets celebrate this sacred season in silence,
exploring thoughts, seizing words,
decorating isolation with ideas.

An when the day is done
and the season is over
they emerge with renewed energy
ready to revisit
the Season of the Poets.