The Poetry Marathon

if he never came back
there would be hundreds of sad little boys and girls
crying out for waffle cones
stamping their feet in the street for gooey caramel swirl
there would be some kind of uprise in the making
and tears overflowing for vanilla and chocolate single cups
and push pops alike-
and we would all rue the day
if the ice cream man ever went away.

sonia sanchez is
sweet, to always hide rainbows
in every song.

what comes to mind on a quiet night
with lights out and music playing in the background?
only your hands-
no, every part of you-
the way the moonlight hits your eyes
the way the corners of your mouth dance when you smile-
the way your right leg bows just a little
the way your skin feels underneath my fingers
the way the little hairs gather at the base of your spine
every single part of you
is up for grabs
and i reach
wanting only to be one with you.

who knows, together we may see our dream come true.
maybe…
if we let go
stop being afraid of truth
stop harboring anger in those little tiny pockets of our jeans-
stop eating in silence and feeding all our fears;
maybe we could be great together –
really knock this thing out of the park-
if we could speak life and words that build each other up
instead of tearing down-
if we learn to listen when the other speaks
to stay absolutely quiet and not be petty-
if we learned to care less about all the little things
as if we’ve had some revelation about all the stuff
that really matters.
maybe….just maybe-
we could start to dream together.

(The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman- last sentence of last chapter)

birds of a feather flock together
at least that is what they say
and so it is today –
all the writers with their paper and pens
IPADS and laptops or any other electronic devices
they choose to use –
they stretch out on chaise lounge chairs, sofas, beds
trying to write that perfect verse
but what emerges is a string of words
that tomorrow will make them doubt their writing skills.
Twenty four hours to be inspired, to hold onto expectations and anxiety;
to feel sleep deprived and hunger
to eat at ungodly hours just to make it through-
but all the birds who flock together
who struggle to rise above
they all will flap their wings
until they realize that there is strength in numbers
it is then they will learn that together they can soar.

against a summer sky’s backdrop
words begin to unite
high above the plain and hills
drowning out winds of sea and sky-
worlds collide like day and night.
no clear cut message-
only empty white noise
still heard in the deep
and all around the world
and we call it poetry.

write a sestina?
well…. that was the prompt-
hmmm, but i don’t want to think that deep
that my mind explodes-
nor curves into some dark corner unable to emerge-
so that no amount of prompting will be able to lift me out.

write a sestina?
hmmm….no, not right now.
instead i’m going to cap this off right here
eat a powdered donut and like kermit, sip my tea –
and i will wait patiently
for someone else’s brilliant stroke of genius to erupt
and i promise i will be amazed.

when you were a little girl i used to hold your hand
and you would slip yours into mine quite automatically-
then a few years later, you were growing into YOU
and i would try to hold your hand and you would pull away-
declaring how big a girl you were;
tried to show me at every turn that you didn’t need any help.
and then you became a teen, quite full of yourself,
arrogant and always the drama queen (I may have had a hand in that)
but still, nonetheless, you were still blossoming into YOU
and I stood by, sometimes angry, sometimes sad, sometimes proud,
sometimes mad…
you still turning into this woman-child that I birthed.
Now, all grown up, family of your own and I find myself
sometimes wondering who is this person you’ve become and where
is the little girl that I often wish would show up when you call.
Most days I know she is gone, sometimes I think for good, but then
something happens and there, out of the blue, my little girl appears again.

i will never grow tired of taking out a pan-
chopping up an onion, some celery and butter
with a firm green pepper-
that is always the beginning of something good;
the smell from that alone
waffles through the house like a
“mommy’s-in-the-kitchen alarm.
add in some ground beef or turkey, almost any meat will do-
then boil some potatoes until the fork pierces easily through.
Steam up some broccoli or carrots and peas-
it really doesn’t matter at all.

I will never grow tired of setting the tables with plates,
folding the napkins and placing the glasses just so-
then yelling out “it’s dinnertime”
so everyone will know.
Then to watch them scurry round, take some kisses on the cheek-
then sit around the table, knowing they will enjoy whatever they eat.

i often think about the guy i didn’t choose-
the one who blew my mind.
the one who shattered all my fears and who really showed me how to love.
and though there was no pomp and circumstance he often comes to mind;
i can sit in quiet retrospect and think about specific moments in time.
Piled up like freeze-dried memories, they often take my psyche on a trip
and i allow myself to travel back down memory lane-
the long conversations spent acknowledging life-
learning each other’s likes and dislikes-
just being there, always in the moment-
always present.
Maybe that’s what I miss,
maybe that is what makes me wonder…
that road not taken-
sometimes i can’t help but wonder
where it may have led.