The Poetry Marathon

I am feeling morbid, somewhat

Lost in my own thoughts, but

Connected to the world, through

An umbilical cord in my brain of

Sound and vision.

I can hear the AC turn off and on, however

I don’t feel the air, my body is numb and

There are parts that don’t respond to

The neuron signals any longer; no

Moving or touching.

It’s almost as if I am floating in a vast

Nothingness of space; gravity still works,

But I have no weight for it to pull upon, so

Like a cloud, I am just here with no

Feeling or doubt.

Slowly my eyes begin to close of their own

Accord or maybe my vision simply gives up.

The light is dissipating in swirls and

Tendrils of greys and soft pastels.

Even sounds are gone.

Before the Darkness

Lue

August 13, 2016

Listen to the song;

But I hear noisy chords and

Mumbled mushy words

The Song

Lue

August 13, 2016

No huge, tearful goodbye,

Just a fade away without a try

No screaming, yelling, throwing things

Death match of slamming doors

Just a sudden emptiness when I reached for

You and found a vast expanse where

You used to stand, a fuzzy engulfing blur

The movies and books all lied

There doesn’t have to be a goodbye

The End

Lue

August 13, 2016

color blasts of swirling stars

        deeper into the depths of unconsciousness

                    to a inky blackness of nothingness broken by

                           a voice from long ago, a scene reenacted over and

                                       over from a time when a small child would hide in

                                               closets from strange sounding women with high button shoes

I get asked all the time, “Why are you so quiet?”

At parties, I walk around and listen,

unsure of when to join a conversation or, worse,

when to let go and walk away.

I have taught myself strategies, ways to get along.

Those I share the problem with

react in different ways. Some don’t believe me,

others say, “It can’t be that bad.”

But they don’t know about the nights I hid,

choosing to stay inside,

rather than go out and deal with how different

I communicate and try

to relate to strangers that can’t see the loneliness

of not “getting it” or getting it all wrong.

for centuries, poets and music makers

have sought the definition of love,

females of all ages, with list of deal breakers,

try to do anything that might give it a shove.

but they are looking in the wrong places,

expecting it to come with flowers and prose,

demanding it be attached to handsome faces,

or at least someone that compares them to a rose,

if they were to stop chasing fantasy and folly,

they would find it’s been all around them the whole time,

in the dirty fist offering a taste of a lolly,

in the sweet kisses from faces covered in grime,

in tickle soft touches from furry noses,

and butterfly wisps of whiskers.

love is not something you have to suppose

from grown up double speak and whispers,

it flies on the breezes with unexpected sneezes

and chubby armed hugs accompanied by “UP’s”

Love is not something you have to seek,

it is given, unasked, everyday of the week.

we met a boy under the stairs and watched him accept who he was

we met a girl with wild hair and watched her learn what she could be

we met a cast of many and grew to love a few

we met animals, imaginary, and even flew a broom

we followed Rowling into a world unknown and learned about ourselves

Quiet…tap…tap…tap

no arguing, no music

Quiet…tip…tip…tip

no voices, no cars

Quiet…snit…snit…snit

soft roar of the neighbor’s snore

Quiet…yip…yip…yip

gentle dreaming of a little dog

Quiet…

“Mighty Silverback, I whisper.” (pg. 300)

and with that my book is done.

No! my mind cries, it can’t be over.

Oh! my heart cries, now for a new one.

“The One and Only Ivan” by Katherine Applegate

cross stitching pictures
in a quiet afternoon sun
takes time to count right