The Poetry Marathon

Who do I need to be?

Stretching forward a hand to grab, extended fingers clutch

many jars on the shelf

Which face shall I wear?

this one went to senior prom though that one begged to go

but would not fit the dress

What will I need to do?

another used to sell furniture and got misread by

a boss who knew better

Where did the young one go?

hidden in the back, my favorite, kissed booboos and is

still wet with good bye tears

When can I go with out?

there is one no one has seen, under all the rest, waiting

the day that I can ask,

Why must I wear a mask?

ok…here it goes…what ever comes to mind…

It will be interesting to see

what my brain can find

to talk about…

it certainly loves to talk,

at least to me

not so much to others…

my brain’s tongue falls over

its eye teeth and it can’t see

what it wants to say,

as my grandfather

would say.

I can’t smell cherry tobacco

and not think of him.

He had the biggest smile.

Almost as big as his belly.

I wrote a biography

about him when I was 8, in the 3rd grade.

It made my dad angry.

He said I made things up

and, yet, he was the one that

told me what to write.

I love to write.

I want to write about my dad, but

he wouldn’t like that.

So, I guess I will just have to make things up. 😉

He comes in with curiosity and excitement,

running to the desk that bares his name.

His mother hides her eyes, but the tension

can be seen in the shoulders under the threadbare sweater.

“We need…” the teacher says, handing her the list.

He comes in with sleepy eyes and hunger,

walking slowly to the desk that bares his name.

The tag, slightly worn, is beginning to peel

from anxious fingers that have worried the edges.

“We need…” the principal says, leading him to the office.

He comes in with dirty clothes and anger,

slumping in to the chair at a desk that bore his name.

The fury ebbing off him in walls of confusion,

as he pushes away another book full of indecipherable symbols.

“We need…” the School Board says, as they push another test.

He doesn’t come in anymore, the streets have won.

There is no longer a desk for him, not that he cares.

He has found a place that won’t demand things

he can’t give or require what he doesn’t have.

“We need you to see us,” the children say with eyes weary and old.

faces blood red, dripping, salty, sticky

bodies jump, twist, gyrate with and with out rhythm

screams over thumping thundering bass

t-shirts and leggings join the skin in a macabre duel of push and pull

The gateway beckoned

the traveler knew its story well,

with promises of adventure,

the Sun’s rays worked to close the sale

On the other side,

a deep warmth dwelt,

offering whispers and caresses

of forgotten hurts, no longer felt

The traveler was wise though,

and did not heed

for the Siren’s lusty call

was full of lies and misdeeds

“I have been that way”

responded the soujorner

and turned back to

where the path was known and clear

you think you know me

yet, my job is to become

someone you don’t know

Welcome, what would you like to know?

I will help as much as I can, I don’t get around much,

but I see things and pay attention, you see,

so, ask away, or better yet, let’s just start

on the ground and see how it goes.

1A is a single male (whispers; I think he’s bi)

will bench press all night when he is stressed,

had a dog, but lost custody to his “friend”

smiles when he passes, don’t talk though

and never, ever looks you in the eye

2A…ehehm…engaged is what she says,

likes her country LOUD especially at 2am

no pets, no visitors, no family I know of

will talk for a while if greeted first,

but would be alone and that’s how she stays

1B are married (if you believe in that sort of thing)

Blue eyes has a kid that comes around

Brown eyes disappears a lot, business you know.

They argue a lot about little things, but seem

to be nice, if you know what I mean.

2B has way too many friends. Most you won’t even see twice.

Such a beautiful girl too, it’s such a shame.

She should be more careful, ‘stead of playing THAT game.

She listens real good, has a nice smile,

always smells like she bathes in spices.

1C is the one you want to know all about, they still haven’t cleaned it.

So sad what happened to the couple that lived there,

I can’t tell ya, you would’ve had to be here

But the cops did their job up right, that charge will stick

All the evidence, not even Perry Mason could beat it.

2C, well, that’s me! Just this old worn out Grandma.

Nothing but time on my hands and no where to go.

I’m very accepting, not a prejudiced bone, but bless their hearts,

the people moving in these days, I don’t know where to start.

I find it is best if I keep to myself and just don’t get involved.

The shaking fingers

thread a hook through wiggling worms

casting out for me.

Not every “Good Morning” is met with a smile.

To be honest, most are met with a stare,

but the ones that break across sleepy teenage faces

are more valuable than,

a trunk of pirate booty found under the “X” on a map to Treasure Island;

the ‘High Five’ for the winning goal in the championship game;

one’s gentle first kiss from a long held crush under soft moonlight;

or even, the promotion and raise after years of hard work,

because it shows they know I care.

I hate gravity…

It causes billowing spots, all over,

of blue and purple

that turn unnatural shades of

green and orange.

I was born on land to live

a tortured life.

The corners of tables grab me and

the smallest of pebbles can trip

as man-made devices assist my fragile, weak body

in the simplest of things.

But in the water…

There is no gravity.

Fluid motion fills my limbs and, for once,

I am strong.

One kick sends energy to wings

suddenly sprouted

and nothing reaches to grab or stop my

forward inertia.

No crutches or chairs with wheels.

No thick pieces of glass sitting across my face.

At home, my limbs obey my commands,

as colors dance off of each other

with sparkling exuberance.

I am me under the water…