The Poetry Marathon

All I recognize

is absence

yet I have no definition

to explain absence

as if in a trance

where not black

not symbols

of time, nor distance.

I try to lift my foot,

but never move

one place is the

same as another.

strangely, sound

penetrates, echoes,

my movements make noise,

but nothing is real,

I see a book, floating,

I hear the petals fall,

from flowers without

scent, colorless,

the absence is a bridge

between the true and

the imagined is not

enough to become

replacement for life

not a replacement

for adoration, not love.

I find comfort in rain,

especially rain that comes

with the loud gongs

of lightening and applause

that disguises the sinister

ghosts who proclaim the

morning darkness is what

cures anxiety and grief.

I find comfort in the storm

that covers all the evil

and restores sunlight

since tomorrow is slow

to become unmasked.

stars are overhead

again I am comforted

midnight sky is a dark sky

yet I keep the comfort

in dreams, wherever

I see the stars above.

he was a man who made hats

he was a man who wore hats

he wore his hats to tea parties

he wore black hats with white ribbons

to sad parties, tea without sugar,

green hats he wore in springtime,

until springtime grew to autumn.

he planned the best parties

hats were required, necessities,

the hatter who made hats

the hatter who wore hats.

I opened the door.

On the floor was a rose.

It had petals of deep pink,

which had not yet opened.

I picked up the flower,

It had a strong fragrance,

I put it into a vase.

Where had it come from?

I fell asleep and dreamed,

all I could recall

was an invisible figure.

Putting a rose into a vase,

over and over again

I know who delivered the rose.

On a Friday evening in August

we walked to the garden in Grandma’s back yard.

The children were treated to fresh tomatoes,

wrapped in waxed paper, salted by the shaker from the kitchen.

Looking forward to walking to the near-by creek

where they caught frogs, put them in Mason jars,

covered the jars with lids, punched holes on top.

What is the family mystery beloved because it takes

place at Grandma’s house, and happens on a steam filled evening.

Fruit, vegetables, jars of tomatoes, children using elbows to

get closer to frogs from the creek.

Is this memory a true one or a wish made when we are too old for mystery

involving the field, sunshine, Mason jars, laughter without cares?

The edge of this mystery is a darker recollection of loss, the hidden

story unrevealed that blocks the mystery we use poetry to disguise.

Saturday night allows me

thirteen poems to celebrate

what remains for me to create

some songs recall music I have heard

some songs recall what I remember

some songs rely upon what I once dreamed.

I discovered the yellow bird

who did not sing

and did not whistle.

he carried a lamp and

located the spot

where the coal mine grew

the canary did not sing

the canary was mute

the canary was never a song bird.

I cannot dance,

I run around,

swing my feet,

I cannot dance,

yet her tune never recedes

and I imagine I can dance

while I play the Irish fiddle

hold onto the joyful memory

and dance forever more.

Blonde woman with gamin haircut

and a bright red hat

does not wish to be overlooked.

At the step before the top step

everyone looks at her,

yet all we noticed was her yellow

feather attached to the hat’s brim,

and all we recalled was broad brimmed

bright red hat.