The Poetry Marathon

we often notice them

as cartoons,

as jokes,

malicious pranks,

among debris,

stuck to trash.

we do not like them

miniscule architects of fear,

unwelcome here.

goodbye, goosebumps,

deadly mites

mixed among worthless gems,

save for midnight,

save for Halloween.

At night we fly

alone in silence

across the cool,

dark and earthy plants.

We seek the ones

we need for love

or food or sacred

intercession, god’s

question always “Why,”

are women stronger

and no one responds.

We are wiser birds,

or perhaps the ones to

bear the most and then

say less and succeed

at humble tasks the most.

Brave old bird, or sly, your

feathered heads like snow,

in grace and priestly dress.

Outside the bones are pale,

visible, crooked, inflamed.

Inches of neon

fill sensitive parts

of my anatomy.

The skin is paler still,

wrapped in fur

like a rug,

like a quilt

gleaming

like armor.

My memory

explodes like

alphabet soup.

Spilling words

like Andy Warhol

drew Hollywood.

Shakespeare  is visited by a history of Scotland

telling how that wily dame urged on the Thane,

impressed by a chant of three wise women.

Witchcraft convinces the Lady.

She calls Macbeth a coward,

instills in him murder, murder,

overthrowing another king, to

become the head of the realm.

The tale is one of blood and deceit,

killing is what they do because they

cannot do otherwise.

Dread replaces sleep.

A lot more blood, and there is sleepwalking, singing,

overacting, and high notes in the opera.

Finally there is death and blood,

Lady Macbeth dreams the dream.

the turtle pecks at her new grown shell.

a reptile does what she needs to do to grow,

retracts her head,

cracks the small encasement,

reveals her legs

and walks onto the sand

to find her way along the beach.

the turtle ensures her destiny, becoming

the slow moving, leathered apparition

who emerges when the egg grows up.

too old for verse,

too old for love,

too old for dreams,

too old for drama.

at twenty-four I met

a poet, published, older,

now an ash inside a tomb.

shared his verse in class,

gathered his disciples in the Irish bar

with beer, we paid attention, we craved, believed.

he bellowed, “as you recover, as you get well,

you will grow up and give up verse.”

“words of poets die,” he said, “and so will you.”

I recall those days, yet here I persist in

being old, in love, not well, words still invade.

not yet recovered, not well, still seeing songs,

still confused by poets and in awe of a dated

wordsmith, who convinced me I was young

without any songs to harmonize or murmur

like a pesky insect buzzing in my mind.

I do not love the green crayon,

a boring or sinister themed tone

from those who are left handed,

except those other shadows are

lavender, old fashioned,

pale peach, rare and slight,

yellow like not fully ripe bananas.

trim the black dress with lace,

startle me with red, but keep

green nudes away or mute.

dreams I share of hiking

in the woods,

surrounded by oak trees

arcs of sunlight

paths of fallen leaves,

pebbles to amuse me.

isolated, protected by

human generosity.

they donate their vowels,

contribute imagination,

build mandalas of grape vines,

find hidden clues that I believe

are you explaining why we are

separate, not green, not well.

just mazes of eternity, shaded,

circles of the abandoned life.

gentle shadows alert me to

darkness of my apartment.

reaching for my new cane,

I hobble to the bathroom,

wash my face, reflect on

early hour eyelids,

step into the kitchen,

fill the blue kettle,

boil water while I

wash last night’s dishes.

I hear noise as the sanitation truck

rolls down eighty-seventh street.

I fill the cup with instant coffee,

carry it haltingly to the table.

opening the shutters, I become

a witness to early drizzle,

along with drip-drip dripping

of second floor neighbor’s air conditioner,

which adds a melancholy

punctuation to my first words.

grey, damp atmosphere is the

one in which I become a poet.

Thank you Mommy,

You see me in heaven

and whisper go ahead.

Thank you sisters,

Vivian, Carol and Kathie Lou.

We do not always connect

but we love in a way that’s disconnected

and detouring in a way we cannot

describe either in a song or in a poem.

All poems are love poems

even when that is what we

only seek, but never find.

I finish this and then go on.

Good bye, bon chance,

just love, just hope.