The Poetry Marathon

almost there, almost here

where I am almost

finished with the words,

finished with the heat,

finished with the dark

solitary journey.

not so dark

traveled with Carmen Miranda,

with a friend who cheered for me on email,

with a friend who called to say

she has a job interview on Monday,

she won’t see me on Sunday.

strangers stayed on the same trip

or maybe it was a different trip.

it is morning now

and I am almost at the end,

one more to go.

I will not do this again,

too hard this time around,

maybe after resting for a year

the Marathon will call me

like a flame haired Siren.

Join us, she whispers, and the

whisper grows louder,

and the poetry grows

louder and perhaps I will.

I had a secret hiding place

when I grew up

in the back yard

beneath a flowering tree.

I do not know what flowers they were

I would sit beneath it

on the ground or sometimes

on a cement block that lay there.

I can’t recall why it was there

sometimes I would pull out a pebble

from the ground

I ascribed magic to it

when I was a child.

sometimes I would talk to myself,

I never let anyone know I was there

even if I heard my mother call.

I never acknowledged her,

no one ever discovered me,

the only secret I kept to myself.

still I believe I live a secret

in a place I want no one to enter,

holding words in my hand

holding them in secret.

Usually I eat alone

sometimes I write notes

sometimes I read

sometimes I do nothing

observe other diners

polite to the server

do not leave large tip

even though I used to be a waitress.

for nine year I toiled in a restaurant

Howard Johnson’s on East forty-second Street,

I was in a union,

once was the shop steward.

Tonight I toil over words,

the poet as a young waitress.

the old woman as a young poet.

I forget why I do this

just a diner in in the city.

Dear traveler,

we wandered together,

we wandered apart,

we roamed familiar worlds,

we detoured alone.

I can barely describe

my fatigue, my fog,

sensation of the crowd.

bombarded by the singular

I sleep, I awaken,

puzzled and perplexed

by words, by design,

by god, by the devil.

now I forget am I at my 22nd detour

or is it my 21st,

losing count, tomorrow

is not another day,

nor will I speak about this

with others, yet do not forget.

sincerely, your strange companion,

your verbal friend, it is I.

fox leads black bear

black bear accompanies

red hatted girl in red sweater

and red-green clothing as

if it were the Christmas season

she is dressed much too warmly.

there they travel past

community garden,

past teen-age murals

showing the walled out

community, home to

the wild animals and

innocent children together

another peaceable society.

Get out of the boat, he hissed at the young owl.  He had been saving the seat for the owl with the russet colored feathers. Lately Miss Russet seemed to carry a flame for him, or so he thought.  The older, grayer owl was not the one he wanted.  He hissed at her again, then flew at her and bit the little finger she curled at him which she thought was a seductive appeal.  No cougar owls are allowed on this cruise,

At last the cougar gave up and flew out of the boat.

Miss Russet stayed perched in the tree

as early evening edged to night and it was time to join Mr. Old Wisdom in the light blue boat across the lake during the sweet hour of evening trysts for innocent lovers.  No one here was innocent.

All these owls had only base desires,

but it was in a boat,

so perhaps it was without low morality.

welcome home, she demanded

and dreamed she had wrestled

her dog into accepting ten old

thank yous to secure everyday

silence when taking her child’s

Metrocard crying, he never says

you are welcome when I lose

every gift I have stolen tearing

up what silence she whistled

when she heard everyone leaving

crumbs where no one ate cheese

in place of grace and piety at home.

deep fried questions

greet serious pundits

who want denial

but accept gorging

in place of sweet

autocracy always

I care for nothing

except white rabbits

who nibble carrots,

jump rope with their friends

recite made up rhymes then

lay beneath a shady tree.

Watch the white rabbit

smile in that familiar

way that rabbits have

until one day they leap up and hop

away as they do when spring arrives.

once in a land of ordinary women

lived a sprite

neither coddled

nor contrite.

She flew among

ones who could not believe,

carried to the unbelievers

the seed of the transformation

hat brought resurrection to a moribund

group who followed the sprite

wherever words were sought.

Our Lady wore her talisman

along with a colorful crystal

amulet that encouraged use

of daily poems upon rising

and single words before

sleeping or resting. Today

Our Lady of the Butterflies

flies to another land.