The Poetry Marathon

I celebrate

Completion

Companionship

Heroics

Lyrics

Everyone

Known

Unknown

Foxes

Dogs

Turtles

Butterflies

Transcendence

Hope

Love

Excitement

Satisfaction

Grace

Fellows

Sisters

Alpha

Omega

Reflections

Joys

Gratitude

Memories

Family

Friendship

Hurrah

Hallelujah

Amen

Morning

Peeks

Inside

Looks

Wondering

Can

Love

For

Words

Enhance

Ennoble

Spring

Become

Poetry

Grow

Propel

Delight

Survive

God in whom my attention flags

As I pray and sleep to

Keep awake before the

Outdoor sounds say join us in

Awakening to the Sunday

Lust awaiting you in prayerful

Chambers silent, not too much, stark

Not enough, a silly goat has

Found its way inside, once

Year a donkey walks through the

Room enchanting all, one

Day is set aside for sheep

To learn about the Good shepherd

And other metaphors for Christ

As the pastor of his flock

This day is nothing special ordinary

Words will be from Psalms

Advice perhaps from Paul

But I have prayed enough today I

Asked for strength to write

And then to stay awake and

Give gratitude for grace and peace.

When I was eighteen I wanted a black dress

Along with chandelier earrings

Dangling to my shoulders

It was my entrance to adulthood that my

First black dress or two were cotton

And the color was mandatory for

My first job as sales clerk in a department

Store where I was assigned to the

Toy department during the Christmas

Season selling mechanical toys, board games

Bicycles, and other objects hoped to

Be lusted after by pre-teenage boys

I never wore earrings then but soon acquired

A third dress for working girl wardrobe

Made of wool and saved for Thursday

When the day began at noon and stopped at

Nine o’clock with frequent special sales

To lure parents to buy unneeded gifts

Poorly made, doomed to self-destruct and add

Violent displacement to the hearts and

Minds to already intolerant vacuous youth.

I worked until a few days before the twenty-fifth

When I was laid off and reemployed again

For the spring and summer where I sold

Women’s blouses, then hosiery and finally men’s

Sportswear cheap shirts, jackets sweaters

And I earned a commission plus salary.

Those black dresses were what I wanted until I had

Them, saw them take me to this palace of

Unnecessary artifacts for unsophisticates like me.

Seven birds sing to me in the morning

From a tree on the block

I know there are winter

Birds and summer birds

I cannot tell which is which, there

Are different sounds one

I believe is a blue jay’s call

They sing, I get up, no alarm

Nothing to do but listen when they

Sing I sleep and then leisurely

Open my eyes in the winter I

Pray before waking in the spring

I have too much to hide, do not disclose

That I am sleeping to avoid the

Day the work even joy I would gain

If I could sing to awaken you, my love.

Sing a song of six-pence, all fall down along with Humpty Dumpty, the

King’s horse, the king’s men, the muffin man and all who live on Drury lane.

My musical background began with these tunes and never meanders very far

from there except for my days in high school chorus singing something by Noel Coward

and George Gershwin, Summertime, I Got Rhythm and the usual rock hits of my day. Plus

the church choir then and now, old fashioned hymns and when I was a teenager singing duets with my twin sister, fraternal, but we tried to dress nearly alike when we performed. We sang Blue Moon wearing green dresses with a design that resembled tapestry. I can see those dresses now, our moments on the high school stage she singing melody in her clear unaffected soprano, and I singing harmony because what was left? She still sings solos with her small church choir, and I join my choir for Christmas season and Lent and Easter. One of the group, it is my holiday celebration living singly as I do with no higher aspirations than to be spinster woman Miss Marple, discovering the murderer and the secret relationship between the man and woman who introduce themselves as cousins, but are really husband and wife, plotting to swindle their uncle, who is not really their uncle, but a one time love of their late mother who died in an American asylum after moving there following one of the European Wars, in which England is left in tatters. You know their modern history and the history of the world wars and the collapse of royalty nearly everywhere but in a few select places, Amsterdam, Sweden and Spain except for the time of Franco’s Fascist state dictatorship. Nursery rhymes were created because of incidents in history Americans don’t understand, the war of the Roses, the 100 years war, the skirmishes in which king’s would lose their heads literally, after first doing so figuratively. Merrily we roll along, roll along, while the King of Spain’s daughter has a tree that makes her happy. Is the daughter of the King so happy now? I think I shall write a nursery song with 2 or 3 short lines, nonsense words such as kachewing and mextagangle. Oh the words were part of last night’s dream. The frightening one in whch someone is following me into a phone booth with a rifle. Have you used a phone booth lately? Sing a song of iphones. Gather ye rosebuds while you may. That is the story of my musical career and how I was defiant and distracted by curious turns of events, dear Lady Jane.

On June thirteenth in 1951,

Daddy bought his first car

I recall he took us with him

to the dealership at DeLabar Chevrolet

a four-door sedan, dark green

Mom and Dad sat in the front

Carol, Vivian and I sat in the back,

always arguing about who

would sit in the middle

every time we drove somewhere we

were annoyed by one sister

touching another, rude to the other.

In the front Daddy would be disagreeable

annoyed by something Mom had done

or said or because we argued in the back.

he would be cross, yell, swear at another car

who got in his way, or drove too slowly.

Cranky, we hoped he would see something

to take his mind off his anger or calm him down.

It was always tense, fearful, unhappy.

most of the trips were to his family

or a few summer drives somewhere to

where I can’t remember where.

On the way to grandma and grandpa

we always passed a house that had been yellow

then was painted lavender, I once

said I liked the color, Mom laughed

and would remind us that was Marie’s house.

Each time we laughed and hoped it would

coax Daddy out of his sour mood, too.

Then we would ride until we reached our

destination, happy to be with others

who would not be angry with us for

whatever it was we did, or for what the

world had done, or something we

hardly understood where his anger lay.

Turtles are a sluggish lot

carrying armor on their back,

swathing their soul with care.

Most of us think we are burdened

when the truth reveals

that it is easier to be

The bearer of hard tidings

than the ones who

remain to survive.

Turtles are a hardy lot

tough, thriving, long

valued by those who

favor the underdog in the race.

Sturdy, loyal destined to

survive under estimation.

Celebrated turtle won the race

rabbit was too flighty, erratic

not inured by woe or despair.

Everything

Is as

Nothing

Getting

Is as

Giving

Cursing

Is as

Caring

The difference

Is as

The division

when I grow up I want to be a jazz musician,

play the piano fast, infuse my tunes

with Afro Cuba and relate stories of

my days on the road and in old Havana when

gangsters, writers and gigolos all

wore mustaches and you couldn’t

tell the farmers from the intellectuals but

they all loved Jazz Americano and I would

sit on my bench and drawl my faux

southern accent into the mic, smile and tell

the woman how much I liked her

frivolous little hat with yellow bird attached

or lots of veiling that was too warm to wear in

this tropical island club but it would catch my eye

red haired woman trying to look blasé, drinking

something sweet filled with fruit, skirt tight

displaying lots of leg, mucho promise of

later tonight with the artist, me the piano player

hiding himself away in Havana until Castro and the Fidelistos

took over one American dream dried up and

where can I go with this angle all worked out

my accent perfected and my repertoire complete

from the American “Hit Parade” and a Cuban

tune to show my attempt at authenticity

designed like the creative guy I was to sway the women

and tell the men I, too was macho, not an untalented

swindler afraid to go back home and start again.