The Poetry Marathon

To all you amazing marathoners

WOWZA

Respect

Half

and

full

I’ve made it to 10

two short of the goal

but am leaving happy

knowing there’s words

on the page

on the screen

to be worked on,

composted with,

and seeded.

And I know there’ll be gems

among the seedlings

Thank you Caitlin

and Jacob

and All you writers!!!

WOWZA!

Kudos to you all

Will read and comment in the a.m.

and can’t wait to get cranking.

But for now,

it’s me old head to the pillow

ah…….nuffin like it.

Happy Writing All!!!

Fading

dragging

eyes shuttering

body searching

for pillow,couch,

but all that’s within reach

is pen, notebook

and the computer screen

So pushing through

words on the page,

on the screen,

moths to the light

raindrops to the window

wind growling

On we go

word by word

Soon lullaby on

my pillow

until then

words

more words

and even

more

I gave him a deadline. Count down.

her too.

But there was so much to say.

New digs.

Moving out,

moving in.

He had ice cream stories to share,

her site visits.

And I lay on the bed,

in the green of the night

trees swaying to the whack

of the late June rain.

He talks of his ice cream glove,

all the better to grip his Ben & Jerry’s.

She talks of donuts from

her local coffee shop,

meanwhile I’m working to deadline,

writing lines,

grabbing images,

writer talk.

Knowing tomorrow

we’ll catch up

Boston to Mayo.

Mother daughter

yaps

giggles

and yes, writing talk

with my fellow writer.

Across the atlantic

she’s seeking time

between hauling mattress,

bedstand, and home

streets over

down a block or two

I’m writing to deadline,

hubby’s doing computer work,

the cats are napping,

we’re all of us taking time.

But she needs our’s

So I’ll crank until she

can touch base,

re-root herself

while I untangle

self, and muse, and verse,

to create a semblance

of what’s within murky Covid

thoughts.

And I know, feel sure,

all will be ok.

For her.

For me.

For him.

Families across the world

trying to connect and take space.

I put two more fat balls in the feeder, he says.

Did I say you could? I laugh.

Nope, he says, but I did anyway.

Now we both laugh.

Inspector Jacques Clouseau

here in my writing room had already sussed it out.

Chaffinches were on sentry duty

atop the bird feeder.

Calling their dinner bell.

Sparrows, coat tits, great tits, yellow blurs

in the roses bushes

while the seeds dropped slowly.

On our patio errant seeds

grow unruly Covid locks. Faded,

dried out, clumps wasting away.

Miniature carrots have been known to raise a

root or two.

But to watch chaffinch, tit and sparrow mingle

at the feeder is plenty entertainment.

Sparrows feeding sparrows,

three to four at the feeder.

Upside down clings and perches,

side ways,

tops, bottoms,

talons wrapped, touching full circle

while they peck and balance

wings fluttering ninety to the dozen

faster than hummingbirds,

It’s then I miss those feeders and the call, chirp, hum,

sucking the sugar water dry.

I love to chat at our feeder.

Before the dogs came,

neighbours adding dogs to the family circle,

morning calls would be a tap on

our bedroom window

Or a survey of one window over another

The one that would ensure full feeding ahead.

Peanuts, wild birdseed.

Sometimes it’s 4:10am.  and the gentle song

intensifies,

multiplies, in frequency and decible.

In these parts alarms are useless,

far better to heed nature’s call.

My poinsettia has made it through two Christmases

now heading for a third.

A former editor used to fundraise for Rotary,

and I was sure to support them.

Back then they died before January was in full swing.

Was it Maine winters? The cold? The lack of light?

Here in Mayo, I’m to three plants in our front room.

Late June and they’re lush with velvet leaves and

tiny yellow cyathia.

Aldi, tell me, did you know your Christmas poinsettias

keep going…and going….and going.

Some days I forget to water. Am down to watering once

weekly.

Dried out soil, airy light pot quickly dampened

and BOO! They bounce back.

Last year’s are full, lush, upon the windowsill.

The one from the Christmas before has shed its leaves,

re-bloomed its yellow berries and scarlet leaves.

The cats have abandoned the fireside,

late June log burning,

tucked themselves deep within the duvet.

Hubby’s mashing ginger nuts, slicing out

one at a time from the pack stack.

Soon, he’ll nap.

Eyes too heavy to follow the print of his book.

Sated with food, fire, now words,

he’ll putt-putt a gentle snore while the

fire temperature guage reaches vertical

the flames hum and gyrate through the logs.

Summer firesides.

Soothe the soul.

You’re emotional, he says.

It’s all in your head.

I’m a kind man,

caring, sometimes

even love you.

But that 80 proof

and 100 proof helps

me cope,

you know.

Me da was that way.

And sure my family understands.

It’s how we all cope.

Been doing so for generations.

But she?

She’d love to tell him, explain.

She’s emotionally dying,

becoming brittle

where once was voluptuous.

Sour where once was wild sweet honey.

Calloused, blistered and broken

where once was cream, smooth and warm.

She is selfish, if she leaves.

There’ll be nothing for her.

It’s how Ireland treats its women,

its mothers, its wives.

Men in starched white shirts,

black form fitting suits,

with their leather suitcases

and curled pointed shoes

tap out commands, directions,

orders.

You’re emotional, they say.

But she?

She’d love to tell him, explain.

She’s emotionally dying.

She is emotionally dying.

Summer’s for loving,

summer’s for picnics

by the beach,

the mountains,

the limestone caves.

he takes his blanket,

the threadbare,

wine handwoven one,

his gran ma made

or was it great-gran ma,

family heirloom

and wrapped his sand driven

toes deep into the pile,

the fringe,

that’s when he smelt her

perfume, oils,

oil of Ulay massaged,

and caressed into her crepy fingers

and toes.

The thick yellowed nails of her.

the long, waist length plait.

Some days, she was next to

him on the blanket, serving tea

from the old flask

Gonna pour me some lavender,

thick dried globs,

a little oil,

and try out that new bath tub.

Brass ceramic handles,

black etched cold and hot

watch the steam lift from

tub to handles

sniff the gentle air,

and I’ll be thinking of you

my dear

my darling husband

And remember how I took

every last bottle,

with dust and grime on neck and

bottle stem,

took those bottles and smashed

each, against the limestone,

tinkling glass, whack and thump

of thick glass

with the last dregs bleeding out from

every curvature of the bottles

Do you think you’ll miss the 80 Proof,

or 100, or even the poiteen?

instead I’ll be laying soaking up the bubbles,

my toes above the bubble line,

enjoying my herbal tea, my drink of choice.

Slainte

One minute and counting. Where’s my muse? Gone. It’s had vegan choc cake, been giggling with friends, crying with friends …but where’s the muse. In the oven with the chick pea balls? In the fridge with the carrot salad? On the front stoop where my friend is having a ciggie…. Muse, oh muse. I am not amused. But hey, a few words for the first shot…. hmmmmm now where shall I go. Heading into hour two. Well here goes……