The Poetry Marathon

Troubled

I tried, I failed
I stood, I flailed
I attempted my task,
took center stage,
sat on that bench as they asked.
It fell, my fault they claimed
I tried again and the result was the same.
Today I’ll try again. With a stool.
I’m no fool if it falls it’s me not them
But I’m not using that damn bench again

The stage goes quiet, the set is lit.
Across the stage is where I must sit.
And as I enter in the room,
My heart beats loudly in this tomb.
I approach from behind.
It cannot see me, the stool is blind
At least I hope this is the case…
Even so, I mark my pace.
10 steps away
5, now 3
Hope does fill me, it’s a possibility
The bench’s fault, not mine indeed!
I am set up to just succeed.

Two steps away I stand
It’s going far better than I planned
Then someone coughs, and I breathe out…
Stupid, stupid, I want to shout.
Collapsing forlorn upon the floor,
The stool is standing no more.
Nor am I, I’ve given up
What fool am I to drink Hope’s Cup.
I cannot perform in a play
If without cajoling the props won’t stay.

Inside I alone am awake
Silence is deafening until the computer suddenly hums
An enormous fan nearly drowning all else out.
Despite its noise I hear so much more

Outside are birds, finches, swallows and crows
Perhaps a raven an occasional duck
But only rarely, and only with luck.

Inside are snores from at least two sources
First comes my husband’s which sound like several horses
Then there is Hank, fuzzy and fat, snoring far louder than your average cat.

The computer fan whizzes, its heat on my lap, the couch is warm too
The light is bright with the promise of dawn, and daylight shines through
that open screen door providing a lackluster view
Of another building.

It’s Wonderful to be here, alone in this quiet.
Too early to leave, and I wouldn’t abide it.

And lo, I stood above the clouds, breathless

Flying birds beneath me swirled, restless

To travel beyond my elevated sight

Everything for once seemed right

Revolving around the planet I saw it all

Now below there was a war

Only hatred flowed with ignorance at its core.

Older than myself no creature could end it

Not even the gods of heaven could mend it.

Doubt filled me and I sank lower

Regretting my perceptions of power

Even the winner would find this war saddening

After losing so many, it could be naught but maddening.

Many would perish, as war was hungry for more than pie.

Still, we can stop it, you and I. Twas just a prophecy, perhaps a trick of mine inner eye.

9 pm, darkness encroaches.

Sleep is an idea formless and forthcoming…

I am ready. Just one more thing…

12 am, evening beckons.

It is time for sleep, the cloud is ever-present.

I am tired. Just need to finish up…

3 am, twilight shrouds

There is time still, give in to sleep.

I am awake. Just need to calm down…

6 am, dawn approaches.

Forget sleep, that tasteless mistress.

I am ready. Just need to write…

9 am, morning enters.

Sleep is a memory, far from reach.

I am caffiene. Just need some more…

12 pm, noon encroaches.

Shadows twitch and whirl excited.

I am god. Just need to push on…

I’m married now, twenty-two

My cats are a pair, a handful too.

It’s my third time coming, hopefully not my last

It’s been a while since poetry past

Hope I’m not too late, I’m sure you’ll all do great.

As the birds wake up outside,

And the darkness begins to hide,

I to myself begin to chide.

“Why would you do this?

At least you have not died.”

Despite a setback here and there,

Despite prompts that felt unfair,

I made it through, I proved I care.

I did not fall into despair.

With faith from friends

the effort finally ends

And my next action truly depends

On solely me and the promises I keep.

Dawn awakens while I sleep

Is it okay for me to weep?

Until next year, new friends and old

Until the call back to the poetry fold.

Dawn has not yet raised its head

The road is dark, save two cats

who use it as an asphalt bed

Barely visible in lamp light dim

The yard is black save a dead-wood bench

And a stump with countenance grim

And though I know the garden exists

In this non-light, it’s just vague pots

with black silhouettes the sleeping plants.

And while I’m not one to make called shots

I think there is still quite a chance.

Dawn has not yet raised her head

So I might still get to bed.

Golden fur and chocolate eyes,

She loved being pet,

and barked at flies.

Not the brightest pup

but she was mine

She didn’t know a ball from a rock

but that was fine

I remember ten fond years

of play-time, fetch, and catch.

Just talking about it brings up tears

and sorrow weighs heavily on my chest.

And if you’re wondering why I still cry,

it’s because I never got to say goodbye.

What woman stands alone? What angle in her tone?

What frame of life is this? What lies beneath cold gaze?

What restraint in posture? What unasked question phrased?

Here power lies like ebon coals, yet under wraps,

seem stronger; therefore your gaze, gaze on;

Not clear to the eye what you intend, but clear to watch

At least for now.

Fan gripped with lust, perhaps with yearning,

as time goes on, the heart keeps burning.

Timeless in her profile, oh wondrous woman.

The time shall come when none recall

Why she gazes after all.

His beard is thicker than an otter’s pelt

His beard is softer than a chinchilla

His eyes are bluer than the sky

His eyes gleam brighter than headlights

When something interesting meets his eye.

He’s smarter than a genius

More clever than a fox

He’s good at playing word games

He could sell you your own box.

His hair is more golden than Rapunzel’s

His hair is straighter than a rod

Better than a cult leader,

He could convince you of his god.

His wisdom shines like diamonds

His charisma’s dark as pitch

His intelligence unquestioned

by both poor and rich.

He is the perfect lover,

He is the perfect man.

I’m lucky that I met him,

I’ll do everything I can,

To keep him.