The Poetry Marathon

Part XII

after admitting to myself
that if I didn’t let go of the alcohol,
it would swallow me,
as it had swallowed him,
as I swallowed it…
I prayed upon a wood,
an August sky uncharacteristically cool and stormy,
I prayed that God have mercy on my drunk soul,
I prayed that He give me strength to love my husband,
soberly and with strength.

I approached the patio doors,
the clock reflected 9:20 at night,
my husband was passed out on the floor,
he must have tripped over the laundry basket –
there he slept,
tangled in clean clothes and a white plastic basket;
I didn’t try to rouse the bear,
I stumbled to bed – dizzy and alone.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 7:00 PM

Part XI

We all know,
not all dreams are pleasant,
and as my body gives in to the wares of war,
I drift into a dream far away;
past days of my mother’s brutality,
into the realm of falling in love and entering into marriage.

The beginning was fun and games.
Drinking every day.
Sex that is free after vows are made.
Getting mad,
making up,
getting madder,
making up tougher,
hit with the reality that my spouse is an alcoholic,
and all the sudden,
life and responsibility lies on my shoulders
and I don’t want it.
I have to live sober through the hell,
and he drinks and curses me ruthlessly,
and I have to forgive day after day after day…
the dream is a nightmare,
and I am awake;
how was a naïve 18 year old supposed to beat the wits of
a 30 year old man?
She’s not! I didn’t! And the story goes…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 6:00 PM

Part X

I cannot breathe.
My lungs are full.
The fluid rising –
I am drowning and I can feel moist pedals
clinging to my pale skin.
The fluid rises above my ears –
again,
I cannot hear,
gurgling, gurgling…
and my mind leaves me,
did I ever have a mind? 
the poppy field is so beautiful,
I think I will nap…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 5:00 PM

Part IX

There is no damn way anyone would want to come
and drag me out of the poppy field;
my life, oozing out and mixing reds
with the poppy flowers.

music begins swimming inside my head,
is this how it ends?
my funeral march a song only I can hear?
it’s that music –
the music that used to beat my head lifeless,
along with 15 empty bottles of beer;
the music that made me buy skeins of rope
and more alcohol and razor blades and anything else
that might kill the pain;
the music that suggested all sorts of immoral acts,
bad behavior and all things,
crimes against my very soul –
I fought them off like angry bastards.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 4:00 pm

Part VIII

All matter of hell broke loose;
my exuberance and the intoxicating effect
of being in the poppy field led to detonation…
the battlefield,
red in poppy grandeur,
red from pools of blood
from people like me who sought to feel its effects,
not paying attention to the fact that all the red
wasn’t just flower pedals.

congealed,
soaking in my own red-eye gravy,
delirious, unclear, inebriated,
all states of being that bring danger.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 3:00 PM

Part VII (Introduction to the red poppy field)

The mines are buried,
scattered discreetly
in a beautiful red poppy field;

and because red oozes through
the pores of my skin,
I find myself walking through this field
without hesitation or fear.

I ache to smell the poppies;
roll around in their essences,
pure delight to escape the rocky trail
I have walked upon for years;
I think I have lived all my life to roll around
in the poppy field – letting its beauty deceive me;
like all things beautiful, there must be looming danger..

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 2 PM

Part VI

It’s never over,
conflict –
the war fought between mind
and action;
a bird flutters helplessly
near a puddle,
should he drink before he tries to fly,
or die?
should he release his spirit to the open sky?

he dips his beak into the puddle,
the little pond of water,
a saucer of water –
a cat now lurks near his sanctuary,
suddenly his weakness becomes his final battle;
the feline approaches – crouched – slowly stepping
towards the bird;
the consuming and raging war of the poetics,
proliferates…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 1:00 PM

Part V

Stuck inside the bunker,
I began to scratch my story
on the sides of the bunker walls;
I simply stated in the essence of dust –

THE RAGING POETICS
FOUGHT HERE ON THIS DAY…
EVERYONE SURRENDERED.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 NOON

Part IV

Over the top – flamboyant,
is how many artists are caught to fight the front lines,
for me,
I was standing too close to the edge of the bunker,
the dirt gave way and I fell inside,
alone and screaming for my comrades to come
rescue me…
they couldn’t hear my voiceless cries,
I couldn’t hear my voiceless cries…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 11:00 am

Part III

When I grew too old to crawl behind the
red vinyl couch,
and we moved from my beloved Indiana home,
to a state where everyone spoke slowly and with a drawl,
I restlessly searched a new place to hide;
I secured a imaginary shovel
and began to dig;
my first goal was to dig to China –
fall through the sky and land among red Chinese lanterns;
after about fifteen minutes of digging,
I decided there had to be another way.

my mind took me back to age ten,
when I was sick for days and I lost my hearing,
my mother refused to take me to the doctor,
and I suffered, lying on the red vinyl couch,
my grandmother desperately trying to help me,
I emerged several days later,
my world silent,
and so it would be for several months…

Memories of deafness still make me feel some anger;
it never should have happened,
the 1970s had modern medicines – antibiotics,
my mother never came to touch my brow,
or ask how I was feeling –
I just rested on the red vinyl couch and moaned in agony,
for days and days and days and days…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 10:50 am