The Poetry Marathon

Last night together
walking over Whangarei
bridge. Finally, the truth.

[Getting harder to write. Very tired. Struggled with this one. It shows!]

When I arrive
the trail through the woods
has been paved –
bringing confidence
to those
with an unsteady or assisted gait, no doubt
Yet manufacturing
a tidy
that belies the fallen twig,
the squabbling birds

The unforgiving thwack
underfoot
Too hard for a long hike
The edges –
falling off abruptly
defining and delimiting
This path –
how far could it go?
The deep woods are not veined
with asphalt.

Before, coming here
was a return
boundaries fading
a place that was easy
Now, I resent the encroachment
even as I question my own trespass
My quitting this place
this loss
perhaps an unintended protection?

What is taken/what endures
This, the walk.

Light borne of darkness –
a force beyond mere knowing:
Stepping in and through.

Just how many holes
does it take
to fill the Albert Hall?
Ernest O’Follipar,
Chief Executive, Royal Albert Hall,
objected
in the strongest possible terms –
Concert-goers will not attend
out of fear of falling
into a hole!
A self-appointed hole-counter,
O’Follipar tallied all the holes
and came up with 32
(if you include the doors).
Proposed lyric changes
submitted to Brian Epstein
were not accepted.
John Lennon forthwith
dispatched a note of reply,
further angering the
esteemed Royal Albert Hall Council.
A ban on performing the offending song
continued until Milli Vanilli (by God)
unknowingly played it in 1989.

I’d love to turn you on.

It never worked for me
the tales of you slinking about
hooded
with scythe in hand
The predator prey thing –
so overplayed!

Instead I imagine you
young
beautiful
with hands
that have not toiled
and eyes
that have not known betrayal.

You are fleeting;
impermanent
A reminder of all we
will lose
All we cannot possess.
Not ours
to give or take;
to keep or protect

Our responsibility
alone
to relinquish.

The journey there, with cause and reason
Days of glad toil together
Nights with gunfire so near
Our laughter defiant
Our love, quiet joy
It couldn’t last
Didn’t last
Gone now
gone …

Trees
as skyscrapers
in your city of the timberlands.
Cheat your beat, Forest Ranger!
Periwinkle skies
spread wide before you –
Look heavenward!

Let me say this upfront: I’m from the Northeast of the US
and everything about Miami in December
feels wrong.
Palm trees and halter tops
(do people still wear these?)
just shouldn’t be a winter thing.

Working this boat
with Captain Contemptible
does not arouse holiday cheer.
Still faithfully
3 sails a day
and a sunset cruise
(no different from the other sails
but with the mystique of changing light
the name changes, so too the price)
we put on our best keep-our-jobs
happy faces
for the tourists.

The crew live on land
except for me –
I bunk on another boat
on Key Biscayne –
So there’s none of the camaraderie
of shared living and working:
We do not share our lives;
we do not share so much as a meal.
When the work is done
we scatter –

My birthday in early December passes
(mercifully)
without notice, without mention
Miami is awash in Christmas
And in its ostentatious way
the city erects displays
blasts music 

strings lights.

I grew up with Chanukkah
now not so much a celebration
not a necessary affiliation
but something deeper
a link to ancestors
something that holds me –
The light of Chanukkah
it is this that speaks to me
The light that grows over eight days
from a single light
into a blaze.

I think of this as I step out
onto halyards
as I trim sails
as I answer tourists’ questions.

And then, I see it
one night on a sunset cruise:
there, facing the water
a huge ridiculous menorah –
the shamash and first two nights’ lights burning (electrically) bright
Each night after that I look for it
as its kitchy-flame grows
Each night I imagine I have set it alight
and when the menorah comes into view
I murmur the prayers
which for some odd reason
I have not forgotten

I know these lights have been set before me
in blessing
That there is no one to thank;
no one to join me in prayer
does not matter.
For centuries these prayers
have been uttered
and they continue still.
For six successive nights
on this watery bucket
I continue my joyful prayer.
Silent to my crew,
it is my secret
with eternity.
Prayer, this night here
and the world over.

I had been there for days
drunk with liquid
surrounded by it/
within it
never knew the ease of it
breathing there
not like holding your breath
and the choking sputter
when one second more
is too much
Weightlessness/float
the ease of the body
moving amidst other forms
no need for a cane here
no impediments
or cruel fractures in
my path
that bring danger
and fear of injury
The displacement of water
the placement of body:
a ceaseless dance of unending positions

When I emerge
I expect to look to a distant beyond
the busy dailiness of the city
continued unabated.
But it is not like this
I pop up
sudden and surprising
like an out of sight bottle
just uncorked
The city is spread below me
it is twilight
and I am perched on the edge
of a watery rooftop
many stories high
Lights are flickering on
as the city welcomes dusk
I slap my hair from side to side
glad in this wet clap
against skin

Above now
Not quite of land;
and of water –
now bounded
Breathing
in heaves
Lungs expectant
Watching
as the sky darkens.

#1
cherished stuffed rabbit
shabby from loving, tossed out
sheds tear, becomes real.

#2
Wartime
soldiers soldier on
enduring violence
degradation
defeat
Superior Officers
look elsewhere
for victory
trading lives for ambition
numbers of bombing missions
for letters to mothers
To call the situation crazy
is normal
To feign insanity
is not believable
This is the Catch-22
To stay alive
is a trade
with death
and your closest comrades
To escape
requires more than cunning
it requires you to master
the very machinery
that keeps you
at your mercy
And in this last mission
your very life
and the lives of those in your squadron
demand your success.