The Poetry Marathon

Thirty glass panels in a grid make my view a visual quilt of my deck.

The doors has framed the cast gatherings, surprise parties, happy hours and graduation open houses.

The bench, the dining set the chair and ottoman are matching wood, each gifts from my family who know my love of bringing people together.

The flowers have grown leggy in the August heat and this hints at the blowing leaves and eventual snow that will pass these panes in the months ahead.

The lower glass is smudged from where my dog perfects her sorrowful “Little Match Girl” look at us while we gather around the dining room table and share meals,

or I set up temporary camp and write for hours.

It’s where I see my little slice of the world and one of the best vantage points for the world to observe me.

Days that were wide open expanses to be filled with the decisions of what kids came out to play.

Ideas that were not judged by reality or merit, simply accepted because you said them.

The government of childhood that did not rely on votes but took into consideration the weakest and let them be catcher or everlasting twirler or use the chalk to draw the hop-scotch boxes.

The common sense of kindness that brought a million waxy Dixie cups to the sidewalks to be filled from Tupperware pitchers of sticky, colored, sugar-rich beverages.

Taking turns when the toy was not even your own and being allowed to injure yourself on the neighborhood stilts, pogo stick or rusty scooter.

It was the earliest lessen that freedom comes with costs,

the ones that taught us all that the exhilaration and possibilities were worth the risk.

All the kindness we were born with,

cooked out of us by an education that creates a competition between us

and lets us know that life is a reward system for right answers.

Adulthood is the struggle between our memory of what life was like when right and wrong was not the measure of an idea,

before the chafing struggle of the nagging feeling that what you’ve been instructed is right is questionable.

Perhaps adults just need a “do-over”.

An exercise in contrasts, contained within a frame.

The dark the light, her hair shown bright, the look upon her face.

Her figure sloping, curving, soft, showed a natural beauty, there’s no doubt.

While the sharp features of her angular face made my mind take a different route.

The table began in nature, rubbed and buffed until it shined,

supports her like she’s a lumber baron’s debutante,

whose tastes are quite refined.

This table and the woman have both been polished, so distant from their former self.

She had wanted to be farm girl,

the tree had hoped to become a simple shelf.

She went to all of the best places,

sipped the very finest champagne.

While she knew she was the most gorgeous,

everyone described her as “most vain”.

The “Happiest Woman EVER”.

The headlines always read.

All were shocked by her finale,

by her own hand she’s totally dead!

The winds blew the tall grasses and the Cattails and Milkweed tossed their next generation gently.

They gathered in cottony youth gangs at the roots of their ancestors and thought of where they might settle down and establish roots.

Plans that weathered storms and relied on sunny days and the whims of a breeze to achieve.

With strength in numbers they rolled in unison, like a ground cloud across the pavement.

They searched for cracks, inserted themselves like soldiers in a fox hole.

This was a war, a war against this scar of buckled concrete that buried so many of their forefathers.

They fought bravely to take the space back.

While they knew they had only a season,

they believed in the potential of their own seeds that would grown with them a year and then be released to join the forces.

Despite mans valiant efforts at “improvements” through paving spaces to walk, places to drive and destinations to park,

the record shows that nature is more patient than man

and therefore always wins.

Not lost, just uplifted in new territory.

Not fearful at the open unknown,

feeling a sacred bond with those who since history began,

adventured ahead of their clan.

How does one explain their view,

when there is nothing to reference too?

“Stark, peculiar, with glorious lines,

a tribute to absence with ancient designs.”.

No explorer truly knows if they are the first there,

as the universe is vast!

Bravely seeking potential in a new somewhere,

if not there first, each trip their risk is being the last.

She always prepared the table for two, set her hair and dressed each night for dinner.

Her mother’s china with the gold rim framed with good silver from the wooden box.

The wine goblets filled with iced water from the wine decanter glimmered in the light from the candle flame.

She served two plates and ate from one, then covered the other with foil.

She imagined who might join her; a gentleman caller, former classmate, a neighbor or a stranger passing through town.

She read the paper each day, so she could discuss current events with the companion that never materialized.

When dinner was finished she cleared the table and knew that her lunch the next day would be the same meal, eaten standing at the kitchen counter surveying the visitors at her bird feeder.

Once done she would begin preparing the evening meal and mentally organizing her topics for discussion.

Then she busied herself with choosing an outfit and accessories for the evening.

Her days were full, her hours ticked by to the pendulum swing of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

The only thing that remained empty was the seat across from her own at dinner each night and the space in her heart that she had reserved for one.

Tough.

Strong.

Controlled.

Measured.

The singular event, situation, surprise that can eliminate the confidence of an individual of any status is loss. Even when anticipated, it is the cause of doubt.

Impacting those who are organized and exude perfection in the least flattering of ways.

It is the broken promise to ourselves that we are capable and able to handle life.

It’s the shared trait of all humanity to deal with loss poorly.

The road home is dusty,

and along the way,

lives a horrible woman

I must pass everyday.

My dog is my best friend,

who brightens my day,

my witch of a neighbor tried to take him away.

He returned swiftly,

yet I know she’ll be back,

so hastily I tossed some things in a pack.

While life’s storms can knock us down,

might be right around the bend,

brighter days may be beyond it,

perhaps a stranger becomes a friend.

Not all roads are dusty,

and we can learn along the way,

that the color lives inside us,

it’s just our filter that is gray.

Though our lives have many chapters,

it’s finding strength when we feel weak,

that can help us better understand

that our past was really not that bleak.

We learn from knowing others

that everyone has things they lack.

One can’t just run away from problems,

Aunt Em, I’m coming back!

We shall search until we find,

all the cities left behind.

Floods of water,

floods of sand,

erased the people, hid the land.

The tales are told of near perfection,

yet their presence defies detection.

From the tales that you have heard,

do you believe a single word?

Perhaps simply a teaching tale,

a reminder that life and things are frail.

The myth allows us all to feel,

that something dreamed of can be real.

Yet one thing is true for us on earth,

we’ll all experience death and birth.

So cities come and cities go,

as we will too.

When?

We don’t know.