The Poetry Marathon

Redemption

Cold, the chapel where he and I wed,
cold, the reception after,
cold, the family I joined,
cold, body and soul were lost.

Lost, my faith in unity,
lost, my good times after,
lost, my hope for pleasures shared,
lost, my past, alone.

Alone, I yearned for faith again,
alone, I wandered after,
alone, in child visitations I ached,
alone, waiting to be found.

Found, my faith was restored,
found, I waited after,
found, our families were introduced,
found, we two were joined.

Joined, we were in summer’s warmth,
joined, we are together,
joined, our blended families,
joined, you and I, forever.

Target

Fish in a tank, suspended in murky depths,
four plastic walls separating
are an illusion, as sharks circle
and salivate, just beyond sight.

Cat in a box, canary in a cage,
rat in a maze, all secure
and safe, as safe as they
wish to believe.

Self centered, self satisfied, central, smug,
she sits at ease, a queen on her throne,
director of all surrounding action but above,
center stage to an audience of none.

Second Chance

I am unbound, at last,
freedom found in tying
my lifeline to another,
a worthy partner in crime,
laughing into the night
hand in hand.

We wink at one another,
simpatico,
wondering at the lost
and broken strewn along
our path, wandering
the no longer lonely road,
side by side.

Past partners are shed
snake skins, retaining
their fearsome forms,
but hollow within,
all venom spent
against past selves, and we heal,
bit by bit.

No Bread Crumbs

She brought us out here yesterday,
we still do not know why.
Our plaintive cries echoed, lost, alone,
among the trees so high.

My phone had GPS, mama once said,
but no signal could be found.
We stumbled through the cloying fog,
our paths criss-crossed, round and round.

At last a clearing opened,
yellow lines on an asphalt road.
A beacon of light in the distance beckoned,
a strange and quaint abode.

Why did she leave us out here,
alone in the fog and cold?
No answer would be found within its emptiness,
no found drama would unfold.

I’m so excited for this year’s marathon . . . well, let’s be honest, any year’s marathon. I look forward to this from the end of one marathon to the beginning of the next. It gives me such joy to have a solid twenty-four hours to spend not only writing poetry, but also getting to know new friends and greet old ones again. Many thanks to our moderators once more, and greetings new poets. May your muses all be well hydrated and awake. 🙂

Collision Course

Sleep in the beginning
of this yearly adventure
flirtatiously flitted
around the periphery
of consciousness,
not quite
stepping into view.

Now, near the end,
sleep collides
with my eyes,
forcing blackout periods
from which I startle
and jump mid word,
a deer fleeing the hunt,
an involuntary response
to bone deep exhaustion
whose only remedy now
is sleep.

The Silver Metal Lover*

He is the ultimate lover,
never tires, never complains,
knows your preferences, and
flawlessly performs them every time.

He never hungers,
nor does he thirst,
but for your comfort
he will simulate both.

Your desires
are his desires
manifested, made real,
and prioritized above all else.

Should you need a shoulder
to cry on,
you can soak his shirt
and he won’t complain.

He is perfection personified,
and therefore, a threat.
A human lover could never compete,
and so he must go.

He will be ripped apart,
his supple silver skin slashed,
gears and wheels laid bare,
and melted down for scrap.

This world cannot willingly abide
something as beautiful as he.

*The Silver Metal Lover, by Tanith Lee

Nobody

Off the map,
off the charts,
in a red roadster
on a road to nowhere.
Nothing, and
nobody (who are you?)*
would drive that red roadster
to the middle of nowhere
without bad intent:
a spent lover
to leave
on the side of the road,
or a body to hide
in the bog.
She’s somebody
in that red roadster,
pretending to be
nobody,
so the next time
she rides through
she’ll put the top down,
let the wind
play with her curls,
but on this trip,
this time,
she’s nobody.

*references Emily Dickinson’s poem I’m Nobody, Who Are You?

Hail, the Conquering Heroes

Spring’s monsoon rains and sudden hails
chase away the faint of heart hipsters
and wanna-be nature babies,
leaving campus paths through dripping trees
clear for we academic adventurous few.

Share my umbrella,
equally miserable
beneath broken ribs.

No Place Like Home

The concierge was made aware in advance
that this was to be a second honeymoon,
no expense spared for the middle aged lovebirds
reigniting their romance with tired, damp matches.

A nest was made near the water,
whose lapping made the wife need to pee,
and they were to lay on a goose down mattress
and pillows that made him sneeze.

Gamely, they gave it a go, tried to rest
in their old lover’s knot, that position that knows
what to do with the extra arm,
only to awaken hours later, entangled and aching.

Ant colonies had bitten in unseemly places,
the champagne made her flatulent,
shellfish in the hors d’oeuvres swelled him like a sausage,
and a sudden squall soaked them.

So miserable they had to laugh,
they found a reason to commiserate,
a new story to tell the kids (with more than a bit of distance),
and a burning desire to be nowhere but home.