The Poetry Marathon

Yes to confession,
No to the crime,
Yes to the poet,
No to the rhyme,
Yes to the wasting,
No to the waste,
Yes to the progress,
No to the haste,
Yes to the helping,
No to the sigh,
Yes to the process,
No to the lie,
Yes to embolden,
No to the bold,
Yes to the glowing,
No to the gold,
Yes to the searching,
No to the coal,
Yes to the sharing,
No to the toll,
Yes to the heartbeat,
No to the cage,
Yes to the freedom,
No to the slave,
Yes to uncensored,
No to the bleep,
Yes to the music,
No to the creep,
Yes for the people,
No for the cop,
Yes from the bottom,
No from the top.

Stalking pray with practiced skill he moves through shadow.
Tonight’s meal will not come easy; It must be pried from unwilling hands.
With all his skill he approaches, looking up into human eyes he reflects back all the love he’s sent. One thought in mind; Food.
Others may kill to eat but here each meal is served with broken hearts.

Suggestion of a warm embrace, tempting on the coldest night,
Eyes that say, “I’ll fade away” torture all in sight.
And if, by chance, his slaves deny the meal that’s rightly his,
He’ll raise his voice and scratch at doors, until his food appears.

There are places that feel like the center of the universe.
We had our time in Jerusalem, 2009.
Suddenly everything slowed down a there was nowhere else to think to be.

First week in the old city I couldn’t stand the light,
Every brick acting as a mirror throwing fists kept me inside.
I needed some distraction or the all consuming fire of location would burn me whole.
Just moments away from the nexus of prayer, Al Aqsa Mosque and Kotel Ha’Ma’aravi.
The holy sites for book bound souls and I was afraid to see.

Slowly I climbed the steps, checked rooftops and found the passageways. Old city snakes it’s way into hearts, inspires war, “drain the blood but do not stain the street.”
I saw the very map of separation and felt safe on the wrong side of segregation.

Some time later, upon my rooftop in lotus position,
Krisha in my sky, and the god of Ezekiel.
The muezzin summon all the faithful.
I feel the pull of worship,
Confused in my belief but trying to unfold every meaning.

With the burden of another day,
Before the sun’s full scorch,
Peaceful people make the walk,
To shule or mosque or church.
Clouds can also hear the call,
Aords shake the heavens high,
And in my seat I feel the worship,
Of raindrops from the sky.

You,
My champions,
Carry me so I forget where I stand.
You march through life unburdened,
Your fingers in my hand.

I remember when we met,
We were much younger then,
But as we collect memories,
Shaking off the yolk of men.

Together when we were dreaming,
Of the better place we knew the world could be.
With every summer, winter, summer,
Hope drifts further from our dreams.

Light upon two children crouching,
Bellies full to bust and juice dried on finger tips,
The expert of discovery.
I am a botanist.
Turning leaves and making notes.

“It’s the smallest shrubs that house the biggest fruit.”
Laughing as we roll down aisles,
And parental guidance falls away.
Run hard – faces like the fruit we find; We are still so young and ripe.
We eat them whole the leaves and all and smile through strawberry covered teeth.
We then played cards all afternoon and in the darkness fell asleep.

I cannot say yet how I feel,
Whisper to you while you sleep,
In the morning, waking yawn,
I pretend it was a dream.

And in the morning when we wake,
With each kiss you turn away,
I wish you knew that in each kiss,
Is love and love you at daybreak.

I’ll find the words in time I know,
When I feel foundations deep,
But in this moment time fast-forward,
Casting doubt, uncertainty.

The continents may move and drift,
Towards each other or away,
In or out do lovers shift?

Call it in, I’m fallen!
Weave your new needle in,
To join the fragments torn apart,
To chase the rush waiting.

Call it in, I’m older!
The world grows old with me,
The paper-bark you strips away,
Still clinging desperately.

Dark streets and familiar walks home, I know my steps too well.
The curb I tripped and grabbed your arm, the quiet spot behind the trees.
The path I ran toward your tears.
The home I new and left behind still jumps into my gait.
I turn to stumble into arms that folded now won’t let me in.
You were here with me.
You loved my heavy steps.
Cobble streets or train stop hills, I know these steps too well.
When the shadows reach to grab, ending every day,
I think of night-time running home away from all the pain.

closing seems such useless work,
only to open up again.
Today and yesterday again,
Tomorrow through the day again.

Let’s pretend that we could quick,
these hopeless pointless working wade,
Let’s pretend it means something,
To will away these weekend days..

work to make it work,
and you can make it through,
only forming dust into chalk?