The Poetry Marathon

Each string of web-ination, wrought,

To gently bind the caught,

Though he may fight, for naught,

In the trap, pulled taunt.

Now habit bound,

Facebook bought

Freedom

Gone.

I was thinking I might take a cruise—

To somewhere with long Canadian light,

Where darkness, deep, is not so much,

And brighter flowers fill long sun hours,

Just south of Alaskan permafrost.

To view the bears, grizzled or white,

and glaciers glistening rainbow-bright,

Both, calving, one in summer, one not,

‘Mid frigid fingerprints of God.

Where spike and spire stand rock solid, bold,

As they’ve always done, since days of old,

And my little cruise ship will putter by,

Unnoticed by the massive sky.

Minute speck on the glacial slate,

Finite glitter, by grandeur great.

I don’t understand the gist of this,

the Gigan, nor its tale;

it’s twisted canopy of rhyme-less rhyme

nor rhythm’s warped, unguarded lines

where no Suess is found…

not here, not there.

in fact, not anywhere;

not on a boat,

not with a goat,

not on a plane, a train, or in the rain,

I don’t get the gist—I don’t.

not here, not there,

nor do I care,

to make the effort, as I’ve said…

Although by now

My Gigan you have read.

There she sits, on her throne-like seat,

Where the Delaware Bay and Atlantic meet,

And guards The Point as the ships sail on,

From far-flung places, to the Cape May dawn.

Hey, you there,

wanna buy a watch?

I heard him hiss

from the shadow

of the alleyway.

Shady character.

Just keep walking.

Hey, you heard me.

As he pulled

the coat sleeve

up his arm

to reveal an iWatch,

its video mode engaged.

I tried to look away,

but it was too late…

There I was,

a kid, fishing,

dreaming dreams,

making wishes

on a four-leaf clover,

watching clouds roll by,

knowing in my heart

where each one was going.

Then it stopped.

He rolled down the sleeve

and walked away.

Whistling.

And I stood there,

alone in the dark.

there I sat,

under the oak,

knitting a sunflower,

taller than most,

whose stem was

a moonbeam,

stitched mostly

in stars,

when a satchel

of moondust

fell, smack,

down from Mars,

and spattered my work

with galaxy dust

and it rampantly rose,

as I’m sure it must,

gathering speed

as it grew,

out of control,

trailing my yarn,

into the night sky,

where it covered the moon

and fed the wild geese

as they passed on their way

to wherever geese go

There, amidst the dappled reach,

Beneath the willow bending low,

As endless waters flow and froth

Over pebbles, like a broth,

A walkway through the wood once brought

Both stranger, neighbor to the door.

The mill, now silent, stood full-bright

And changed the fortunes of the grain;

From field-grown fodder to flour there;

Or was it wood to lumber bare?

So far long-gone and legend now,

That none can recall its tale for sure.

The stone that once drew grimly ‘round

Now leans upon the bank, reposed.

A cedar thrust up through its core

To mock the labor it once bore,

Through snow and bluster, weather foul–

In endless daily grind no more.

Now shines the sun through willow branch.

And so, the rain in vernal dance.

Yet grind the season round the year.

And make life, so daily vivid true,

Into mere powder, dust, and grist,

As sun and globe spin as they do,

Spare little trace of those before.

Patient, Old Spider, deftly spins,

His woven trap of sort-of-sins,

And waits the wayward’s flailing wings;

Wears him down, a’strumming strings.

One drink, one pill, one pipe, one peek;

Until he’s mummy-wrapped and weak.

And then Old Spider sucks him dry…

Of life, and love, and will to fly.

They said the prompts

Were on the Moan Page;

I wholly agree with you.

My place to whimper.

My place to whine.

What’s a poet to do!

And when I’m done this marathon,

It can be the edit-and-shred page too.

Lumber Jac

She traveled light and west and such

to feel Pacific’s sparkling touch,

and tread, barefoot, on the rocky shore,

where bluster bold and gray-bearded skies

Roll like waves in endless tides.

She tread where beanstalks never grew,

But Jac’s giant could learn a thing or too

Of punching holes through the ceiling-sky,

Yet tread she forth, amid mossy glade

Canopied by ancient shade.

Had Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe

Walked these woods, light speckled, grayed,

Axe in hand, in this holy place,

Cathedral green and star-glittered night

Dwarfed, instead, in the Great Tree’s sight?

In the corner of the photo-post,

What catches my imagination most,

Is the slightest edge of a red plaid shirt

Bold enough for her to compete

With the endless ocean and the ancient trees.

The ocean touched her very soul,

And the trees stand still in breathless awe;

Indelible, they’ve left their mark,

Entwining roots through her heart;

She may fly east, but she’ll never come back;

They’ve stolen the soul of Lumber Jac.