The Poetry Marathon

It isn’t my favorite prompt of all time;

some dubious quotes about life on the line,

paired with a shot of a desolate bridge;

Good thing we’re

too tired,

too worn,

fighting asleep,

to climb, jump, or dive.

into something that deep.

We might say we have a sense of timing,

Used in rhythm, but rarely rhyming.

Sense of value and self-worth,

Sense of humor, joy, and mirth.

Sense of direction (unless we get lost),

Sense of style, because we’re boss

Come to our senses, and talk sense too,

Sense of purpose for what we do;

Some things don’t make sense, so we find,

There is common sense, and sense of mind,

Sense of belonging, sense of fair play,

Horse sense, sixth sense; we could go all day.

A sensational word; its potential immense,

Without losing our senses, at least, in that sense.

I’ve said “Yes” too many times to count,

Which leaves massive space for a case of No Doubt,

I doubt that ‘no’ would have changed a thang,

And doubt any happiness it could’a brang,

N’Doubt, such a loss, was a tragic shame,

left Lil’ Doubt, sibling, of lesser fame,

to whose Gramps, the Father-of-all-Doubts, made claim,

using fear to bolster the Family name.

Cousin Whatif, of Cleveland, you might recall—

the most ambiguous N’Dout of all—

Still spells his name with Old Country flair—

Drops the B to add ‘Watshudikare’.

N’Doubt, you know—won the great war

to banish all ‘Maybees’ from near and far—

now plays the harp, of Old Mitaben.

but we don’t have time to listen to him.

‘Cause likely we’ve already spent too much time

on the unfaithful N’Doubt and his long family line,

instead of embracing the ‘Yes’ we picked out—

with Whatifs and Maybees, and their likes, no doubt.

I have two daughters.

Yes, I do.

And with this prompt,

You could too.

But yours would never be perfect like mine,

Who always listen,

every time,

And perfectly do as I wish them do.

No, yours would have a flaw or two.

And yours, unlike mine,

might disagree,

were you to ask them do chores for me—

while mine do their chores without being asked,

–even the most egregious task.

Their rooms are spotless,

Their beds are made—

You’d never guess that’s where they laid,

when they went to bed at an early bedtime;

No playing games ‘til half-past nine.

Yours, I suppose, are on their cell too much,

Through breakfast, bath-time, school and lunch,

Glued to their messages, games and such.

I’m just sayin’; it’s just a hunch.

Are they kind and thoughtful, polite and a joy;

Speak when spoken to, hard to annoy;

Anticipate what their mother might need,

Generous givers, not given to greed,

Prayers, thinkers, and doers, too?

Love to learn most anything new?

I stand, again, before the mirror and preach,

To myself about what is out of their reach;

And remind myself that no matter the flaw,

They are my children, after all.

And years from now, when they’ve grown

And have a family of their own,

My grandchildren will behave perfectly,

Because, of course, they take after me.

Christ’s life spilled silently,

Whip-scourged, nailed violently,

Drop by precious drop,

Breath by sweet breath,

Sword-thrust, and alone.

The earth shuddered.

Heaven folded inward.

Death closed the tomb.

Until morning broke, three days beyond,

And the earth shuddered

Heaven opened.

Away rolled the stone.

Death, that feeble foul of fable,

Died quietly as Jesus rose.

Drop by precious drop,

Breath by sweet breath,

He conquered death,

To claim the Crown and Robe!

You race through the last month of High School,

Packed with banquets, proms, and exams,

Future in sight; Hope in hand,

On the cusp of great things.

Breathe in the moment

Before it is gone.

One. Last. Time…

On your mark.

Get set.

Go!

Stop!

I blinked.

You were three.

And now eighteen!

I can hardly breathe–

Where is my little girl?

Future of hope and promise,

Walking tall in your cap and gown.

So proud of the woman you’ve become!

In the storefront, the wellies reigned supreme,

Periwinkle, orange, and Monet green,

All sprouted with Macs, to celebrate spring—

At the apex of summer.

Every size and color (rain apparel galore),

Besides the bumbershoots strewn on the floor,

That spilled out of a rowboat propped near the door—

Which, in July, seemed a very odd thing.

Bit of a stumper—

In plaid, Firth-blazoned, Cumberbatch-printed,

For brave puddle-jumpers, who downpour-sprinted.

Union Jack, Beatles, Churchill—

An extended range.

Maybe in winter, but not in July.

And many a bloke asked himself why.

And why here, did the thunderous clouds first appear?

Bloody strange.

Perhaps in the Highlands or Cumbrian Mountains,

In winter, of course, it dumped buckets—no, fountains.

And no one would wonder or make a flap—

Over quite-dampish ventures.

But Clacton-on-Sea, in deluge, was no lark—

Someone should ring up for Noah-and-Ark!

Weatherman, kindly turn off the tap—

Dry up the drenchers!

They gave us a list of words–and I struggled for more than two hours to make this work, make it fun. Please let it not offend anyone. Have you ever tried to research accurately for the customs, vocabulary, and authenticity of a country where you do not live? Someday, maybe, I can visit these places, but for now, I can only love it from afar.

Amid the Winter

It is likely that the winter wind,

wending ‘round the windows again,

will whine and whistle, with a moose-like moan,

all spike and thistle, with spiny groan.

And then in haste, will whistle away,

dust dairy and dinghy on a snowy day.

frost, and frigid, brittle with bite,

especially on a starlit night,

when the worst of weather howls like wolves,

stampedes through the pass, on thunderous hooves,

tells lies to the spruce, the juniper, pine,

huddled like old men, bent in decline,

whose green-wooly overcoats shudder with snow,

sun-warmth forgotten amid the blow.

As over the hill, in the valley below,

Jingle bells ring and Yule logs glow.

Look before you leap,

If the tide’s in, the water is deep.

But if the tide is out, there leaves little doubt,

Muddy and mucky, you might not come out.

It is always just another day, ringed ‘round in the coming and going of the tide: When to fish. When to crab. When to pull in the nets and head for home. The usual build-and-dump of thunderheads litters the sky more fully in the heat, less so in the hemmed-fog, tilting every sail-filled, bobbing island.

They call them boats. Or ships. More like Bobs and Shifts—wherein, no anchor has the power to make stable the flimsy flat and billowing blast. And gulls laugh heartily at the efforts.

As if that isn’t enough—nature, slapping whips, and brandishing hoops through which the launch must venture–the Moon and Tide, in a love-match immemorial, betimes fight so passionately as to draw up grandly, leaving currents and mudflats where none have been, where no seasoned sailor dare chance drift.

Can you read the wind? The stars? The clouds seven hours ahead?

The tide? The heat? Sea Monsters and their dread?

How far from shore is the illusive shimmer of fish?

How far from shore can they lure you if they wish?

Are you the catcher—or have you been caught—with a bit of bait and your crew, now lost?

Christopher Robin, that fine young lad,

had quite a creative and whimsical Dad,

who wrote about creatures who lived in the nursery,

making adventures for Chris, all in versery.

Pooh was a pudge, and quite a bit plump,

a glutton for honey, and dumb as a stump;

With little brain to “Think, think, think…

Oh, bother, where was I?” he’d say in a blink.

While piglet was little, afraid and befretted,

a tiny pink friend Pooh never regretted,

defended from Woozles and Heffalumps too—

Exactly the way a friend ought to do.

And for that matter, all Pooh’s friends were a mess—

Eeyore depressed,

Owl, who digressed,

Rabbit, the know-it-all, always a test.

And finally, Tigger, ADHD, and sproingy,

hyper-as-heck, all a-bounce, oingy boingy!

Just a bit off, yet loved and adored.

With all of these oddballs, Chris couldn’t be bored.

Not all of Pooh’s friends were as looped as a llama;

There was Kanga and Roo; little joey and Mama—

Milne sketched out their foibles, and CR was Roo—

Do you think Christopher Robin knew, Pooh?

A hundred woods acres to ramble about—

Owl’s Tree, and Trespasser Will’s house,

Rabbit’s Garden, Eeyore’s hut made of sticks—All at five.

Next book: Now We are Six.

*Pooh Corner; The Annual Poetic Edition 2021