The Poetry Marathon

Nothing seems to lock a box
and throw away the key
like religion.

Who makes the rules?
God?
Whose version of God?

Who writes the holy texts?
Who interprets them?
Who gets to decide what is and isn’t sin?

What is sin, anyway?
If it’s a sin to hurt another,
shaming is a sin.
Shame destroys.

Who says it’s wrong to question God?
God’s existence?
Heaven and hell?
To question anything?

If there’s only one right way to heaven,
why are there so many different roads
and road maps?
Draw your own damn map!

Don’t get locked in to someone else’s prison
of beliefs, someone else’s definition
of good, bad, holy, unholy.
Seek your own truth.

Love and compassion
are the only holy texts
you need.

Biscuits and gravy!
I wasn’t much of a cook,
but I had a family to feed,
so I learned the scientific formula to create magic
from flour and fat and leavening,
from flour and fat and milk.

I experimented to find more perfect formulas,
and 21 times most weeks,
I put my formulaic meals on the table–
meat and bread and vegetables.

When I knew more, I weaned them from sugar,
from fat and flour,
kept experimenting
because delicious is as important
as healthy.

I stir honey and blueberries into yogurt,
cut cantaloupe instead of cake,
serve greens every day, seasoned with seeds
and spices, pickled beets and fresh tomatoes,
flavors from every continent,

and when my granddaughter visits,
lay in a supply of good aged cheddar,
white and crumbly,
and can upon can of pork and beans.

It’s easy to skip breakfast
if you don’t get up till noon.

Nike’s snoring.
Do they make CPAPs for dogs?

Whose idea was it to name the white cake Angel Food
and the dark cake Devil’s Food?

And what about that sinister left hand?

Of course it’s okay to do laundry
during the Poetry Marathon.
Just don’t forget to add detergent
as you ponder your lines.

Maybe you should try the prompt next time.

It takes a certain amount of selfishness
to be a writer.

Like your teenage granddaughter,
you have to ignore everyone around you,
lock yourself in your room,
refuse to speak,
eyes on screen,
fingers tapping furiously

Like your cat,
you can’t be bothered
by someone else’s attitude,
by nos and do nots.

Like your dog,
demand to be let in the door,
to be fed.

It’s not always about someone else–
lover, friend, the needy, your child,
that insistent dog.
Sometimes it has to be about you
and the story you must write.

Sometimes we mistake magic for ordinary.
An egg is magic.
So are a seed, a blossom, a child.

Why is it that the religious fear magic
but believe the unbelievable?

Science and magic are not mutually exclusive.
That spark of electricity is both
real and magical.
So is the atom you cannot see,
only its manifestations,
its aggregates.

The universe is unexplainable, but
scientists keep looking for explanations
and finding them.

Putting magic into a story is one way
to get many middle schoolers to read.

To share magic, read to a child.
To share magic, laugh with a friend.

Wait! Magic is magic!

I get up and fight
for autonomy,
for a quiet space that’s mine,
where nothing but words and ideas
can visit.

No television.
No demands.
Not going to happen.

So, I fight daily battles
for moments of my own,
include thinking time on my too-long to-do list,
shut myself in the room of my mind
where the door never quit latches,
where the outside world always sneaks in
and waits at my feet.

In those precious snatches,
I lay my sword on the table,
breathe in the almost silence,
gather my skittish thoughts in a pen
or a Word file.

Some days I win, knowing
tomorrow I’ll get up
and do battle again.

Yes, you are.
You’re a poet.
Oh, I know I am.
I’ve been that since the first time Mama smiled
at my scribbles,
my rhymes,
my seven-year-old genius
that only she could see.

Yes, you are.
You are a cook.
Oh, I know I am.
I’ve been one since I realized
no one else is going to feed me.
After a few decades,
and more than a few disasters,
I am a fine cook,
but today is leftovers day.

Yes, you are.
You are a friend.
I try to be, but sometimes I am needy,
sometimes I am distant,
sometimes wrapped up in a story,
but sometimes I am there
when you need me.

Poetry and writing are essential to my wellbeing. I’ve been writing and publishing for almost half a century, so I write almost daily, but the half marathon gives me a day just to celebrate poetry. My schedule is crazy, but I find a way to make time for this.

Looking forward to Saturday!

Playing with rhymes and word lists just because it’s hour twelve:

Take a picnic to the lake.
You can spare the time.
Don’t take
your money job so seriously.

Drive your old Jeep
into the woods. Witness
the glory and the moods
of trees and trails. Responsibility

is overrated. Rest yourself
beneath the canopy of trees.
Breathe fresh air, release
resentments. Gather peace.

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”
-Kris Kristofferson

Preacher’s kid.
No freedom at all.
Every minute accounted for.
Every action observed and judged.

You don’t think about it too much
when you’re ten
and a boy. But somewhere along the way
to adulthood,
everything changes.

You resent the prying eyes,
the sinners who expect you to be a saint.
It was worse for my sisters,
but girls are strong as steel.
They each found different paths out.
One married a preacher
(out of the frying pan into the fire).
One finds solace in wine.
One broke the shackles of organized religion,
and found god in her garden.

Me, I still believe,
but prayer is an open road.
I can sleep in an alley
as easily as I can a bed. Find a willing lover
when it gets too hot or too cold.
Leave when spring warms the ground,
when fall cools the air.

Work when I can.
Find free stuff when I can’t.
Nothing to lose but my freedom,
and when the turn comes, I’ll consider heaven
if the rules aren’t too tight.