The Poetry Marathon

No worries about

The wall with the window

To nowhere

Too smooth to climb

Too wide to get over

Too boring for temptation

Who is it keeping out?

Who is it keeping in?

The highway barrier

A slab of unmovable concrete

Tough enough

To protect and restrain

A piece of peace

To rest upon

The hoodie to hide behind

For keeping secrets

For keeping myself unknown

To burrow under for respite

To frighten unfriendlies

Who get too close for comfort

Don’t laugh at my prison stripes

Look at the label on my ass

I’m strutting my stuff in a name brand

Making prison stripes look stylishly classy

Setting a new trend

For others to flatter me

With imitation

Could this be

half a mandala —

a symbol for

half the universe?

Is this half the sorrow

before transformation

or the joy at the center?

Or is your gift

a lace fan —

unfolded to display

cool images of holy contentment — or

are these plumes of a strutting  peacock

cast in black and white —

showing off his beauty in

search of companionship?

It’s a mandala

of a different hue

a different nature

It’s the universe

celebrating my half journey,

inviting me to enter for joy and beauty,

for contentment and companionship.

Don’t throw away those

stale slices of squashed bread

still in their plastic sleeve

squeezed into the breadbox

I’ve merged three loaves and

When I have a few more slices

I’ll check for mold and

Cut rectangles across the rest and

Dip them in a butter bath

infused with minced garlic

The oven will bake them

For snacks (not croutons!)

Chased by sweet lemonade and

We’ll remember

Before Bernice died

In her 96th year

She taught us

To not give up

on what may seem stale and

of no possible use.

There are still tasty treats and the sweet life

even in someone else’s trash

When we share the bread —

a holy communion of laughter — with

each piece a Bernice story

We remember together her garden

that only blooms in our memory

Her ceramics we can hold and

touch, reminding us

how warm and full of life she was

We are consumed with the laughs and memories

As we remind ourselves of her strength

and our weakness

How she climbed 3-foot snow banks

while we searched to find an easier way

The time she was 90 and

we worried when she didn’t show up

when she was expected and

discovered after she finally arrived that

she’d climbed atop the garage

To retrieve what had fallen there and

put it to use

before someone threw it away

It doesn’t matter

What is love

It matters why and who

And how you love

Love is nebulous,

A fuzzy nargle

Refusing to be defined,

Shifting itself into a shape to fit

Each imagining

Better to ask

How long, how much, how deep, how come

And not expect answers

Yet you keep wanting to know the unknowable —

What is love and —

It does not matter

Keeping the memory of a cinnamon sea

Salted with tears and blood that are proof of life,

We tremor on our braid of the bayou

At the elbow of the Cajun and the Creole

Where our buckets bring up more catfish than cool water —

So stagnant, its marsh gives no succor to thirsty elk

So somnolent, its stream seems to slog nowhere.

But some day we must sleepwalk to the sea

Where all water, all life flows on

Warming your feet at a burning bush

Offering your small light

in service to its sacred light

Waiting to hear a divine voice

Speaking to you of destiny

Sending you to prophesy

Choosing you to lead

Consuming your own dreams

You miss the stars

Scattered like seeds through the night

Calling to you

in sacred songs

Calling you to

joyful exaltation and divine delight

You fail to heed the call

There be dragons

beneath us

cavorting with angels.

What seem to be clouds

at our feet

is dragon breath

and feathers floated from

angel wings — all

evidence of a heaven

below, not above us

as we were told.

Shall we traverse to

the other side of the world

and find hell

in its rightful place

below?

Perhaps we’ll see smoke

looking like clouds

at our feet

raised from the fires

stoked by furies and fear

and pouring rain

from the cries of the damned.

Let’s stay on this side

of our world where

there be dragons

and angels.

Sara shed no tears

as she stepped around the body

slumped in the rolling chair

to pull the knife buried deep

out of the head

and rinse it in water so hot

it dropped

from her hands

before scrubbing vigorously

with a heavy-duty scrubbing sponge

before putting it in the dishwasher

along with the breakfast dishes

before she rolled the chair to the car

and drove it to the drop off

to push it over the cliff

and watch it burn

before she biked home

to bleach the blood from the floor

and scrub at the stains with a strong brush

and rinse with boiling water

and dry with old rags

before taking the rags

to the neighbors’ trash can

that would be picked up

at 7 am tomorrow

before she thanked God

the floor was white linoleum

and not tile with cracks

where – something –

might fall in

as she huddled on the sofa

holding her 10-year-old

who had learned long ago

to fear the fall of his own tears

who whispered, “Sorry, Mom.”

as they waited for the sunrise

before calling Missing Persons

Sara shed her tears

for him