The Poetry Marathon

Hour 3

Woman in a Circle (photo by Frank Ching)

Chanced upon the

empty chair meant for her.

Hesitantly stepped inside the first circle.

Then, the next…then, the next…then, the next…

through the hashed lines of the inner sphere.

Her resting place.

Safe and comfortable.

Vacation.

Haven.

Womb.

So, this is what it felt like.

Sue Storts

09/02/2023

Hour 2

Mammals

Mammals think too much of hair.

Take it off here, put it on there.

Too much time we spend on shaving,

waxing, braiding, cutting, waving.

Hair and gender norms are crazy.

Girls who don’t remove it, lazy.

Men wear ball caps when they lose it,

or try fake hair if they choose it.

Culture dictates hair in fashion.

Make a statement. Find your passion.

New hairstyles can make us happy.

Ruin our hair, and we feel crappy.

Do birds and lizards waste their time

on feathers smooth and scales sublime?

They can’t obsess about such traits.

They’d starve before they found their mates.

Sue Storts 09/02/2023

Hour 1

My Friend, Rae

Dark cloud of death

hovers above her.

Hails misery.

Split! Splat!

Drops a brother.

Husband.

Almost a lover.

Another brother.

She moves on…moves on…moves on…

I want to rush in,

grab her tight,

roll us both to safety.

It doesn’t work that way.

I can’t control the weather,

only here with an umbrella.

Sue Storts

09/02/2023

Wrong is the New Right

If you don’t know an answer,

you can always just pretend.

Your story’s an enhancer.

They’ll believe you in the end.

If you get caught red-handed,

always best to just deny.

Though a liar you’ll be branded,

it can never hurt to try.

If you are lacking money,

just get someone else to pay.

Some folks won’t find this funny.

You’re a jerk is what they’ll say.

Battle of the Sexes

Next year,

we’re mostly gay.

Too dangerous to be straight female.

No choices.

Heterosexuality trends downward.

Safe sex is Lesbian sex.

More mass shootings

by frustrated men.

Fewer babies.

Population declines.

Human Earth Saved!

Thanks, Supreme Court.

Not My People

These are not my people.

But I want them to adopt me,

alien child dropped into the

Fundamentalist Christian Wild West.

Glitch. Mistake.

I instinctively knew about

ethnicities other than Indians and White people.

Bread that’s hard to roll into a ball,

other than corn bread.

That thinking differently, if at all,

could be a good thing.

These people tolerate differences,

don’t need more than three guns,

show awareness of climate change,

won’t bully children for intellectual endeavors.

Wrap me in your East Coast Liberal arms.

Sign the adoption papers.

Minor League Baseball

Baseball is a kid’s game.

Ferry Hawks vs. Blue Crabs.

Laughed hysterically

under our broken umbrella

during long rain delay,

Ballpark with view of the Manhattan skyline.

Herds of children chased balls through the stands.

Uninhibited grown-ups danced to bad disco.

Silly fans sang horribly.

Goofy bat race guys spun around, fell down.

Awkward Kiss Cams.

Pizza won a race because

another food got tackled by the batboy,

who danced like a very white

Napoleon Dynamite between innings.

Kids must have invented baseball.

Apology to the Tree People

Sorry.

Took you for granted.

Enjoyed your shade, birds,

green in spring, splendid colors in fall.

Learned about your xylem and phloem,

photosynthesis and reverse Krebs Cycle.

Didn’t think to get to know you.

Your lifestyles, cultures,

preferences, parenting styles.

Didn’t even bother to learn your names:

Aspen, Cherry, Ash, Fir,

Oak, Maple, Cedar.

I’m old now, trying to learn.

Humans are slow, but not as slow as trees.

Steinway

Magnificent building!

Such art overshadows, outlives

men’s foolish passing notions.

Steinway chiseled in stone

above the archway enclosing mythological figures.

Above, a gilded balcony

decorated with four stone urns of dancing cherubs.

Pillars holding a higher balcony

with large arched doors

topped by a metal roof and torch.

Each night the lights come on,

but no one is home.

Tastefully decorated rooms,

seen from across the street

prompt speculation.

Ghosts of great musicians

meet once a year to play for each other

in the large salon at the top.

Bought by the government,

a refuge in case of emergency

for dignitaries, those in high places.

Sign out front says,

“Finely Tuned Residences For Sale.”

It’s all about the money.