The Poetry Marathon

What Day Is It?

In the dusky space

between sleep and awake,

I believe it’s Monday.

Begin planning for

quick, weekday breakfast,

doctor’s appointment at nine o’clock,

look forward to Zoom

book club meeting with friends.

As the sun rises higher,

light brings consciousness.

Feet find the floor.

Yesterday, I bought groceries,

we watched that movie about Space

with What’s-His-Name in it.

That was Saturday.

Today is Sunday.

Nothing again today.

Influencer

Instagram queen,

six-figure income.

Paid for

great authentic smile,

pretty teeth,

shiny hair.

Unique style,

easily relatable.

You set cultural direction.

Important opinions about

eye shadow, omelet pans,

game controllers, coffee flavorings.

Void of particular talent or

special ability.

You’re wonderful simply

because you are.

Cover your smile with

a colorful, branded mask.

Fight influenza,

Influencer.

Just be you.

You’re like me.

Staycation

Lounge by the pool.

Mystery novel, glass of

cold sauvignon blanc

on the table.

Elongated banana leaves

wave in the breeze.

Wispy white clouds drift

in powder blue sky.

Colorful, talkative songbirds

flit from tree to tree.

Hummingbirds buzz the feeder.

Grape and honeysuckle vines

extend their tendrils

along the fence and arbor.

Imagine the sound

of lapping waves,

roaring surf,

just beyond the yard.

Ignore the sound of

the neighbor’s Weed Eater.

Imagine hearing melodious

languages, not American English.

Ignore the barking of the

Labrador puppy next door.

Caribbean island paradise.

Secluded oasis on the Mexican coast.

Monastic hideaway in Southern France.

View of the Tasman sea.

All the places I’m not allowed to go.

Opening Up

A slow, gradual opening.

As Venus Fly Trap

secretes sweet nectar,

beckons with irresistible smells,

pleasant, open surroundings.

Little Restaurant of Horrors cries,

“Feeds me! Feed me! See? More.

Don’t let me die!”

It feeds on the hungry.

Kitchen newbies, tired caretakers,

crying children.

Lures them inside,

imprisoned in closed spaces,

oblivious, ignoring their fate.

They leave satisfied,

but doomed.

The Power of Deletion

If I don’t want to hear your words,

I don’t like what you say,

I touch the magic button

and just make it go away.

If you say hateful things to me,

your game I will not play.

I touch my finger to the screen.

Your cruelty doesn’t stay.

Defended with this power

as I use it every day,

you can’t hurt me with your trolling.

Spit your evil, as you may.

Black in Sea of Red and White

White woman,

Black scarf covered head,

nose and mouth.

Singled out.

Told to leave the Trump party.

Sat alone on concrete.

Arrested for sitting in

black, I Can’t Breathe T-shirt.

Black man,

Hoodie-covered head,

mask covered nose and mouth.

Arrested for walking while black.

Black youth arrested for

crossing the street.

Black woman arrested for

driving her car.

Black man arrested for

breathing while black.

The Tale of Convergence

Very special day.

Huge, huge crowds.

Assembled to propitiate

the alien God of Greed.

Thousands of bare-faced

admirers braved the heat,

hoping to glimpse their

bloviating orange savior.

Festive throngs boarded

the silver spaceship, feeling

anticipation of the unknown.

Anything could happen,

fun, excitement, salvation.

A giant camp meeting.

Tulsa, a Hellmouth city,

long awaited this day.

Ground beneath opened,

spit fire into the downtown sky

like Fourth of July.

The swirling spaceship

disappeared into the

bowels of the Earth.

Later, the City Council

voted to seal, pave the site.

Now a parking lot

and home of the

Terence Crutcher

Free Housing Center

for those in need.

Airing the Husband

My mother aired her laundry.

I air my husband.

He sits in the dark,

grumbles, gets

dank and musty.

Face transforms into

old bark and burls.

Lichen-covered, moss

begins to grow

on his north side.

He schleps up the stairs.

Watches the news,

yells at TV people.

At times, he and the lawn mower

disappear to make noise,

cut things down.

He comes home

tired and dusty.

I lead him out the door

into the light,

into the car.

Short trips to see

the sky, other distant people.

Warm breezes blow

through the mildewed mood.

The lines smooth,

crust slowly disappears,

voice mellows.

For a while,

he smells like sunshine.

Walgreen’s Peak

You’re alone.

Preparation is key.

Training and mental practice

are of utmost importance.

Check equipment.

Pack gear,

alcohol pads, wipes, masks.

Travel light,

avoid accidental contamination.

Picture the placement of necessary items.

Touch only those you’ll take.

Foot and hand placement are critical,

to prevent stumbling,

possible serious injury.

Know how to move,

along which aisles.

Consider every detail.

Life depends on it.

Avoid other risk-takers.

Loud talkers, especially children,

can bring an avalanche.

Move rapidly

during favorable climate conditions.

Stay calm,

prevent hyperventilation, dizziness.

At the summit,

swipe your card,

cleanse it thoroughly,

walk out the door.

Take a moment.

The view is amazing.

It’s all downhill from here.

You’ll return home safely,

memories, tales to tell.

Accolades from fans of

ibuprofen, toilet paper,

salty snacks and ice cream.

Dust

More fear this year.

News sites drone about

cloth masks and personal protection,

viral symptoms and death.

More gardens this year.

Social media posts about

patty pan squash and pests,

raised beds and healthy soil.

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust.

Remember that you are dust and

to dust you shall return