The Poetry Marathon

don’t forget the clutter budget
life is slapdash and loud
pans clatter and you cry at night
sometimes you want to scream
discordant songs are still music
entropy always bites back
smoothing skirts and countertops
will end in wrinkled skin
tears don’t help complexions
but crying can be cathartic
sing every song at once
smile when you can
let yourself be messy
no one’s ever really grown-up
it’s just a silly child’s world
built on legos and elmer’s glue
anyone who says differently is just
playing pretend at perfection
dance like you’re bad at it
but you still want to live

“Now close this book and remake the world.”
I close my book.
I must remake.
How does one “remake?”
One starts by unmaking.

I unmake my book.
I unmake my room and my house and my street.
I unmake the world bit by bit.
I take every species and mineral and feeling.
I look at them closely and unmake their carefully woven parts.

Now I am left with the unmade.
Pages and stomachs and crystals and fur and support beams.
The word “Microsoft” and the connection between siblings and an unremarkable sunrise.
They float separate in nothingness.
I leave myself made so I can remake.

It’s like taking apart a ballpoint pen and putting it back together.
Only this time, I decide how it gets put back.
Most things I remake the same:
Organs in the body, ink printed on paper and skin, trees growing above their roots.
These all stay the same.

But there would be no point if I did not learn from my unmaking.
I learned that the word “bemused” is confusingly similar to “amused,” so I make them different.
I learned that there is no need for extra qualification of cousins.
They are all just cousins now.
I change many little things like those.

I do not change the ugliness.
It was there when I started, the shadow and the death and the violence.
It frightened me to look at, and I was glad to unmake it.
But it is important, and it is real, so I put it back.
It is what balances this whole worldly contraption, if correctly assembled.

I look over my remade world.
It has a remade room, and a remade house, and a remade street.
My book has been remade exactly as I remember it.
I replace my book upon its shelf.
I watch the remade people out the window, continuing their lives.

– First line from The Runaway Species by David Eagleman and Anthony Brandt

Look at the dirt.
The soil which sustains life:
Twisting roots anchoring,
Gathering and delivering.
The bugs which feed it all:
Laboriously collecting,
Climbing, marching, dying.
Look at the dirt and say:
“This is good.”

Look at the water.
The streams that ripple:
Cleansing and clear,
Quenching and carrying.
The seas that thunder:
Deep, dark, and ineffable
Alive with mystery and motion.
Look at the water and say:
“This is good.”

Look at the sky.
The stars that blink:
Distant and vast and tiny
Sketching myths across void.
The universe that shimmers:
Encompassing, expanding, creating,
Alight with life and fire.
Look at the sky and say:
“This is good.”

Look at yourself.
Your body which holds your form:
Breathing, moving, digesting,
Dancing, speaking, healing.
Your mind which is the truest you:
Perceiving, analyzing, organizing,
Feeling, loving, creating.
Look at yourself and wonder:
“Is this good?”

There are two types of people:
(no, there are as many types as there are people)

The ones who leap without knowing
Where their feet will land and
(what kind of person really leaps without looking
we all need to see the ground lest we fall)

The ones who wander, trying it all, mixing
Knowledge from many spheres, building layers and
(this is what i’ve done since i was five
if i’m not the best at this how could I be good at anything)

It doesn’t matter which type you are.
You need both approaches to life, to see it anew.
(some people just aren’t a good match we are
too different to ever make each other happy)

People are confusing outside of types and
(emotions are wild and free and can’t be explained)
Spectacular in the way they differ
(i wish i could change but i can’t not love)
A smile can mean so many things
(the same way i have always loved)
Depending on who it’s from.
(if it makes you happy fight for it)

All types of people make mistakes,
(we are human, we are social)
None are better than any other.
(we are connected and that might be enough)
What matters most is happiness
(and i think we can manage that)

What if we could stop the clock? Or
divert those ominously marching hands
down a rabbit hole spiral of clock faces,
let them eat away at an infinite mobius strip,
an ouroboros-esque monster,
while we continued to live
unafraid. Existing only adjacent
to the now-pointless continuation
of hours and days.

If we could build an end to time,
just to circumvent The Ends
time would otherwise deliver,
what meaning would be left?
What purpose in our endeavors,
in how we spend our metered seconds,
if there are no earthly limits
to impress their importance?
What delight in the fleeting foxglove,
what wonder in early years of life,
both lived and witnessed?

The power of a moment
relies on its brevity;
on the promise that another instant
will replace the old with novelty.
Without time’s Ends, its Beginnings
would also be lost.

We love because one day we won’t,
due to their absence or our own.
We cannot stop or slow the clock,
our age progresses ever forward—
never deviating from its steady advance.

my mom-mom has a gift waiting for me
of a Christmas cactus
her daughter told her
about my growing plant collection
so she took a cutting
from her own mother plant
to give to me
when next we meet
I cannot go to get it
while the virus rages on
one little piece of cactus
isn’t worth the risk
she has survived
past childhood (several siblings didn’t)
through cancer and the toxic treatment
I would give all my leafy children
plus some hundred more
so that this, too,
she strides past
to give her gifts herself

Old Ms. Beth lives down the lane
She rarely goes outside.
(Something with her legs, I think?)
I made her apple pie.
I walked it over to her
and noticed something queer:
Her garden’s full and tidy
Though I’ve seen no one here.
I ask about her roses.
If mine could bloom like that!
She says her gardener does it.
(We take some time to chat.)
I look for months to see them,
the one with such green skill,
But no one ever shows,
Much less one who’d fit the bill.
I carefully watch the yard,
Find no weeds or disarray.
Her plants must be magic
to behave so well this way!
I’m not far off, I find
One night taking out the trash.
She’s standing in the flowers.
I hear words, see a flash!
Sparks float across the stems
Trailing greenness in their wake.
I race back to my kitchen.
(My hands just slightly shake.)
No gardener ever worked there;
She got her garden free!
If only I can sway
Old Ms. Beth to mentor me…

straight up turquoise sky
hovering at horizon line baby pink
where they kiss- cotton candy and downy white
the waters reflect teal-grean
island close scalene triangle
glued to its reflection, a kite
half fuzzy far-off purple
half distorted deep green
faint ridges in the distance
speak of lands unexplored
for some other mornings
this, now, is the beginning

dusty guitar strings throw off grey fuzz
practiced fingers guide back to tune
an instrument abandoned
a traveler craving levity
together, sing a few 90’s pop
80’s rock ballads
let the wood and metal
remember what it’s like to dance
and the shaking hands
remember how to create
to weave notes and words combined
a frivolous endeavor
the sound echoes
around the lonely town
bounces from concrete wall to brick
finding no one but the player
guitar’s too bulky for the road
but both will cling
to the memories
a night of song
in an otherwise
silent life

Early morning and I’m awake
Walking down to the local farmers’ market

Always dogs, sun-warmed coarse fur to pet
Waiting patiently for owners to purchase

Bakery stand with chocolate bear claws
Toasted brown pastry crumbles, dark gooey filling

Glistening fruits fresh smell divine
Muted blueberries, deep blackberries, ruby strawberries

Honey sticks of varied flavors, so many colors
Carefully select some of each for a rainbow bunch

Clutching my bear claw and canvas bag of goods
Return home with the bounty, oh so sweet