The Poetry Marathon

In upper New York, from Bullet Hole Road to the dirt road to the train, I walk by the red-painted barn faded to pink. I am startled to see in plaid flannel shirts and high laced leather boots, two hunters, one with a shotgun broke open carried across his left arm, the other hunter armed with a new-fangled crossbow and long arrows, or bolts ending in razor-sharp tips. I hear the snap of the bolt action releasing the arrow through the dust of the autumn air, and plunging into the velvety hide of the unsuspecting buck bending head to drink in the burbling rill.

Abruptly, chest tight

The urge for retribution

In private hunt preserve

You stand at the window,

whipped cream hot coffee satisfies breakfast.

Morning light beckons thought.

Across the flowered meadow,

aspens quake, shiver in morning breezes.

Ready to bolt, deer pause in shadows,

hesitate, sniff for danger,

wander and taste wild strawberry, seeds, wild lettuce.

In a clearing, early twin fawns wobble near mother,

sun now warm on speckled backs.

Rise up, float out window frame.

Azure sky draws you onward through forest.

Winding through branches, leaves caress face,

drift over arms, shoulders, thighs.

You are content.

Through the open window,

a bright ray

poised on the precipice

of my brow,

hair by hair,

glides to an eyelash.

It trembles, flutters.

A groan, a sigh,

I sit up, rise out of bed.

The garden wakes

to full sun.

Bearded iris sit in dry air

5280 feet above the sea.

Yellow standards thrust high,

jostle each other like yellow umbrellas

over purple falls.

Fuzzy yellow beards offer bees

a landing, an invite to gorge on nectar.

Grandma Toledo never stinted on love.

She was old, I was the youngest child

in a family of seven.

Mother never let any of us sit on her lap,

but Grandma Toledo welcomed me to hers.

Wrinkled, sagging arms radiated comfort,

smelled of baby talcum powder.

Tucked in there, I could fall asleep.

No need to be on high alert against danger.

Bismarck, peridot-eyed Russian Blue cat

had a spurt of white hair on his chest

like pastry Bismarcks,

fried doughnuts with a spurt of cream on a side.

In his last elder years,

at night, purring, he leapt up on the bed,

padded over my body

and plumped down on my head–

we shared the pillow.

Like Grandma Toledo,

Bismarck kept insomnia at bay.

I could sleep the night.

Shove. Get in there!

Snick—the key turns.

Your big brother Mickey’s footsteps clack

on the wood floor,

thud on the rug.

It’s dark in here.

Old rubber galoshes stink of feet,

the coats of wet wool.

They hang around,

their hems on your neck and shoulders.

You hope no mice come in here

to scrabble and squeak

like they do in the walls by your bed.

On the rolling cart,

wooden fruit box.

Narrow slats pasted up with color labels.

Thin nails, loose on one corner.

Juice is leaking,

dribbling down, dripping on the floor.

sun strikes black soil of the prairie;

weeds, dust, insect drone.

Small child thinks of Indian time

& snorting, thundering bison.

On her side of the avenue,

behind the brown stucco-sided house,

railroad tracks–

boxcars rumble comfort.

Wheel clickity clicks

let sleep trickle in to train’s rhythm.

Sometimes, she and three big sisters

boost each other into empty boxcars.

Bits of hay, pieces of packing labels

to mysterious destinations.

On Dad’s lap, they watch

the train wheels roll over

a 1946 Indian Head penny,

examine the elongated face and headdress feathers.

is to be watching TV, drinking

a Bud Light and yaking on and on

your cell during commercials.

Take a walk with friends while

you all text other people.

But, time is required

to watch

Rivoli’s green/bronze-throated hummingbird sip

nectar from red blossoms

pass to red blossom and flit

next and next and next.

On twilight walk

a shed cicada skin clings

to plant.

A large insect,

transparent wings & two inch long slender tailpiece

settles on maple tree bark–

a parasitic giant ichneumon wasp–

My day is complete.

I’m late!  I’m late!  I’m late!

I couldn’t find the gate.

You know I slept too late.

You can’t go back,

you’ve lost the track.

Your usual time/timeless insomniac.

Watch it! Don’t have a cardiac attack.