The Poetry Marathon

The skyscraper storefront selling sourdough,
Reaches up into a cloud, that when pricked with a needle
Sends a deluge to spread raindrops, making
A neat beat to beat the ground with gumboots
Stomping periwinkle puddles like a forest ranger

The stars are screaming
Lamenting the loss of baby Jesus
To a cacophony of horrid music
Infused with consumerism
And the awakened awareness
That we neglect our most vulnerable
For the rest of the year;
(Except for maybe Thanksgiving)

Thanks, capitalism.

Two birds with one stone
As if it’s an accomplishment
To snuff out avian lives
With prejudice
And it begs the question:
How big are the birds?
How large must the stone be?
What is the purpose of this wanton violence?
Is this hunting for sustenance, or vanity?

Similarly, would it not make more sense
For it to rain a catadupe, rather than
Cats and dogs? How is gravity doing?
How has it failed our feline and canine friends?
Questions rise up like dandelions through concrete
Or like hatching birds
Making me question the hubris of humanity
In its war waged on the animal kingdom
Through sayings

What does it say about us, as a species
To continue dignifying and celebrating
Destruction, cata doxa
Really though, how much meat is on a sparrow?
And if dogs and cats are falling from the sky,
Are they alive or dead upon impact?
Why not just wait for a deluge,
Then sustainably harvest the sinister rain?
At the very least we could claim to save the birds

Angry dude has a vendetta against an aquatic mammal
That allegedly took off his leg because it’s CRAZY
But inasmuch as maligned whales are concerned,
What about the arrogance of man, and the hate-on for
Nature
And other things outside of the control of patriarchy
A need to punish, neglecting that an eye-for-an-eye
Leaves the whole world without the ability to
See beauty

Normalcy, the status quo for sure
Boxes of being, convenience for conception
Intended for manual correction
Not connection to others, but
Of afflictions to personality

Not all is lost, however;
Normal can be what you make of it
It’s what you take from it,
It’s how you shake it from the tree
Of normalcy; remember: it has many branches

Shuffling softly along, plodding playfully
Feet on repeat, sweet streets replete
With concrete, and self-propelled people
Off to meet and greet to a neat beat
As old as time, rhyme, and the sublime
Strolling, not trolling, at a casual saunter
Flaunting by the foot, perhaps to mince
Since we could promenade like a prince

No one but Elders remember a time before The End
Even if it’s just been my beginning, my life;
Snuffed skies dominate horizons choked by smoke,
Particulate matter creating brilliant sunsets
Wondering how forests still remain to burn
But still humanity plods along,
So I guess fact is stranger than fiction

We were digging a fire pit when we found it
A small chest for keepsakes, of unknown origin
But of course we found it here
Like ourselves, I guess that’s its story;
The shovel dented the wood, but
The damage was not severe,
Unlike what we’d done to the planet

Inside: a save button from a word processor
But physical and real, one of the Elders
Called it a “floppy disc”… it wasn’t floppy
A photograph of a family, smiling;
Hard to believe the sky really looked like that
Hard to believe people could be so happy
Hard to believe food was so plentiful

We live well enough, but the Elders say
It was as simple as “Going to the grocery store”
Which was some kind of food library,
But you didn’t have to bring anything back
And I wonder what secrets the save button holds
But we don’t have a “floppy disc reader”
And I wonder why these items were buried

Especially the can of beans…
Perhaps they thought ahead? Perhaps they knew
Of the carnage that would be unleashed
Perhaps the happy collection predicted that
Sustenance would be hard to come by
And preserves would be the way forward
But alas, we lack a can opener

Death came knocking last night, sat beside me
All scythe and cloak and darkness
Myself wading through existence
Swimming, even, adrift perhaps

Struggling to accept beauty for some time
I viewed him with curiosity
And maybe a little bit of contempt
“You took my Makaze from me, you know”

They grinned a toothsome grin, wryly provided a retort
“Life is a gift, you know”
There was a long pause; you see
I wasn’t so sure, with its repetitious days

Silhoutted memories of love and passion
Danced in the voids of my mind
Punctuations of pain and a struggle for meaning
“It is what you make of it, and it’s for the living.”

We sat together in silence, again, for some time
“So I guess this is good bye?”
“For now”, they intoned, standing up
“I prefer au revoir,” he said.*

* – credit to Sir Terry Pratchett, adapted final line in “Mort”

I am incapable, and undeserving of love
Scars written on a heart
Hanging heavy with hurt

I am incapable, and undeserving of love
Faltering and fumbling
Frustrated and fucked up

I am incapable, and undeserving of love
Grasping for reality
Imprisoned by my mind

Seeking to find myself
When I’m right beneath my nose
I am capable of deserving love

Fresh coffee’s aroma
And the sound of it pouring
Sweet singing birds
Sore muscles from laughter
Sunshine on skin
Rain on skin
Skin on skin
Baked pumpkin seeds
Riding a bicycle
Alliteration
The moments between sleep and awake
Slipping into a warm bath
Saunas
Shoe and clothing removal after a long day

Memories of comfort and calm
Warmth embodied
Elation in movement