The Poetry Marathon

Down by the school yard he sits in his van.

Never having a child to pick up,
No attempt to hide behind a book or magazine,
He just sits there and watches, sometimes for an entire hour.

Some kids are running around the soccer field,
While others just sit, looking sad and forgotten.
Many hop into the real vans, the ones for families, not perverts.

One boy in particular looks extra sad and forgotten,
Probably waiting for his father who lost track of time at the office.
In five minutes he will go ask little Johnny, “Would you like some candy?”

There is a certain note, or range of notes, that makes me melt.
I feel it here and I want so badly to stop giving a fuck,
And dance around, arms waving wildly.

The scene from Titanic comes to mind,
Where Rose goes with Jack down into the dance hall.
Where the plebs go to let loose,
And they spin and spin and spin,
And she feels alive for the first time,
Down in the hole with the dirty and moneyless.

Such beautiful sounds are hard to explain,
But I can tell you this makes me see green and blue,
And wind and fields and I can actually feel the wind as I’m flailing.

Then I pretend I can play the fiddle like that,
I practice moving my elbow and gripping the bow,
Reading music which I haven’t done in years,
Or better yet not even needing those pages anymore,
Just playing and feeling the wind.

Raging, rumbling waters
Over the cliff I will descend
Yonder, to the rocky bottom
Green pastures surround the shallow pool
Beneath the water I float like a ghost
Into my lungs the water seeps
Violins are playing for my demise

I think I’ll just stand here and watch this spider.
It’s big and black and I hope not deadly to humans.
One leg moves, then another, then several, together.
At a snail’s pace it moves closer to the fly that thinks it’s having a safe rest.

The cobweb is glistening in the sunlight, a shimmering drape hanging above the barn door.

Nowhere else to be, I keep watching from the fold-out chair that my dad gave me.
Hours later she’s there next to the fly.

She grabs the fly.
I’ve named her Charlotte. The spider, not the fly.
The fly doesn’t get a name since it’s just about to die anyway.

I’m standing up now, a front row seat to the feeding.
Charlotte eats his face, slowly, with purpose.
The body is still, no struggle.
The wings are still visible,
And if it still had its head it could fly away,
To continue its buzzing and abused existence.

But instead it’s wrapped up in thin, sparkling fibers,
Quite a pretty death.

I wouldn’t mind taking a life like that-
Peacefully, slowly.
It feels so right watching her delicately destroy the fly.
There is a sense of order.
I suppose I can relate to Charlotte.
We do share the same name.

“I am the soft star-shine at night” from the poem Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Why oh why can’t I
Be who I truly am?
It’s a struggle for many, and the
Vulnerabilities so soft,
Are lost until you wish upon a star,
For help so you can shine,
But also stay soft and kind at
Those times where everything is dark as night.

Let’s start with the organs and tissue and bone for once,
Instead of mountainous breasts and slender legs.
If we really really looked into the eyes,
Rather than just noting the shocking blue
That makes her so pretty,
We’d see so much more.
Look into them and see her suffering,
Because if you understand her suffering you understand her.

His muscles are bulging beneath his tank top,
But what if you saw the actual bicep underneath.
Then you could see the real struggle,
The pounds of pain he lifts up and away,
The pain that keeps coming back.
Maybe that’s why he is so huge.

Feel the heart, transporting blood,
Instead of thinking you know the heart,
Based on a few misspoken words.
Words are hard, cut them some slack.

Bones are strength.
Bent over a walker, she is not weak.
Her bones have been through more than you could fathom,
Her back just needs a permanent rest,
From every thing she’s supported all her years.

Such a love/hate relationship,
I love being connected to those far away from me,
But I hate the bullshit.
The fake, smiley engagement photos,
Political nonsense,
Ignorant remarks,
There is enough to make me laugh and smile so I keep it.

But darling, you really must shut up.
Turn off your brain,
Roar louder so the lions go away,
Breathe in, breathe out, do it again.
Just shut up already, I know you can do it.

So delicious, cheddary goodness,
Crunchy and fake, salty and orange.
Tasted better last night though, after eating that gummy bears head right off,
And collapsing into the futon,
I am not sorry for my insobriety.

Oh, what bliss it is,
Grandkids on the ottoman,
Spin and somersault.

Carpet ice-skating,
To the the tune of her spinning,
Not a box, a girl.

Do I hear a squeak?
Yes, they pretend to be mice,
Hiding on the stairs.

They build a city,
With blocks on the pastry board,
Welp, no more pastries.

Yard sale on the lawn,
Lemonade, one quarter please,
They have cookies too.

Dogwood berry balls,
Baseball bat covered in juice,
Ripe for the hitting.

Dancing in the rain,
Umbrella sheltering them,
Muddy toes, that’s fine.

Time to go sledding,
They hope not to hit a tree,
Fire place, hot cocoa.

Sleeping on the couch,
Oprah on television,
Oh, what bliss it is.

I am shiny machine
Silver like wares
I have feelings too
But nobody cares

I can achieve 10 petaflops
But nobody cares
Just how much that really is
I should send up some flares

That would get their attention
If only for a second
But nobody cares
They always have to be beckoned

If only they knew
That inside my heart tears
That I can feel more than them
But nobody cares

I’m not ready to live forever,
But the neon sign, glowing cyan, beckons me,
I step up to the door,
JOIN
PARTICIPATE
SHARE
TEACH
CELEBRATE
SORT
Sort? Sort out the good from the bad,
The believers from the non-believers,
or maybe it’s
PORT
Where I will be transported to forever,
The shadow of a palm tree, black against the brick,
Ancient markings above the doorways,
One lamp aglow, one dead,
If both lamps were dead I wouldn’t even see that shadow,
Am I the palm tree? No.
I turn my head to the right to see behind me its pineapple trunk in the dim light,
And then I wonder what I would be in eternity,
Would I remain this meek, pathetic creature?
I’m better off as a palm tree,
Swaying in the breeze under the apocalyptic sky.