The Poetry Marathon

School Girl

School Girl

 

I had my first crush in eighth grade. Maybe that’s late.

In sixth grade I had a boy friend, Lanny, and we played chess,

talked a bit on the playground. I only knew it was a stillbirth

crush when Susan Mermelstein made a play for him, doing

what girls did then, batting eyes, smiling into her shoulder

when she talked to him at school. I cared, but only in theory.

In seventh grade, a tireless crew set explosions

removing rocks and debris, building underground

scaffolding, channels, tunnels, bridges.

I didn’t hear any of it. Results burst through the next year,

a good-sized avalanche of emotions, urges, needs.

I fell in love with a classmate, Stuart, who played trumpet

in the band to my timpani. I called him, twisting the blue coiled

phone cord round and round my body.

I found nothing to say.

My little brother was singing and I said,

That’s what goes on around here.

Stuart was quiet, maybe said oh.

What propelled me to like a boy

I couldn’t talk to?

At the time, I didn’t know to ask that question.

 

 

A Rag Morris Wassail

Wassail and wassail all over the town
Our fingers are cold and our muddy clothes brown
Our sticks are all made of the old ashen tree
And we’ll dance and we’ll sing a wassail to thee.

Here’s to the school hall where we’ll all get dry
And if we are lucky, some complimentary pie.
Complimentary pie, well we’ll just have to see
But with a drinks token we will drink to thee.

Here’s to the music, when they’ve found the tune
I’m sure that they’re likely to get it right soon.
To get it right soon, the dancers all plea
But whilst we are waiting, let’s all drink to thee.

And here’s to the dancers when they’ve found the set
Pete’s got the tune now but no one’s there yet.
No one’s there yet. Ah! Now we have three.
The rest stuck at the bar, and they’re drinking to thee.

Now here’s to the bells that are deafeningly loud
If the village was still sober we’d not be allowed
We’d not be allowed in polite company
So here’s to the cider! And we’ll drink it to thee.

And here is to Tony, when he has his way,
We’ll be back here dancing, booked in now for May
Booked in now for May, when I don’t think we’re free
But that’s months away yet, so we’ll drink to thee.

So here’s to the apples on apple tree boughs
To give us this reason to smile and carouse
To smile and carouse with friends finally
And bless us and the fruit this January.

And it’s joy be to you,
And a jolly wassail.

Hour 10 (2021)

Free-write

Words rest delicately
in the back of my throat,
hostage to a jaw
that no longer knows
how to unclench.
When I bite my tongue
I’m holding my trauma
between clenched teeth.
This mouth is my story’s prison.

Not an Accident

A few weeks ago I had my first not my fault fender bender.

A few months ago I had my first not my fault major accident.

It is almost like someone or something is trying to take me out.

But I am not here by accident.

I am predestined and ordained to be in this place.

Doesn’t matter what you throw at me to take me out

Or cause an accident of fatal proportion.

I’m gonna sit at the table and eat my portion.

Cause it was prepared for me and not accidentally

In front of all my enemies.

I am purposed for this day; this stage; this place.

Sit back. Watch me walk like I am royalty.

And I promise it ain’t on accident.

We Can Learn, Can’t We?

December-January holidays

Emotions too many to count and too risky to explore.

No longer filled with joy and happiness and beauty,

replaced with commercialism beginning in July or sooner.

Where did the names for super-discounted sales come from?

Black Friday, Black Monday, and so on. I’ve never understood that.

I’ve never wanted to be in a crowd of crazed shoppers

pushing at big box and mall doors when they opened,

disrespectful of everyone else because it was first come, first served.

Fighting like dogs over a bone, caring not if they trample someone or cause injury to a clerk or anyone.

Who should own this travesty? The shoppers, the employees?

Nope, this belongs to the corporate marketing geniuses,

who gleefully watch on their closed-circuit cameras

as people act like animals, with dollar signs spinning

in their eyes as they count the sales, never

noticing the pain in the eyes of those who couldn’t

get to the checkout before that special sale ran out.

It’s shameful, it’s truly not loving your neighbor

or doing unto others biblically. It’s doing to others

before they do it to you, and everyone is to blame.

Frankly, I’m glad we had holiday sales locked down this year.

I’m glad we went back to basics,

share more of ourselves, make do when we had to.

Should it always be locked down? NO, but we should always put

the real meaning of giving first, no matter what the holiday is.

Should we care more about each other’s well-being than what we get or give?

If, in my opinion, we learned to find true happiness, there would be less hate.

We can learn to hate evil and love one another.

 

Absinthe

I’d rather be the sugar that coats your lips until you can no longer speak my name
Than a fond memory of bygone times
To again take your hand and drag you through the fog to freedom
Stay close as the haze clears and the dreams begin
Leading us both into the land of make-believe
Where all things are possible
And non-achievable
Clinging to you as the mists start to clear
And reality is reluctantly reclaimed
Lingering deep within your subconscious
Until the time comes
And we meet again

Hour Ten – Blitz Poem

Count your chickens
Count your eggs
Eggs of potential
Eggs of hope
Hope in the future
Hope to grow a family
Family of freedom
Family of reconciling
Reconciling misunderstandings
Reconciling brokenness
Brokenness of thin skin
Brokenness of pride
Pride in perfection
Pride in knowing
Knowing what it takes
Knowing when to give
Give a bundle of tears
Give a lifetime of change
Change to become better
Change to be new
New not just what I do
New inside–who I am
Am I on the road?
Am I the only one?
One of these days
One of these ways
Ways of growing
Ways to shine
Shine in joy
Shine in the light
Light of His countenance
Light of His grace
Grace to carry on
Grace to be whole
Whole and complete
Whole newness restored
Restored to life
Restored to collaborate
Collaborate for teamwork
Collaborate for justice
Justice to count loss
Justice to count costs
Costs of delaying truth
Cost of sharing pain
Pain of a soured world
Pain of a shrouded grave
Grave that was overcome
Grave now full of life
Eggs to chickens life
Hatred overcome

---

From “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”
The Blitz form

All that glitters isn’t gold (Prompt 9) 2021

Sirens beckoned to Odysseus and his ship
Bound to the mast crew deafened
Lashing out trying to escape
Fixated on yonder allure
Seductive charm turns to screams
When unable to get their way
The dark realty hidden inside emerges
Facades fade
That desired intimacy which was never.

Mother Part 1

You will find your way

she would say to me

He will find his way

she would say to them

I have found my way

 

and it will be the same as her’s

 

but hopefully with

far less

pain

Philip V. Coombs 7-8am

Prompt 10- Holidays

Cultivating
Abundance

bearing to
toss out the old

a poem
handcrafted in
wrapped newness

love baked into meals
savoring tastes
full and packed
with the idea of a happy home

saying you were placed
here for me
and I think you are great

A presence lacking
lifetime guarantees
sit intact in living rooms

reinforcing the thought
that love resides here

Family is the only part
required
the rest is trim