The Poetry Marathon

The Pandemic

After Shuntaro Tanikawa

Nothing new to report that I
haven’t read about before except for the intentionally lost
opportunities to act in good faith and in a
manner that grapples with the pandemic, the very
essence of an universal concern, which they made worthless
by a determination to be the 21st century version of the do nothing
party of the 19th century. It is all done in full view by detouring us down rabbit holes that
send us hither and yonder so they will not be held
culpable for their genius for the grift which they are so fond
of as it reminds us again of the 19 th century and the memories
of the Gilded Age where greed knew no boundaries and caused so much suffering for
so many people in the world. “Nothing new under sun” seems apt to me.

HOUR 11 The Sanctified Canvas

The Sanctified canvas

 

Propositions in quarry have been introduced by my Bathory,

Expressionless consternation the champion to silent seduction,

Tempted and moved at my prompts in the search sanguinity,

Her manipulation giving flight to the avid inanition.

 

By unwavering hand, the stage of prolonged murder constructed,

My Valkyrie’s suggestions heeded and come to fruition,

In the eyes of consecrated building the nun to be abducted,

Clear in thought and charged with unholy purpose driven.

 

I seek her proposed target,

A venerable one to be sure,

‘My conscious needing redemption dear mother,

For myself and possibly on behalf of another.’

She seats me among ever forlorn pews,

Their lonely occupation welcome news.

 

I convey my darkest sins upon her attentive habit,

Her wary face soon soaked in tear-stained realization,

‘Dearest sister if you resist it will be problematic.’

Soon to be a mannequin in pursuit of my love’s creation.

 

My gift to the one’s wickedness I so have developed,

Blissfully unare of my own gruesome intentions,

Ignorant I am not at the innocence of the holy zealot,

I offer the woman up uttering to Valkyrie benediction.

 

Happy New Year

Russian new year
Is American new year.
But it isn’t.

It’s the same date
But not the same meaning.
Russian new year is like American Christmas.

That’s why he bought the watch.
That’s also why it is was a mistake.

He and his Russian holiday friends packed off
Waiting,
Pumped for a Times Square buzz.

He expected his wife to sit at home

Waiting.

She wasn’t.

Packed up.
Dressed up.
Went out.
Stayed a week.

She still has the watch though.

The watch of her only Russian new Year.

The moment our eyes met

The moment our eyes met

Is a moment I can never forget

It was in the late late afternoon one-day

And you completely took my breath away

 

Weirdly, it was in an old coffee shop

Nothing over the top

And like all cliches in movies and books

All it took was a single look

 

We bumped into each other as we walked through the door

By mistake I spilled your drink on the floor

And that’s when we formed an unbreakable bond

I was tongue tied, I couldn’t respond

 

Late night texts and early morning phone calls

You made me want it all

From there it was small little meetings in the field

The more time we spent together the more my heart yields

 

I’m so happy we get to live this life together

I’m going to love you until forever

New You

An inventory of New Year’s resolutions:

I’ve woken up earlier,

taken my dogs for more walks,

bought more books to read,

ate less chocolate

then slowly fell into the habits of my existence

I’ve heard neuroscientists see less and less a science for free will.

What power is there in these beginnings

we repeat

hopelessly ourselves each time.

6 pm – Question Poem Collab (w. Jaecee the Poet)

What makes a family?

What makes blood thicker than water?

Who decides this?

Why are Sundays so significant?

Why can’t all days be chosen?

Where is home?

How does one know it’s true?

Where do Matriarchs sit at the table?

Is there space for a Patriarch’s weight?

Can the two coexist?

Can a new generational legacy be sustained?

Expect the Unexpected Hour 10 Poem 10

Expect the unexpected,

What’s expected is not presented,

Therefore, I accept the likely presence of what’s unexpected,

Though it’s not easy to weather the storm,

Seasons change; after the rain,

Rainbows always form,

Despite the miniscule differences in each situation,

A commonality is the unexpected will arrive,

Must we prepare to expect the unexpected.

 

Hour Ten 2021

I have one child, a daughter, Anna. Raising her 
has been a clear highlight of my life. So much 
good to say, let's leave it there. As the years 
went by, we felt she would choose to be child-free. 
I was fine with that—she never wanted to talk about it.
 
Right before her elopement during Covid, which 
I thought was a wonderful idea, she brought it up, 
confiding to me that she didn't want to wait 
until the all clear signal because she wanted 
to have a baby. What was this! We are all so happy now—

she talks about her child to be, and me being 
an important part as grandpapa. Anna was born 
on December 26th, her baby is due December 22nd. 
This Christmas holiday season is going to get ridiculous. 
Anna's mom was born on December 20th. Ridiculous, right?

The Urchins

They knew their stuff and clutched the soft spots

of the ocean floor for that was their job; they were blind.

But in the weirdest sense, they saw the solitary sea floor:

the larger fish stealing food through murky fog-water,

swimming faster, pushing with mouths wide open.

The shark-like fish swallowed hard, desultory, robot-like.

Far away from the seashore, the urchins saw much more:

a small teakwood sewing machine with ornate legs,

apparently Dutch-made, lying in a Harlem street

as November-slanted rain fast-warped the soft wood

and rusted the bobbins and motor.

The urchins closed their eyes.  It didn’t matter that Frank,

a homeless man, was slinking along again in a valley of tears,

desolate and drunk.

Looking into a puddle of by the sewer

he saw his sad reflection, wiped his hand and stuck

it into his pocket.

The urchins felt his presence though they were invisible to him.

There, the locket rubbed against his thumb.

So he took it out, cried as he saw the face of an angel

looking back at him. “It’ll be okay,” it seemed to whisper,

as he closed the clasp and let out sobs from the back

of his throat, in a man way, until he was able to choke them down.

Again, in the puddle he saw a trapped pigeon stuck in the sewer slots.

With a quick maneuver, he pulled its broken wing out of the grate.

It hobbled away and the urchins rejoiced.

Hour 9

Damn I caught up a lot faster than I thought. But for this poem a trigger/content warning for the idiom. It mentions abuse and I thought it was just a really interesting way to say sun shower. I used the idiom as the title.

 

The Devil Is Beating His Wife

 

Is when the sun shines

But the clouds cry

And why such a violent thought

For such a beautiful time

When the sun is shining

And the rain falls softly

Gentle in its cleansing