The Poetry Marathon

Hour 5: Remembrances

When did they bury you?

Why did they leave you?

Did they hope to enjoy these remembrances

In their old age?

Or did they leave them behind –

Disappointed, dispirited by what was past?

Or did they want them to overflow into

Other lives?

 

A well-bound, well-read book,

Out of print,

Of no current value —

Except in someone’s memory?

Simple pictures, simple words, simple childhood

Of bright days — never night —

Outdoors on clean suburban streets

With pets and siblings

Running and laughing and staying clean:

A story few children live anymore.

 

A metal decoder ring,

Splattered with patina:

What secret message does it hold?

Here’s one mystery left to solve:

Once found for free

In boxes of cereal or kool-aid

Or cracker jacks.

Now worth hundreds on ebay.

 

A pressed carnation,

Plucked from a corsage to remember –

A wedding? A prom? A graduation?

Time frozen and fragile to the touch.

Are the memories as faded as the flower

Or is there still a fragrant joyousness

To be found?

 

Tobacco leaves wrapped like a gift

Inside a linen handkerchief.

Tied with a bow:

Too large for cigarettes,

Were they taken from a cigar

Or bought for a pipe?

The linen could not save the aroma

Maybe the ring can decipher

It’s secret?

 

More memories flow out

From this box of memories.

More mysteries with each one.

Did they want to leave you behind?

On purpose or by chance?

Did delight become regret?

Did they leave it here for me to find?

Did they know someone

Would need to find evidence

of family

of blissful love

of simple lives

overflowing?

Poem 6: A Tribute to Sylvia Plath “Picking”

 

Blueberries like the sea

enough to drown my sorrows

But where is a path

for my inspired feet to borrow

 

My basket

not large enough for this swallowing ocean

As I bend to gather

in a blue-flesh commotion

 

My fingers bloodied

asking to be dipped in wine

As I count to infinity

Picking berries divine

 

There is smoke in the distance

and the cry of gulls

Protesting my invasion

of uncertain culls

 

Am I here to conquer

my doubts and fears

Hoping that someone will hear

my unconquered cheers

 

I see green and blue

the glorious pungency released

and then grab a cluster of flies

Drunk on the sensuous feast

 

I find an oasis

a clearing of rock and determined moss

and sit, looking at where my sorrows

Have drowned like pitied dross

 

But I am still here

Useless in my escape

Unable to return to the basket’s home

where thatched dreams are destroyed by rape

Shhhhhhhhh! (Hour Five, A Four Line Poem)

To

hear, I thought, would change

life for the better,

but I learned silence is still golden.

 

(A four line poem is composed of four lines, with a syllable count of 1/5/5/9. I have been hard of hearing most of my life and missed out on much, and at age 45, finally broke down and got hearing aids. While I do enjoy life more fully now that I am not missing every other word that is spoken or noise that resounds, there are times when I find myself longing for the peace and utter quiet that once surrounded me on a regular basis.)

Contemplating Ex Sex

In lockdown

I sniffed my pits

To make sure I could smell.

And thought

Of your nose

Buried into me,

Sheets on the floor,

Curtains drawn

And your closet mirror

That I pushed

To the side,

So I could ignore

My gut screaming

We shouldn’t be

Here.

Again.

The Inverted Boat.

Oh, manly man afloat in your boat.

With your billy goat beard that you so rightly tout.

The oceans for virile, strong, striplings like you;

pirates and limeys, a seven seas crew.

Through thick and thin you hoist your proud sails,

A real chock a block as you knock seven bells.

Will you go down with the ship in your inverted boat?

No, “Land Ho!”  comes a shout from your throat.

 

 

 

The Alley

The Alley

 

My dad scraped carrots with an old thick knife,

the blade heavy, the shaft crackled and rough.

He loved carrots, being the son of a horse trader.

I see him, a boy of ten, sharing a carrot with a bay mare.

We didn’t have a peeler. Neither of my parents

needed one, my mom scraping carrots for chicken soup,

my father for a Sunday afternoon snack. He’d hand me

one with a soft, shy smile, just like my grandma’s

when she passed around a a jar of honey

filled with taglach, strips of dough rolled into small baked nuggets.

I chew my carrot, fuzzy from its scraping, and sit on our apartment’s

back porch where I watch the alley, the cars passing through

between rows of trash cans, cats sitting on closed lids.

How Birds Weather the Storm

How Birds Weather the Storm

 

Two by two, inspired by Noah,

called by God to perch on gutters

 

flooding with rain, huddled and waiting

for their olive branch to appear.

Times, Seasons and Exceptions

   Times, Seasons and Exceptions

 

The wise and ultra-wealthy man has written:

“To every thing there is a season

And a time to every purpose under the heaven”

And true it is, true as can be

 

But exceptions will always be

For He who made time has kept the power

To make exceptions

To the rules of season, of time, and of events

 

“Exceptions”, you say?

Ah, exceptions indeed

Shall I talk of Abraham, and of Sarah,

Of Hannah, or of Ruth

 

Of the Sun held in its place

And of more.

While he rules exist

Your time is not past, believe.

Understudy

She smelled like fresh linen and lavender

as we embraced one another with our arms

wrapped firmly around each other as if

we were shielding ourselves from the

world itself.

Her lips tasted like a sweet mix of watermelon

and strawberries no doubt a result of the lip gloss

she always kept in her purse.

Here I felt safe

Here I felt complete

Here in her arms was everything

I had ever dreamed.

Dreams turned into nightmares

memories forever scattered

on the floor of my mind

like broken glass.

Picking up the pieces

of a life that I left

behind when I allowed

myself to become entangled

in all of your lies.

And despite the many oppositions

from those who have my best

interest at heart

I chose to continue to play

my part in the role never actually

casts for me.

I guess I should’ve read the fine print

because then I would’ve known

that I wasn’t your lover at all

I was just your understudy.

No. 9

four
more poems
now three more