The Poetry Marathon

Out of Focus

It’s out of focus!

All the things I thought I remembered from

those days are a blur,

Names and faces somehow indistinct,

separating memory from my imagination becomes

unnecessary some days and critical on others.

Mother says: “It didn’t happen that way,

No matter what you say. I was there.”

But, I protest, it’s right here in the picture.

Then She argues.

“It’s out of focus!

I made that cake long before you came home.” said Mother.

“What about the time we rode the train

From Baltimore and back again, I know

that memory is genuine, the conductor’s hat is

as real as yesterday!” I replied.

“Nope, we never rode the train together. It

may have been your grandmother and you.”

All the things I thought I remembered from

days gone by are a blur.

It’s out of focus.

Remembering a long, lost childhood is but a dream.

I’m old now, you are older yet.

Let us find a bridge we won’t forget.

Come, hold my arm, and steady your vision.

Life is fragile, love is eternal, memories are precious.

“Look, Mom, I see the bridge, don’t you?”

“Sorry, Daughter, it’s out of focus.”

 

 

 

 

Apartment Across the Way–Hour 3

In the apartment across the way

the one above the laundry room

chaos tumbles

in chalk scribbles

in toys strewn

in childish bursts of joyful shrieking

in galloping footfalls

in resounding curses from adults

 

In the apartment across the way

the one above the laundry room

Christmas lights have stayed up for months

in the children’s bedroom

their bunkbed pushed longways against the picture window

an alarming outline silhouetted

against colorful lights

 

In the apartment across the way

the one above the laundry room

the children’s uncle died in his sleep

from a troubled spot on his lung

 

The apartment across the way

settled down for two weeks

They went to the mainland

on vacation we were told

 

Then the children’s father returned

to the apartment across the way

He was found still warm on the couch

the paramedics had no miracle

and he grew cold

 

The mother and children have yet to return

to he apartment across the way

although it’s been said they will

and above the laundry room

the picture window has remained unvisited

by lights of any color

 

 

3 Short Stories

Old raisins

need a cookie to

lie in and rest

 

Silly spiders

spin in small spaces

to catch tiny bugs

 

Barefoot toes

find round pebbles

with a loud ouch

 

Old boys roll back

in recliners and

sleep to the game

 

Grieving arms

hold old clothes

to feel a past love

 

Round clocks on the shelf

tick tock ‘til

they stop

 

 

Hour #3 (Say One Hail Mary)

Say One Hail Mary

for the boys of the war

in perfect formation

acres and acres of them

still lifes of lives lost

My lovely young men.

Say One Hail Mary

for my father

in similar repose

But even his life,

untouched by early tragedy

should have been longer.

Say One Hail Mary

for me-

I stare at the graves of strangers

and wonder-

Will anyone remember me

with the fluid intensity of loss?

Hail Mary Full of Grace.

Sleep Soundly

Peace be upon you during
the midnight hour.
May the nature of silence
call you to calm and protect your mind from negative perceptions of self.
May the air kiss your skin
providing relaxation and comfort.
May your dreams recall moments of pleasure into manifestations of your future endeavors.
May you sink into yourself and breathe the deepest breaths.
May this be your most of soundly sleep yet.

3rd Hour – Elephants Move

Elephants Move

I heard a herd
Left a preserve
Somewhere in southeast Asia

Is this a roam
To find a home
With a different fascia?

Or do their toes
Tell – what we don’t know
Like meteor will hit Malaysia?

Whatever comes
They have freedoms
Unlike many in all Asia

To Be Read While Listening to Norman Greenbaum’s “Rhode Island Red” (for S.G.)

It’s going to get harder to stay this way.
It’s going to get harder to explain why I’m this way.
It’s going to get harder to say I’m fine with it.

I’m not fine.
I say this unparenthetically.
If I were onstage, I’d say it differently.
I’d have it marked – on paper – just as I said it.
I’d even probably stand up and say it as I stood up.

As though standing is the problem.
I can walk and talk – just not feeling up to the latter.

I like sitting and talking, but I like sitting
and doing nothing.

I like it in the way I have time to wait for something
but just for a few minutes and for something that is beyond my control
in a pleasant way.

Like falling right to sleep after taking a pill
Or getting a buzz from a spliff.
Or a very well done martini.
Or an orgasm.

Don’t talk to me about sex.

Let’s just get through this day.
We’ll have dinner and some small talk and
maybe hug tonight.

But I’m scared of tomorrow
I’m bored by tomorrow.

I want to edit my responses
so they laugh in Minnetonka.

No one in hell knows that there’s a man holding an empty glass on a stage in Hennepin County
looking for the Host.

Someday this will all be funny to me.

Poem 3: Missing Tools

Missing Tools

This is why women who’ve been hurt hoard the gauzy memories

in fields near their homes. They wait for the new moon

to bury those pains pell-mell near trees because trees

have strong hides that contain quantities of sap drumming

just beneath the surface, the way their own skin holds

volumes of lava inside. Their bodies are private chapels

filled with sinners, or their bodies have grown

into closets for storing lumps that reek like sponges of vinegar

when pried to the surface. Do the clouds in the sky

remind them of their own mothers? What kind of rain

do they need? Their mothers haven’t owned the battered goblets

their daughters hold, never had reason to shout

to the heavens: why did you let him get near me?

Their mothers were sold their own bag of goods, sent

home with samples of formula to feed their babies.

How can a woman be made to believe her own milk

is no good? These mothers could not teach their daughters

how to nurse, so how could they teach them to get out

of the way of the hailstones, how to get away

from the dented, broken cups their men were,

men whose fathers didn’t know how to teach them

to play fair and be nice and not hit. Sometimes

crowbars are the best tools to excise the lumps

creaking up just under their skin, or to fend off

more blows, those white sparks igniting

in their skulls from a fist or a knee battering them

like a crazed horny goat who’s come up to them

on the mountainside of a marriage that failed from the word go.

Laughter

Laughter

 

O, yes, ‘tis good to laugh

‘tis fortunate to be able to laugh

‘tis gift divine

 

Can’t be bought

can’t be sold

shouldn’t be taken for granted

this beautiful gift –laughter

 

And so, I laugh

No. 3

Silver trails in the summer moonlight
Testimony to the midnight travels of a snail
It wanders in a meandering fashion across the walk
But never reaches the other side
Where were you going
Why did you give up