The Poetry Marathon

HOUR 2 The Manifestation in Reflection

The reflection of my own fiend insatiable

Poem 1: Three Secrets, All Firsts

Three Secrets, All Firsts

I met Daryl McKnight in a shack at the dump on my last day

in Greeley. The moving truck was already packed with our home.

What does it say that my first kiss was a goodbye kiss?

Should I have seen the omen? What did I want to give away

besides the awkward press of our lips? I barely remember

the kiss, but can still picture the Black Widow

close by in the corner of the shed. I’d never seen a Black Widow before.

It took years before I realized how dangerous love is.

The first time I had sex, Glen and I were at a friend’s apartment

in El Paso’s east side. We went upstairs to Baron’s room

and took a shower. Together. Naked. I can’t remember how we ended up

under that stream of water, but I remember the shock

of his penis – the first I’d seen, and this one I confronted

up close and in person. Do all young women find

a penis a freaky animal at first? The first time

I got married, the invitation said we’d marry

“under the desert sky” — it was January, and the willow tree in our yard

was barren of leaf, so I tied a hundred colored ribbons to the branches.

The breeze lifted lifted them slightly above us. No matter how much

we decorate what is barren, that doesn’t bring it to life. I stood apart

on the patio after the ceremony and thought I just made a big mistake.

Please don’t tell anyone I shared this. No one needs to know

I started my marriage with regrets.

Hour #1 (On ending)

 

Lightly you strike me

With gentile confidence, a casual pause of thought

Knowing exactly when to hit me

To push you forward

Into that next

Here.

And for a while

We have a rhythm, you and me

Tap, tap, tap, tap—strike

But then,

You veer from our simpatico

Silence at first

So I take a long breath

Then I can feel in your touch something else

Angry, sweaty deliberation

Tic Tok, tick tok

The hour wants you now

And you will take it out on me

So the strikes become a beating

Can’t do, can’t do, can’t do

Punching like a desperate boxer

Knowing there’s no point

Because you can’t finish this.

Fenland

Quiet.
A whispering.
Moonlight makes ghosts of the reeds.
Mosquitos brush their toes against the surface
Of blood-dark water where
An eel chases shadows through the roots of ancient trees.
And a million tiny things are alive.

Quiet.
Or… not.
Quiet but for the noises
Of the pumps as they rip apart the soil
And drainage channels scar
The broken land. And the ancient trees have lost their voices.
And a million tiny things have died.

Quiet.
Now, so quiet.
Moonlight finds ghosts where once were reeds.
In dried-out carrs foxes carve their dens into
The starless midnight earth.
The blood has drained away – they said there was no human need.
And a million tiny things are ploughed away.

Lying–8am

I can’t explain
why I’m here
whether by someone
else’s hand-
or by my own design
I’m dying

Shunned by everyone
I once called friend
brother
sister
no one care about-
or for me
I’m alone

Choices I’ve made
Steps I’ve taken
anxiety
depressed
not sure of the destination
I’m restless and traveling

Easy to forge your own
path
make decisions
not look back
kept in the dark
no chance to save
I’m left to my own devices

Haven’t had to include you
Haven’t called you
seen you
touched you
and that’s ok-
I’m happy

Clock’s growing late
plans were made
deals sealed
offers made
quid pro quo
now it’s time to pay up
I’m free

No more pain
I can’t go any further
looked for rescue
and none came
cold, cold dirt
hides the shame
I’m underground

You couldn’t see I hurt
you hurt me
with your decisions
but that only covered up
I was hurting myself too
I had an addiction

I was suicidal
I was isolated
depressed-no hope at all
Broken- didn’t believe in myself
Happy-this was a decision made
with the utmost care

I guess I can finally explain
why I’m here underground
dead

Because I learned to lie-
And everyone believed me

–Inspired by Ty Herndon’s
“I am the Man”

Hour 1, This is Not the End of the World

This is Not the End of the World

after Neil Hilborn

 

I’ve been hearing that the world is ending

Mostly from a voice slightly different from my own

Whispering in my left ear

Right behind the eardrum

I’ve heard it so much these days I can either

Accept the dread or find a way to pay for my medication

There is nothing but endings in both

Of this version of me who stalks their own mind

Who sees their next meal 

And watches it smile back in the reflection

Who wonders what it is like to be calm

To be empty

To live and breathe

Without the future running nails down their back

 

Hour 1: At the end of inspiration

At the tip of my tongue,

It’s a song I’ve sung

A melody that just rung,

In so many ways,

On solitary days,

And now I gaze

At the way it eludes

Oh shrewd!

Wicked muse!

I stand at the end of inspiration

Of wilting aspiration

Who am I if I don’t create?

If I don’t satiate

The hunger in my soul

I spring forth

‘Devour me whole,

O emptiness’,

Where would I land

if not at another beginning?

Hour One

A Tragedy

Once upon a time / you and I / wrote a story / within this story / we were happy / truly / happy / pictures on the wall / white picket fence / kids running around / we had it all / casebound and complete / then one day / you suddenly realized / this wasn’t for you / I / wasn’t for you / what’s the point of love / when the other person / doesn’t feel it back / I still dream of you / what we could have been / now our story sits / unwritten / within my own story / you held a main role / for years and years / how could I have known / you would end up being / my antagonist

Towards the end…

Started the one when things seemed all blue,

Entered the life and moments got decided by you…

Pushing the doors, rusted and were close,

Forcing the feelings to be separated and chose…

Again to live, enjoy the life’s all new song,

Changing ways old, as all, as past and gone…

Soon to realize, probably was a passing cloud and not the illusion sky,

Changed its position and no more things looked as they were high…

The more tried to hold all near,

Less it started feeling, everything as dear…

Laughter soon vanished, and left were only tear,

Thou, tried to change the world, in vain was alone with self over here…

Wasn’t any problem, with life continuing on a pace,

All remained the same; probably Love changed its place…

Thought to still hold back with tightening the grip,

Enforcing to stay, but eventually led everything sooner to slip..

Was tough to digest, if it was towards the end,

Yet left with a last breath, to prolong or rewind memories back from the end…

 

Skay 2021 Hour One

Hour One

 

New endings

 

Weeds, uprooted, 

Wilt in the wheelbarrow

And I clatter it down 

the garden path

To the green waste bin

I know its fate.

 

Every day new weeds 

With a stubborn will 

To survive

Every day I yank them

Out with viciousness

And send them on 

Their journey

 

Is that their new purpose in life?

To become compost

Like most of us,

And sustain new fruits?

 

Every day I weed a bit

Every day I create 

Create new little endings

To feed new fruit