The Poetry Marathon

1. Peace
2. Hope
3. Love
4. Friends
5. Faith

So difficult to move on from the tragedy before me.

But as I walk in Peace I go forward. I Hope for better days ahead while remembering the Love we’ve known.

As I am surrounded by Family and Friends I seek my Faith in God to help me to move on one step at a time.

Ingredients:

1. One accommodation, occupied solely by yourself
2. A scattering of well-meaning friends, popped up from nowhere
3. One long distance relationship
4. One far-away family
5. A mixed bag of acceptance, fear, pride and loneliness

Method:

1.Take the accommodation and stuff well with largely useless items

Bought in the mistaken belief

They might offer some relief.

2. Discard the scattering of well-meaning friends

Since you are quite used to making this alone without

Any flavour any of them lends.

3. Add a long distance relationship,

Brought swiftly to the boil by the impending apocalypse.

4. Take your far-away family and place them

At a safe distance beyond a border;

Check on them often for signs of blanching or over-heating

Which may prevent any future meeting.

5. Take your mixture of acceptance, fear and loneliness and steam slowly

Over some simmering resentment.

Recipe for Lost Productivity

Ingredients

1. Lifetime of memories
2. 1 gallon of sentimentality
3. 24 moving boxes, various sizes
4. 5 rolls of bubble wrap
5. 2 rolls of packing tape
6. 1 Box of Kleenex

Instructions

1. Measure the sentimentality and discard all traces. You will never finish if any trace of this ingredient is left behind.
2. Combine the moving boxes, bubble wrap, and packing tape. Blend thoroughly. Allow for breaks in between to unstick the tape from itself.
3. Place all boxed items in the garage.
4. Saute the remaining ingredients, memories and Kleenex, into a frothy mixture.
5. Your “Garage Goodbye” is ready when you place your keys on the kitchen table, turn off the light, and walk out the front door.

Pink ribbons scatter across the blue tapestry
Rows of lush grass frantically cover the fields
Like melting ice cream, the sun dips below the sky
Two hands hold on to each other, waiting for more

A soft hum has consumed the both of them
Their surroundings, a mere blur, in their eyes
Cook, lake air draws their warm bodies closer
Joined as a pair, in a world of their own

Nervous laughter underlines their affection
Smoky darkness crawls over the midland hills
Finally, their obsessive trance is broken
Hours together fulfilling their hunger

Kunti’s Choice

Mother Kunti grieves not for her sons

Her own helplessness tightening her soul

She’s sure her son will be among the winners

But she will be the loser

War is never a happy choice for mothers

Whether friends or foes

Hour 1

@varenyas

My obsession…

the tiny masochist of you

scurrying in your own terrified delight

under my palm.

The knowing of you crawling around

in the hollow of my hand

pleases me more than I am willing to tell.

My whim is to leave you there

to enjoy feeling the scratch and eventual sprawl

of you over my lifeline.

Ask for air when this day is gone.

Until then, every stone step you take

you are collared and chained to me

for me

dancing blissful gypsy s’ in circles

for only me.

Nothing is anything

if not an extension

of you for Me.

Nothing is anything

if not an extension

of Myself for you.

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 4am

Pump

Irresistible – how could I not
buy those purple snakeskin pumps
with the black patent leather platform
and 5-inch stiletto heel. Stunning,
and a divine sign – one pair left
and my size, discounted, clearance,
whatever. I had to have them.

I strolled through the shoe department
wearing them, admonished to
please stay on the carpet
by the male clerk who seemed to have a tad
too much interest in shoes, or was it just
this pair, fondling the round peep-toe,
sliding his fingers up and down the heel shaft
before slipping it so gracefully on my foot,
me feeling like Cinderella until I noticed
that odd look clouding his bourbon brown eyes.

I walked, pranced, sauntered past floor mirrors
admiring the curves that hugged my heel,
supple leather on my instep, so bold, so brazen
a towering stiletto. I swooned, he raced over,
his hands firm on my forearm as though I might
topple. He guided me back to my seat, slow
and sensuous slipping off my foot, I was
unCinderelled, felt naked without those pumps.
He smiled, or was it a leer.

I nearly broke a nail slapping my credit card
on the counter, hugged the bag through the mall
to my car, raced home, walked half a mile
from kitchen to living room to dining room,
avoiding the steps, just a little too soon
to climb in these sumptuous creations.

Now, a month later, I pull the bag from
the closet floor, open the box, put them on
and runway through my bedroom, hallway,
but not venturing downstairs, still too soon.
Someday, I will wear them outside, scratch
the soles on concrete, see sunlight sparkle
snakeskin, but for now, this is enough.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 2

We couldn’t decide where to go,
said we, and you and I have no choice but to follow.
So we went nowhere in our minds and very heartily.

For the following, should we need to live virtually through others‘ travels,
pictures do exist:
US, sitting on France, pulling off her beret
and throwing it into the Seine.

US, walking in front of the Queen,
and invading Buckingham Palace
long enough to take selfies
and a long dump in Her Majesty’s private loo.

US, smiling next to a frowning Pope Francis,
too miserable to throttle US for our inhumanity
but we take his quiet for a pass and eat extra hamburgers that night.

No one in Europe will see US now.
We have a little vial of garlic just in case
Romania – wait, isn’t that Rome, again?
No, US, don’t interrupt when your mouth is full.

We’ll just sit here, not going anywhere, thanks.

We can see your electronic missives, US.
“We’re not wanted in Europe, they’ll miss our green!”
Maybe, but not our germs, mais oui!

First you preheat your oven at 180 degrees, an about-face from everything you knew and took for granted.

Let it sit for a month or two, the year’s just begun.

Then you take a large mixing bowl, scramble up a few rumors, official statements, hearsay, and news,

and panic.

Do weird shit, like hoard toilet paper and hand sanitizer, run your shopping cart into a ditch, shun your neighbors, haunt social media for a lifeline.

Letting your foundation set, whipped into frenzy, a chiffon of meringue madness, abide for a bit, see what the experts say, zoom a toast at 8 o’clock to fellow basted mates.

Sink into the sofa, smoke a blunt, drive by a friend’s house, congratulate her graduate with a honk and a sign, “Class of 2020!” and resign.

Help is on its way.

Don’t bake the idea too long, though, keep it in the oven past your last dollar, because you’ll falter, trip, sweat a few

confectioner’s sweets into your keyboard and blow your connection.

Better you sift through a conspiracy or two, topping for the frenzied mass you made, sitting on the kitchen table,

unmasked, dreamed, driven by fear, denial at its best, deign a madman’s folly, char your friends; hey, hang your

neighbor’s old man–it’s a free country.

Simmer what you want.

Time’s up! Your smart watch demands you take action. March. Burn. Loot. Cry. Celebrate. Die.

Eat your just desserts–you made it.

Dream big.

The ending’s just begun.

We’ll all be demanding a bigger piece of the pie–not the one you baked, though.