The Poetry Marathon

Perfectly polished and ready to go

she sacrifices none of her femininity.

Constantly questioned and tested

answers on the tip of her tongue.
She can’t afford a single slip

Barked at for answers relentlessly asked

no time to rest, no slowing down
looking for a champion to take her place
when at last the marathon is over.
No weakness is here

only the shadow of a giant.

Walking around, disconcerted.

Wondering what went wrong.

Was it the good times, was it the vomiting.

Signals from other worlds more meaningful than ever.

Stuffed cotton under the skin, makes me feel like a rag doll.

Rags drenched in yuck and liquid, what was it?

The good times, or the good times to come?

Beginning

Today is my new day, a me day,
a starting over renewal to improve
myself, remake my internal image
from the outside in, inside out.

After a sprinting 4 or 5 mile ride
on my bedroom bike, I’ll shower,
slather coconut-scented conditioner
on my long hair, leave it pinned up
while I give myself a facial, slices
of cucumber for my eyes, reclining
in a tv-less room.

I’ll spend the day in a bathing suit
though the forecast is for all-day rain.
My face scrubbed clean, I’ll read –
an old best-seller cover to cover,
and I’ll flip through a delicious stack
of friends’ poetry books and read
random selections, savoring images
and metaphors I wish I’d written myself.

In between, I’ll write poetry of course.
An entire day to empty my head of
reminders to make appointments and
phone calls, emails to send, cards
to pen, laundry to do – but I won’t do
any of that today.

It’s a me day. I’ll give myself a pedicure,
polish with a new glow-in-the-dark purple
so I can see my summer toes when sleep
defeats my need for it. I’ll paint my nails
with pictures on each one, summer scenes
at the beach, a sailboat, lighthouse, ocean.

I’ll drink coffee all day, stay up all night
and not worry that caffeine is the culprit.
Maybe I’ll raid my emergency stash
of dark chocolates, imbibe with just one
glass of wine. Perhaps two if I need to.

Today, I’ll cater to me, purge out the old
doubts and fears that I can’t do something
anything, begin again fresh, fill my head
with glimmering new-year’s-new possibilities.
So tomorrow, tell me, what can I do for you?

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 1

Coarse and soft at touch,

Water binds to make safe ground

At the shores in which we rest.

9:00 AM Poem
Elizabeth Wingert

City-glitters.
You would have said that this photograph sucks.
I would have laughed at that.
And that would have been my favourite photograph.
Of these city-glitters.
For you were my city-glitter.
May be more. May be less. Who knows.
Tiny sparkles of light caressing the night
Across this city. Through its darkness.
And somehow this dark is now beautiful.
Just like your sparkling touch. Across my dark.
Your being still glows out despite the darkness. The guilt.
The lack of clarity. The empty chair.
And the forbidden city-glitter. The forbidden lust. (more…)

I thought it would be nice

to sit and write a poem in gramercy park.

I approached the gate: closed. Locked.

excuse me ma’am , I asked the lady with her dog.

what time does the park open?

oh it’s always closed, she replied. You need a key to get in.

so here I sit, at the corner of gramercy park south and Irving Plaza

on a stoop.

The park sits beautiful and empty,

but the birds fly in and out.

the birds, the squirrels, the butterflies and moths,

require no key to enter gramercy park.

locks and keys are a human thing.

rather than wishing I had the key to gramercy park,

I sit and watch the birds fly.

My name is Mandy Kocsis, I’m 40 years old, and just published my first book of poetry, “Soul Survivor”, on April 16, 2020! I’ve never participated in the marathon before, but I’ve wanted to for years. Can’t wait!!!

My romance with the bottle
I beseech thee oh bottle!
I greet thee oh bottle!
My best friend!
My comforter!
My confidant!
My bulwark….never failing!
I have come again
As I usually come
To seek solace…in your depths!
To seek your brand of wisdom!
To seek…a dulling of the senses
To seek forgetfulness
To be lulled away…soothed in your arms…as usual
They call me drunkard
But I really couldn’t be bothered
What do they know…anyways!
They do not comprehend the enjoyment found in your depths
The particular brand of wisdom…found in your recesses
They say I stagger and fall in the gutters after exploring your depths
Bully for them..I say!
Is it their “stagger”? Is it their “fall”?
The bottle is mine….and I am his
Nothing can separate us
Oh bottle……
Thou bottle….
When I am filled to the hilt…I spew the peculiar brand of wisdom
That……can only be found in your depth
Sorrows…….relegated
Unpaid bills forgotten…
Responsibilities……cast aside
Family…..disregarded
I vow most solemnly to continue to find solace in you
Nothing can change that
Nothing will change that
I greet thee oh bottle
My loyalty lies…solely with you
Thank you for a life changing transformation
I salute thee…I salute thee!
This romance will…last forever!

My Romance With The Bottle

To be so tall and strong, woman, you must have steel

and grace enough to know your lovers

were not tightly laced, concealed

and the corset that bound you wasn’t a limit, but a cage

to stop them from seeing you, unstoppable.

Tigress, I wonder.

When you smiled, was it something I said,

or baring your fangs to the wolves at your door, reminder

that they should remember to bend yielding throats

before you run out of patience, and get the key

and unlock your self-imposed cage.

For Angela