The Poetry Marathon

2019 – Twelve – “Still Angry About Major Tom” A Sonnet. With Apologies to David Bowie.

Major Tom’s not coming home. He’s out there
watching with a crystal eye as all his
world grows darker in its lusts for light and
grids for power, to sell songs about him.
Perhaps someday, when they are marking where
the best billboards go where they won’t block this
moon, they’ll find him floating by his tin can,
and call his wife, whose memory’s grown dim.

“Mrs. Tom, the Major has been found. Just,
listen for a moment, dear, and don’t, please,
be upset that we’ve not called before.
He asked us to, but prudence, well, you must . . ”

“Please, understand yourself,” the Missus’d wheeze
“You left him there to die, and that’s the score.”

(I always felt they could done more to save him.)

Escape

Hour 12 YOU KNOW JOE

you know Joe
a wise old hermit
a sharp cookie
crazy
nuts
homespun

the trouble with living like Joe
is it’s easy

Joe’s beans decided to tromp

tromped up into the hills
thinking

you know Joe
the first thing that went through
Joe’s mind was I bet this
is gonna look really cool

Joe was alone in all the wrong ways
he stood there a minute
then he stuck his arm up in the air

you know Joe
a wise old hermit
a sharp cookie
crazy
nuts
homespun

it’s just too damn easy

Jesus Wept

Jesus Wept

 

Just when I thought things were falling into place, stars collided.

Everything changed. Things began to spin in directions they weren’t

supposed to, orbiting new planets, around the sky, around

us, in a way that wasn’t meant to be. But nothing ever

seemed different when prayers were wailed at the sky.

 

Whenever I see the new stars bright in the night, I hope

everything will again align. My souls yearns and waits

patiently for my constellations to form and for long-lost

tears to well back in my eyes and unbreak my heart.

White Chocolate Lover

White Chocolate Lover
Virginia Carraway Stark

Gently he melts against my tongue
Orchid taste gently darkening his ivory to cream
Vanilla the only thing marring the perfection
Differentiating
The purity of his taste
Into something of sensational beauty
tempting me to nibble yet again
and take him into my mouth
but only a small portion
more would be sacrilege
a little is all I need
When he makes the chemicals in my brain fire wildly
Each square of white chocolate
Taking three, even four bites
I enjoy each one in entirety
To do less, would be unkind to me and him
My white chocolate lover

Ouroboros

marriage is a sacrament

of love and pleasure

and aching and pain;

when you hit the windowsill

and the sky fills your brain

–  hush, my love –

become soft and stay this way

like kafka

 

walk the house, and do it quiet,

like a mouse – i knew once

of a tiny mouse who ran until he couldnt

and they trapped him with peanut butter and sweetness

 

(keep running; you will escape it one day)

Jesus is my Mousepad

what else to do
what else to say
ecclesiastes said it best
or he said ok
the end of that book
is kind of a cop out
I use a bible as my mousepad
KJV, given to me by Mormons
they were friendly
but I still didn’t give them my phone number
If I knew more about Joseph Smith at the time
I would have given them a better grilling
instead I asked “what questions are you sick of hearing?”
They both replied “asking if we’re from a polygamist family”
fair enough
but still
you get your own planet when you die
if you’re smart enough to die Mormon
in good standing
and male
and you know all the handshakes
what was I talking about?
Right, Jesus is my mousepad
I read from it sometimes
the apostles sound like liars
and what crawled up Paul’s ass and died?
It’s a fantastic mousepad though
good grip, that faux-leather texture
soft edges that don’t dig into my wrist
and there’s one line in particular
that I like
from Jesus, I think this was before he was God?
That’s intentionally bad theology- I’m not that ignorant
I’m not religious but I like reading holy texts
It’s mythology, it’s like comic books
when you read the old testament
it’s no wonder
that all the original creators
of superheroes
your supermen, your batmen,
were Jews
comic books are a Jewish tradition
So yeah, he was always God
but the man was sometimes
more man-like than godlike
All those parties he threw
and the disciples are like “wow where’d he get all these fishes?”
Not like his disciples were fishermen or anything
but right, that one line
(I’m paraphrasing)
“You can curse the Father and be forgiven, you can curse the Son and be forgiven, but you will not be forgiven if you curse the Holy Spirit”
I think about that one a lot.
I tried cursing the holy spirit the other day
because, ya know
I don’t even believe in you, you can’t tell me what to do
so I did
but my heart wasn’t in it
so I probably didn’t actually do it
I’m no theologian
and you didn’t ask
but I think it means something like
you can curse the creator
but not the energy of creation itself
I think I can get behind that
and I hope I never do curse that Spirit
but I might
if I start speaking in tongues.

Magazine clutter (halfway point)

Renaissance woman sounds nice

I’ve been considered different

bullied

awkward

trying to hide

unique

timid

self conscious

are what led up to me being not normal now

i walk in rooms

i try to avoid

my accent rained glitter

my voice sinks in my dreams

road maps feel like rollercoasters

I see if I can pull it off

bold to the core of existence

sparking my creative ways

Home [12]

My four walls wrapped around me
that hot summer of your defection.
Silence so loud it almost drowned out my despair.

I opened the windows wide and the white cotton curtains swayed in the slight breeze;
the roar of bees outside on the dandelions in the unmown yard was deafening in the hush.
The roses bloomed brightly – they did not know I was in grief, in rage?

Around my chair in the corner I piled books and got lost,
not reading words but living inside stories, images of love lost, of starting over….of home.

Cars hummed on the street outside; kids on skateboards clacked by shouting to each other but inside I went to Mexico, to Italy, to Ireland and England, to China and to India. I cooked with Julia Child, hunted houses with Francis Mayes, and visited the exotic Marigold hotel.

And every time I surfaced you were less distinct, your edges less sharp and painful.

 

[unfinished]

 

Homeland

I lost myself along the way somewhere.
Most people around me didn’t care.
Or maybe they didn’t notice at all
that I seemed headed for a fall.

I took myself down to the water’s edge.
Immersed in the depths of my regret.
Absolved myself in the sun’s warm glow.
And remembered all that I used to know:

That my roots run deep
in my native land.

That the earth will ground me
despite shifting sands.

That time well spent isn’t lost at all.
That the rising is greater than the fall.

That the home I sought
was always close at hand.

And that I’m welcomed and loved
in my true homeland.