The Poetry Marathon

Dear Kevin who likes to take shortcuts sometimes

Okay, we have to talk

Every few years
you try to save yourself time or effort
by taking shortcuts

You know what I’m talking about—
don’t even lie

Let me remind you:

That time at the Graham Hill playground
when your bicycle chain fell off?
You couldn’t use the brakes to stop
so you steered right into the chain-link fence?
Fortunately, the boys were all right

That time in the Cleveland parking lot?
You were in a rush to get to your first class
so you went up the dirt embankment, tripped
and fell on a piece of glass?
Spent the morning in the emergency room?
Six stitches? Ring a bell?

That time at Crazy Mike’s when you jumped up
to grab something from the other side of the counter
and your ribs hit the edge on the way down?
That still hurts sometimes, you know

That time when Levitz was delivering the new living room furniture
but got lost in that wacky little area
where the street names trade places?
After flagging them down
you ran across the lawn and tried to jump up to the front door
so you wouldn’t have to go up TWO STEPS?
You didn’t break it, but that ankle will never be quite right…

That time you went with the wife to get a new car
after one of the kids totalled it in a wreck?
You should have bought used, I’m telling you
’cause that thing was already doomed
even without the damn kids

All those times you grabbed everything from the car
because you didn’t want to make two or three trips
then tripped on the stairs because you couldn’t see where your feet were?
How long did it take before you could pull stuff out of the washing machine
without going OW–OW–OW–OW?
That’s right!

Or that time you were carrying that big-ass box out to your car
from your mom’s house and fell down those TWO STEPS?
Remember how it took two or three years
for that arm to get back to normal?
Don’t tell me you don’t—you still have the elbow brace to prove it

And what about that time you married your ex
because y’all thought you were so mature now
and all the bad shit was already behind you?
Uh-huh—where are you now?

Remember:

Make the extra trips
Walk around the whatever
Take the stairs
Don’t rush
Do it right

And most of all—history is not a shortcut

Love,
Future Kevin

 

---

(22 June 2019, Hour 10)

Midnight

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Strung out on hysterics, kissing midnight

In this moonlight dancing on the red curtain, your skin, almost seems flushed with rouge

As I play your body like a violin, pluck your strings

Creating symphonies, rising above the clouds

Haiku

Words flowing from pen,

Evoked from my heart, mind’s eye

Memoirs of my soul

Eve Remillard

6/22/19

 

Hour 11

Midnight where I am. Some say the witching hour.

I’m still bewitched by my companion.

So here’s another quick and easy contribution so I can get back to him.

Silver tongued lover

Whispers love between my thighs

I respond in kind

Safe

I run from love.
Like a coward,
I run at even the mention of it.
Too much,
Pain
In love,
Has made life safer
When love is more,
Fantasy
Than Reality.
So, I create a new kind
Of love for me.
Through, correspondence
Which they call social,
But truly is
Lonely.

I hide from a life,
Outside my words.
They are safe,
You are not.
So, I run from you.

11 – i love you.

Dear Sandra,17,

I love you, I wish I could tell you to be different, to be braver, to believe in yourself, l don’t want us to live through the pain, but we must for that is how we learn, we grow, how we become me, and l promise in the end you where always exactly who you needed to be, to become the women I am today.

 

 

 

thank you xxxx

 

For You Aria

“Hush Hush, keep quiet you two, you will wake her up”
That should have been my line while you’re having a nap
Might scold your father and brother when making noise
For sure they’ll insist on bringing you toys

I could sip my coffee while you sleep and I’ll watch
I might be crocheting while you rest in my touch
That should have been what I’d do my child just for you
But you left us so soon and we’re longing it’s true

I could tell you stories from the books on the shelf
So that when you’re grown you’ll do it yourself
Papa and Kuya can watch alternately
You see they won’t stop until they see you cheerfully

You are our joy our cutie moonbeam
We have waited for you, you are our dream
But then now you’re gone what else can we do
But to weep and to mourn ’cause we’re longing for you

Aria, Aria dear, life is cold like the fog
Your absence in our lives is a real heavy log
Our dear child, dear Aria, our little girl so sweet
We will wait for the day when we’ll finally meet.

Dear Current Me (hour 11)

Dear me,

Once, you had cotton candy princess hair.

You had butterflies in your tummy and
noble intentions made your heart beat.
You had a soft voice, giggly laugh, and couldn’t
ever remember where you put your phone.

Music was your oxygen.
Poetry was the only language you understood.
You lived for books and learning and silence.

Now, you have a cotton candy heart.

You have moths in your stomach and
bitter outlooks block your aorta,
You have a hard voice, RBF, and can’t seem
to let your Iphone out of your hand long enough for it to cool.

Music brings the tears, so it’s better not to breathe.
Poetry is the only way to cover scars.
You live to sleep now and search for friendly faces and
you always look for the exit before you sit down.

Your soul was pretty, pink bubbles and glitter and hope.
Now, it’s hardened stone, just waiting to be rolled away.

I hope for our sake, you get better.
Breath some music and eat some words.
You can’t be this numb forever.

Love,
Me

2019 – Eleven – “Why I Write New Words for Ancient Heroes” A Sonnet

To sail the wine dark seas of Homer’s lads.
To face the test of Cyclops and the songs
of sirens in the misty morning’s light.
To chase bold Zeus from out fair Leda’s lap.
To tell the tale so dread Medusa’s sad,
dread head’s kept on her shoulders, Neptune’s wrongs
avenged. So Ephialtes lies with might.
Briseis, oh my love, escapes the trap.

The stories that I read when I was young
left me wanting more, and so I tell
new tales for heroes, tales of “Never Was”
to live the lays I’d live, as yet unsung.

Besides, I need my scraps, and someone swell
said that bards eat free on Mount Olympus.

(Inspired by, and used with the permission of, a message from a fellow marathoner. Thanks, Darla.)

What I Do

I practice calligraphy
on a Buddha board
the characters disappear
when the water dries

no grinding ink
no wasted paper
it’s a win/win situation
take my word for it