The Poetry Marathon

Your Own Gods

I have been ruminating
On the idea of personal pantheons

The people that we relied on
Who helped us
When we didn’t have anything
Who advised us
When we entirely fucked up
Who loved us
When we were at our worst

My first was an amputee with a huge laugh
Second, another amputee with a sharp tongue
From there, it was opinionated women
And men who loved the theater
Followed by motorcycle riders
Bartenders
Drunks
Thieves
And liars

They were not gods
They were far from perfect
They were not loved by everyone
And they were not always my favorites either

But they remain where I placed them
In my personal pantheon
I remember the lessons they taught me
The wisdom they shared
The love they gave me
And that I gave them

They remain the ones I whisper to
In the darkest hours of the night

The fog

Well, damn,
didn’t the fog descend so quickly
that morning?
It draped the little house
and the fir trees in its mist
and I felt such a peace in that hush,
alone, drinking my coffee
at that tiny kitchen table,
blissfully and tragically
unaware of your suffering.

Push Through

Why did I do I do this?

Was it because I thought I could deliver some creative justice

To a world that is hurting, its black and blue bruises starting to show through?

What made me think my voice could change anything?

What words could I string together- that would unite us in love?

I am tired.

I don’t want to go on.

This banner no longer something I want to carry.

I’m fairly certain this gibberish makes no sense.

I’ve got a show to do, so I’m off to get ready.

Folks, these hours are about to get heavy.

But I am a Johnson

And quitters we were not raised to be.

I do not give myself license to give up.

There is no permission granted to walk away.

On this course, I must stay.

Oh, but I’m tired and I long for the day

When I can put this marathon behind me

And just be

Me on my marry way.

 

Hour 10 – Waiting

Waiting 

Sitting on the dock,
like a shelf over the night-stilled lake,
sipping my canteen of coffee
I wait 

Waiting for the frogs to sing again
Waiting for the damn fog to lift
Waiting for the moonbeams to return
Waiting, but for what? 

In the hush of the wind through the fir trees I hear it:
Your time will come -
Be at peace

 

Amen

Now I lay me
Down to sleep
I pray to land
Always on my feet.
If I should die
Before I wake,
I pray they leave me
In the lake.

Lullaby

Lullaby

 

Hush, hush, go to sleep, let the fog

roll over you. Close your eyes, sleep

tight, let dreams drift away.

 

As the sun breaks at dawn and shines

down from the sky, hear the birds

in the trees whistling softly.

 

As you wake, see my eyes looking

into yours, bright as day. I whisper

hums of songs, perfect melodies.

Another Prose Poem/Prompt 13 Hour 10

As I writer I often dream. I am alone in a wood. My own personal retreat, to write, to decompress from city life, to get grounded. A log cabin on the lake is where I see me. A cabin surrounded by firs. In the early morning, my favorite writing time, a fog drifts in. Alone, I am on the porch, sitting. My journal lies open on a table beside me, my pen lies within its crease. Coffee mug in hand, I gaze out at the lake, now blanketed with fog. I listen as the wind gently blows. The firs whisper to one another, the house creaks, the aroma of coffee fills my nose. It is the night that brings me the most solace. I dream of how it rolls in, silently. With it comes silence, as it brings a hush to the daytime sounds. I am curled up on the armchair, a book in my hands, chosen from the shelf of the cabin’s very own library. I’m at peace, caressed by moonbeams, I read.

2019 – Ten – “An Ode to Time, Which is Not a Clock”

Hickory, dickory, dock.
Time is not a clock.

This is what time is.

This.

Somewhere out there
is where,
of a day
someone will see
the last firefly.

Somewhere out there
is where,
of a day,
someone will drink
the last cup of tea.

One day
there will be only
one kiss left
and it is up to us
to make sure now
that it will be a good one
then
for whoever is blessed with it.

Somewhere out there
awaits the last
hello,
the last
goodbye,
the last
I love you.

Someone,
right now,
is sitting close
to where the last
grave will be dug
with a shovel that will
someday be hurled
across the firmament
as dust that
no one will ever see again
until it’s brought into carnation in another
galaxy where the word
shovel
is a different concept entirely.

Someday.

Someday.

Someday . . .

All of those things
are coming.
With a certainty
and a crash
and a bang.
Gonna happen.
Might even happen to one of you.

So.

Come to me my Mousie.
Come to me my soft one
in the evening air,
you of the hair I long to touch,
the lips I long to kiss,
the heart whose beat powers the moon
which can move the sea.
Sit with me
and watch the sun go
down for the only time
today.
There is only this moment for us,
only one bright day
that is this one
and I may not see you tomorrow.

I love you.

This is not the last “I love you”
but it is one of the best.
Because it real
and it is now
and it defines this moment in time.
Which has nothing to do with a clock.

summer bummer

summer always makes me nostalgic; i find myself sitting on a bench on a dock somewhere wishing it was last year already (last year you and i were still a thing, even if it was pathetic). i remember touching you, i touched your golden soul and your smiling face and when we went to paris i truly thought i would marry you. i miss the way you poured your coffee. i miss your hushed voice in the morning and the way the hair curled in the back of your neck, the way i would run my fingers through it as i told you about my day and never listened to yours. i think i knew something was up quite a while ago; some things you know before you do, like how you know it’ll rain even though the weather forecast told you it wouldn’t, or the feeling in your tummy when you see someone for the last time. nevertheless, it still felt like i had fallen 100ft and slammed into a concrete floor when you told me: i can’t do this anymore. what couldn’t you do anymore? the poem sucks but so does your leaving, and sometimes you can’t seem to hand over the roses without passing some of the thorns as well. i wish i could hate you for saying goodbye. i wish i didn’t understand exactly what you meant when  you said you couldn’t do it anymore. if we had met each other later in our lives, would it have worked? would it matter? i’m stuck writing like it’s 2014 again because the fog in my head never seems to clear up enough to compose anything decent, but those are the consequences of the things we do. i wish i could’ve loved you just a little bit less. i wish you would’ve loved me just a little bit better. i wish you weren’t so goddamn right when you turned around and grabbed your coat, and i wish i didn’t agree with you when you finally locked the door.

 

Prompt 13/H10- Words