The Poetry Marathon

eight

“I hated waking up, not remembering what had happened to me.”
I was chatting with my therapist
about my experiences
with electroconvulsive therapy.
Shock treatments.
I was explaining why ECT
felt like
I was being re-traumatized
with every induced seizure of my brain.

My therapist asked:
“Are there other times in your life that you woke up and couldn’t remember what had happened to you?”

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m a depressed person.
I am mentally ill.
I am clinically depressed.
Even at my most recovered,
my healthiest,
my most thriving self:
I am sick.
I have made many sabotaging attempts
to be as sick as I can.
I have also made many attempts
to get well.
Alcohol (I got sober).
Drugs (I got clean).
Therapy.
Antidepressants.
Self-help books.
Buddhism.
I starved myself (I recovered).
Prayer.
Meditation.
Anti-anxiety meds.
Anti-psychotics.
Psych wards.
And, finally, shock treatments.

“I woke up, not knowing what had happened to me.”
This is the declaration that serves as the cliff from which I leap.

Slower Times

Old times were the very best

Cornfields, and barns with hens

That gave our breakfast, fresh;

Life was simpler then.

 

The water well was ready

To fill the pitcher full.

The stream was full of frogs

That croaked and senses lulled.

 

Lightening bugs in a jar–

We kept, then raised the lid

To let them join the others

In flight to where they hid.

 

Clothes were hanging on the line

To dry in breeze of air;

Nothing ever smelled so fresh

As clean sheets dried so fair!

 

Lard was in the bucket

To fry the chicken, crisp–

No worries of clogged arteries:

Real butter, churned by Sis.

 

Homemade ice cream made so sweet

With salt packed tight around it,

We’d turn, and turn, and turn some more

Waiting for the taste: a hit!

 

Modern days are filled with speed

And great technology,

But nothing beats the good ol’ days

When shooting stars we’d see.

Detailed Distraction (H7)

I sit here
in this forest
and follow
words through woods
familiar and not

lost in the sounds of
things that sway and
things that fall
and things fly
away my mind floats
until she captures my attention.

Fine legs
Sporting sparkles on her chest
and down her back
I get caught up in her musical hum,
and almost forget to kill her.

Inspiration Coming When the Lights are Out

Wicked muse, fair-weather friend,
I can’t talk to you tonight;
The sounds of raindrops descend
Like soft breeze on a dim light.

An everyday has mussed my face,
Shall I get up to brush my teeth?
You tempt me with an odd verse
And not much after or beneath.

I am counting on your being here,
I so badly want to rhyme.
But here we haven’t a full Shakespeare,
Not even a Sondheim.

If I turn on the light, do you promise to stay,
Wicked muse, oh, to play?
Our history unveils a nay,
And I dare not for fear of scaring you away.

What You Deal

Everything you say or do,

Express the way you feel.

But always know I will be there for you,

No matter what you deal…

C. Burgess (c)

Poem 8

She was my closest friend,
My dearest companion,
My strongest support.

She was my fiercest competitor,
My most frequent confrontation,
My harshest critique.

My sister, my friend

-h.e.m.

A Talent (sevenling)

 

Talents in unison

Confounded in shared reality

Finishing the polished elements

 

Remembering in the heart of matter

Yet the quest for fulfillment

Receiving its eternal reward

 

Blossoming reality of core being

 

 

Prompt # 10 Hour # 8

4:00 AM PHT 23/06/2019

Polaroid

My memory

Fans the instant pictures

As the images develop . . .

Hayrack rides, teen lines,

Walking beans, riding ten-speeds

Cornfields, Westroads mall

The noon whistle

Friendship beads and

Skateland

Good Afternoon Catfish

Good afternoon catfish, surely you must’ve slept late

cause you didn’t touch a single thing I put on your breakfast plate

I threw it right at you, right in your bed a mouthful at a time

But you didn’t take any of it and that bait was USDA prime

It is well past lunchtime now, the perfect hour for a snack

I’ve packed some Vienna Sausages, got ’em right in my sack

They are the best kind, covered in delicious hot sauce

I just had a great idea that you’ll find out about with my next toss

I’ll dip one of those plastic lures right down into that sausage can

And I’ll send it right down to you, you whisker faced wise man

Maybe that will spark some life into you after your good night sleep

And you will pay me a little visit from the cold and muddy deep

 

Hour 8: ©️ H.J – “Steady”

Original, not prompted
2019: H.J ©️
https://official-authorhj.yolasite.com/media-gallery.php

~ STEADY ~

The winds of change are ready,
to sweep off what is heavy,
To illuminate the known.

In Justice,
I am your own.

Holding steady,
as you trust this;
Folding steady, not to rush this.

All I know is how to focus
on you –
And the gentle ease
of something true.