The Poetry Marathon

My Shoes Won’t Fit You

you walked in my shoes

they didn’t fit

you tripped

you fell

you walked on

pulled yourself up

you crawled for a time

sat for respite

blisters scalded

oozed and healed on heels

and toes

they didn’t suit

but you insisted

you would wear them in

take my place

take my man

my son and daughter

and now you cry

and don’t know why

he left you for another

big shoes to fill

it’s not you

nor is it I

it isn’t her

we that cry and rail

are not to blame

it’s he that seeks a wearer

of ill-fitting choices

lies to himself

and us

 

 

Gifu/Gebo

Gifu/Gebo

 

A process of gifting & receiving

An exchange built of strong bond & honor

Equated by time and sacrifice

Gifu should be worn like a Bonner

 

On the one hand –

We should gift with no needs of return

A credit and honor, supporting dignity

On the other hand-

We should receive in kind

So beware of those taking for infinity

 

When involved with a partner

True love is worthy of a KISS

X marks the meeting spot

Of sacred committed bliss

 

The magickal power held within

Is realizing the only thing

We can freely gift is Oneself

Grand Avenue

A friend of mine moved from an apartment we both lived in – but consecutively –
To her mother’s home in the suburbs
While awaiting one of a sequence of
Rescheduled surgeries.

She fell
Getting off of a bus on Grand Avenue
With its warped surface that scuffs loafers
And trips worn out sneakers
With equal disregard.

Grand Avenue has some old beauties, but was
Mainly the dividing line between which side of downtown had money and which side was just
Waiting to go to the East side.

As I wait for a bus,
An older lady sits cross-legged on the pavement. In the 50s, Grand Aenue’s heyday, she would have worn a dress and fretted into
A damp handkerchief.

Carrying my market bag, I, too, if I had been walking down Grand Avenue in the ’50s, would have resembled a McCalls dress pattern cover, if slightly wilted by June mimicking July.

Grand Avenue’s glamour is faded and a shirtless man whose tattoos settle into the creases of his aged flesh spits on the other side of the street

Another poet, maybe Ginsberg, would give prayers the Grand Avenue’s lost.

I get on my bus, rebuking myself for paying another fare, forgetting I still
Had time on my transfer.

Youthful Days

I am strolling down a country road
With good friends by my side.
Knapsack in hand, we are going down
For camping, a feeling full of pride.
The days of summer are waning,
But we still have lots of time
To wade into the rushing rivers
To not would be a crime.
Simple silence surrounds us
To talk would break the spell
Of our youthful togetherness
The tales we cannot wait to tell.
No adults surround us now
To clutter up our plans
We simply walk the country road
Swinging our unclenched hands.
The thoughts that race through our youthful minds
Are full of adventure and glory
We turn off the country road
To start the next part of our story.
We find a shaded glade of trees
Next to a dappled stream
We set up camp in which we will
Begin to live our dream.
The talk begins to sprinkle amongst us
Gently bringing on the laughter
Slowly the conversation increases
The camaraderie we sought after.
As the sun begins to set
Over our primitive campsite
We sit side by side to watch the stars
Their brightness not hindered by firelight.
We settle in, a group of friends
In who time has not started to chide
We share our dreams, our hopes, our fears
And enjoy life’s glorious ride.

Entry 7 Half-Marathon 21.00 EU time — Meditation At Dawn

.

What shall I tell myself this morning,

aside from the obvious fact

about the rain reporting to work

again as it did yesterday, promptly,

two minutes past the hour?

 

My class does not start till half-eleven,

so may I now return to bed to plan

today’s English grammar lesson?

Who will not show up today?  Which

students will forget their homework?

 

The traffic jam is starting this minute;

I can feel it in my water and in my

bones, but we do not honk our horns

here, our bumpers never touch;

I allow my head to sink back to sleep.

 

Outside, the light is growing, birds

will wash themselves in the puddles,

then forage for food, chirping merrily.

No appraisal interview about who

gets to catch the first worm of the day.

.

Phoenixlike

We might die and leave the earth
But memories will stay with worth
We might die and leave them here
But our good deeds won’t disaappear

Like good old phoenix we will come back
When time is right we will fly back
For sure its us who else will be
But the phoenix of our family

For families value every thought
They care they love the ones they got
So we might die and leave the Earth
But memories will stay with worth.

2019 – Seven – “I’m Not Really Don Quixote. Not Really.” A Reminder Sonnet for . . . Me.

I’m not a man who tilts at old windmills.
Where I was raised a windmill means I’m home.
I do own armor, but it’s clean and bright.
I only wear it out for festive days.
I have no broken-down old nag that spills
me off into the dust. And unlike some,
no comic sidekick, wiser by a sight,
strides beside me through all my forays.

I don’t live like the Don, though I am told
the differences aren’t always there to spot.
My honor and true love leave me star-crossed
A mad, old-fashioned chivalric. And bold.

I follow, though, in this. For years I’ve sought
Dulcinea, who Quixote’d lost.

Good boys

one day you come home from school past the farmland past the road next to the swamp where the gators lie if you look long and hard enough and your mother stands outside waiting for you and you do not know what she found but you do know what you did when you tried to find God in another boy’s trousers but nothing unholy would ever taste this good, right? and your mother cries as she looks through the magazines you hid under your bed and she takes you apart and she says your father called and she says how can he live with a son like that and she says I’m sorry but

PLAYMATE LOVER

PLAYMATE LOVER

I’m at the crossroads of time
My life is in flux and I need to choose a path
that will satisfy both my heart and mind
All I want is love, yet I hate to be smothered

I need a playmate lover
One that will come over when I call
and laugh at my jokes or read my books
and then have a long discussion

When I’m tired I’ll kiss him on the cheek
and send him home for dinner
I’ll curl up and check my emails and play
with kitty or make witty remarks on Facebook

When I get that feeling, I’ll call him back
I’ll use him up and feel smothered again
I’ll send him home to his own bed
and I’ll curl up with kitty in mine

But then the feelings start to come
Jealousy if I think I’m not your only one
Same old conundrum that I face each day
I want a lover to stay, but also to go away

© Diane Morinich
All Rights Reserved

I,You,We

Sailing on the same boat,
humming the same lines,
we talked,
shared space,
slept under same sheet.

One got down at east,other at west.
Now,divided by directions,
by color,
by race,
by history,

They spat each other on differences.

Yes,forgetfulness is a boon,
but remembrance is a blessing.

We are one,
only the red blood and the last breath is what is real.
Let’s love,love and love.