The Poetry Marathon

Of Innocence and Consequences (prompt 7 and 8, Hour 6)

Things could certainly have been different
if we were different people.
Songs of blame loop endlessly
when one person breaks free
and one is bound in place.

Abandoned in our small house,
made smaller by lack of you,
I grieved a long time.
Send in the Clowns was my theme for years,
until I realized my destiny can’t be tied
to someone who leaves,
or yours to someone who can’t move on.

Perhaps I could have shown love more—though
It always seemed we were solid and secure.
Perhaps I did make the relationship revolve around me.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.

I loved our days of innocence and consequences
and understand the leaving now.
Hard lessons taught by thorns and pain made marks,
though we shared a rich story, a long walk
made mostly in joy.

You rebounded quickly.
My heart, a wounded deer,
at last peeks cautiously out.
Joy persists.

Whisp

I found solace in the silence of that now hallowed place where he had departed from me. It was that very silence which kept me there, lingering like petrichor. It was as though I had been clinging to the very absence of his breath as though I might fall from the heights of some great ledge that was, only mere moments ago, his person.

Ocean View (hour 7)

In this sea full of strangers,
apologies leak from my mouth,
surmounted by an ocean of guilt and shame.

I am not who they made me to be.
I am not delicate or tender.

Thick, dark, cruel waves crash down
on your soft, heartfelt intentions.
The depths of me are yet to be discovered;
Those who have tried have been buried at sea.

I am not your mother or friend.
I am not a gentle song for a quiet night.

In this sea full of strangers,
accusations drip from their mouths,
Surmounted by an ocean of “I warned yous”.

 

 

 

 

One Thousand and One

There were at least one thousand and one reasons to go back. 

I only needed the one. Simple love lived there. 

It had been years since I paid her a visit, yet she welcomed me like it was yesterday. 

Simple love is easy that way. 

As I drove through the sunlight hills untouch grass swayed in the wind. Waving at me. 

The little boy that I once was ran across that field, farther away from home than he should be. But it was okay here.

Two childhood friends ran close behind and they all laughed so loud and pure that it flooded my ears. 

They faded as I drove ahead. I smiled as they faded into my heart. 

Big momma’s voice pulled me inside. 

Papa was already there. 

More food than my sisters and I would see on a table in the north state where we lived filled the table. It was all good. 

Papa talked about his fields and beasts. His favorite tried to escape again to run and play. Again. 

He was so proud that daddy would be back from serving his country soon. Our chatter made momma wake up. 

The dinner scene faded into my heart. Tears of love filled my eyes.

Taller than allowed grass blades filled my eyes and the softened face of a strong man peered through the window. 

The same voice, big momma’s song, called out my name. Her face showed that she had been happily blessed with many seasons.

Her round arms opened and welcomed me in. 

It had been too many years. I always employ modern technology to bring these great people to me. 

But this time. No. Nah. I needed to meet them here. One more time. 

So I’d never forget Simple Love. 

jj2019 2019 Poetry Marathon

All rights reserved

If You’ll Excuse My Cliche’

Nothing seems to lock a box
and throw away the key
like religion.

Who makes the rules?
God?
Whose version of God?

Who writes the holy texts?
Who interprets them?
Who gets to decide what is and isn’t sin?

What is sin, anyway?
If it’s a sin to hurt another,
shaming is a sin.
Shame destroys.

Who says it’s wrong to question God?
God’s existence?
Heaven and hell?
To question anything?

If there’s only one right way to heaven,
why are there so many different roads
and road maps?
Draw your own damn map!

Don’t get locked in to someone else’s prison
of beliefs, someone else’s definition
of good, bad, holy, unholy.
Seek your own truth.

Love and compassion
are the only holy texts
you need.

Hour 7. (2019)

Shantyman: As I looked to the grey-speckled sky

Shantyman: Fluttrin above there was a magpie

Shantyman: And into the wind a song it did cry:

All: Don’t bear me down O’ Lore Lay

Shantyman: “Close ahead a maiden resides”

Shantyman: “To live, thou must shelter thine ears and thine eyes”

Shantyman: “For if you do not, by her spell shall you die!”

All: Don’t bear me down O’ Lore Lay

truth-telling

Don’t let them lie to you. This shit is HARD.
It’s a thankless grind,
a neverending litany of everything you
didn’t know
didn’t finish
didn’t get right
didn’t make it through
and every day it
starts over
keeps coming
won’t stop
won’t ever stop
won’teverevereverstop
and you can’t make the ends meet
and you can’t make the pieces fit
and you’re quite certain that the light at the end of this tunnel is
an oncoming train.

But some days…

Some days it all falls into place.
It all comes together and comes into focus.
And you can trace the patterns and see the path.
And the light hits everything just right and you’re quite certain that
you’ve never been a part of anything more beautiful in your life.

So no lies. This shit is HARD.
But some days?
Some days this shit is MAGIC.

Flowering (a haibun)

One Saturday, Paul was able to go to the clinic by himself for his daily blood draw and follow-up. Our usual medical team had the weekend off, so it seemed less crucial for me to go, too. He came back buoyed up from meeting the nurse, originally from Japan, who turned out to be an ikebana practitioner, in the same modern school of ikebana I’d studied in.

I came along on Sunday to meet her. She was a ceramicist, landscape architect, flower arranger, expert oncology nurse, as well as a delightful person. She invited me to attend the local ikebana group, but I didn’t have the opportunity to do that during the intense time of the transplant.

in the rabbit-ravaged
tulip bed
some late bloomers

Shotgun Riders

Shotgun Riders

 

The rusty old pick-up

Holding up ladders

Is parked behind the barn

Worn tool belt on the floor

Buckets with brushes rest

On paint splattered seats

 

After he died they came

To my kitchen table

Each remembering their

Time as his shotgun rider

To unload, to work, to pack-up

Always talking about the game

 

Autumn setting up at deer camp

Chores completed with precision

They sat at his table to share

Beer, smoke, tell tall tales

Of youth, women, near-misses

Laughter connecting them

 

Decades passed while

He and the old truck kept on

Shotgun riders came and went

Now belonging to myths retold

At my kitchen table they sit

Next to his chair and weep

 

TobeTT # 6

Hour seven: Apology: My friend’s boyfriend

I do not understand what she sees
in him, his bumps and crevices
on full display, unapologetically ugly,
expecting to be loved exactly the way

he is— knobby feet in flip-flops,
clothing loose, draping over
the largest parts of him. He swirls
wine in his glass and tells me

my poem should be in couplets,
not tercets. He offers no compliments
first, no apologies, and I’m not
offended so much as jealous.

I write his comments in my notepad,
quiet in my disagreement, swallowing
my commentary about how men
don’t compromise, my fear that

my empathy and masculinity will
always be at odds, but he catches
my eye, says hey, you can disagree
if you want. I shouldn’t need

his permission, but I take it.
He listens before he speaks,
our comments falling into rhythm
like the punching of a chess clock,

a banter rooted in poetry,
an unapology, an undoing
of my silence. He’s still wrong
about the tercets, but I see

for a moment what my friend
does, the quick bounce of his wit,
and I wonder if anyone will ever
love me like that.