The Poetry Marathon

Death of Me (Hour 5)

We raced through the jungle trails on a motorcycle,
faceless men, clad in black, chasing us.
Throwing stars at us from their Ducati’s,
you were finally saving me.

We spun around a corner,
your father’s houseboat docked within the marsh.
Safety, at last!
There was a table for the dead affixed to the stern,
extending into the water.
At first glance, I thought it was a slide.
I lay on its metallic surface, warmed by the sun, because you asked me to.
Then streams of crimson spilled into the water surrounding me,
and then I knew.
You only saved me to drain me.
But why?

I jumped from my death and stormed the boat.
You had my passport, trapping me,
saying I had no choice but to die.
Begging to know why, you told me you had to obey.
Your father wanted me dead.
There was no time for tears, I was determined to find another way.
I could run back to the ninjas and let them take me.
But just like that we were already out to sea,
and your father wanted my blood.
But why?

Standing starboard, I could see the shoreline twenty miles away.
I could swim it. I would make it to shore, and then disappear.
Before I could dive, you grabbed my arm.
You gave me the small paper bag that held my identity and a key.
I followed as you led, a jet ski tethered to the boat.
You told me to go before your father came back, it was the only chance I had.

I straddled the jet ski, ignited it’s fury, and rocketed away.
The salt spray mixed with my tears as I left you behind.
I had no thank you to say, only confusion and defiance.
The further I rode, the more my heart broke.
I loved you more than a human could ever love,
but you were the death of me.

Poem #6

from the high shelf

of a dainty toy store

the pretty doll looks on

as kids of all ages

smile and play and take home

their new playmates

friends, even best friends for life

( or until they overgrow them)

but that’s all she does

she would sigh if she could

oh! how times have changed

she thinks as she waits

once a rare treasure

now she is just another toy

in mass-production

left to wait an eternity

and watch-on from

the high shelf of a dainty toy store.

 

 

(no, I did not write this while watching toy story)

Freedom, Ltd

Locked in and locked out both at once;
So slow, I convinced I’m a dunce
In all the social niceties.
Some friends help, other like to tease the encumbrance.

Locked in when I can’t leave my bed
For the pain in my back, legs, and head.
Locked in when I can’t talk or hear,
For the roaring fog in my ears leaves me dead.

Locked out when a shop says, “Boo-hoo,
“You can’t make us put ramps in for you.
“Stop acting like you have the right
“To give decent people a fight, you scrounger, you!”

Locked out and locked in, with no cure;
There’s nothing to do but endure.
But one choice is left here still mine:
If I want to let this define me: No. I’m more.

 

Form: The Florette

Prompt: Write a poem about being stuck in a very small place, actually or metaphorically; or Write a poem about being locked out, actually or metaphorically.

Hour 6 – Stuck

A long time ago

I broke my foot

chugging whiskey

after being horribly unfunny

professionally

it didn’t look good on me

so I tried on another pair of shoes

And fell backward over a curb

 

I used to have trouble staying still

not walking

and lying in bed with my repercussions

clanging away like cymbals in my ears

if I could not walk away from them

I would hop or crawl

toward a new distraction

 

Outside on the balcony

the winter wind blustered

smoke swept up

like sweet treats in greedy hands

my concerned partner

finding no broken fiance in bed

rushed outside to find me

propped up

in a robe

on my unbroken foot

in the cold

 

He ushered me inside

and

by some meticulous design

a gust curled through the hall

slamming a door shut

between the balcony and the hall

suddenly

we were trapped

for an indeterminate time

in the space used as our housemate’s closet

 

Immediately

the wind died

to allow us a moment of silence

and there was no bargaining

in the closet

no lock to pick

just two people in a closet

squeezed in between

an out of service bike

platform heels

knick knacks

and faux furs

 

This was not the time for

any number of minutes in heaven

nor anger

but for sitting in the stillness

of how we came to be

stuck

 

In the end

I could not blame

the danger shoes

Prisoner

No one sees the bars when the jailer is your mind.

Who do you petition for freedom?

How do you escape the confinement of a space that is with you always?

Even when you appear to be free.

It is critical of you, more than most.

Then claims to be your key to freedom.

Solitary confinement – when all you want to be is free

Locked away with just your thoughts

Escape or release may never be.

Trapped in the prison of your mind.

 

6- Leaving Home, Leaving Maui

He gifted his skateboards, boogie boards, and surfboard to his friends. He made hard choices over what to keep, what to take, what to give away, swallowing hard, often, in his new 12 year old throat. He packed and repacked and waded through his list of lasts until they were all scribbled out… last swim, last surf, last bike ride, last hike, last stream cliff dive, last beach fire, last goodbye to friends, last sunset, last aloha oe

He made hard decisions to turn his face to the window during take off, to hide his brand new 12 year old heavy tears from my old grandmother ones.

Hour Six – stuck in a small place…

A Wine’s Life:

Glass bottle contains me
Putting me on display
Waiting ever patiently
For someone to whisk me away

Alas, there is a hand
Firmly grabbing hold
A voice happily remarks
This one is quite old

Suddenly the pressure eases
The air I can finally breathe
As I’m poured into the atmosphere
I feel more glass capture me

Now everything is swirling
I’m being sniffed and sipped
Longing to be back in the bottle
Not in someone’s belly – adrift

gj

Inhabit

This dwelling that I exist in

The windows are bright and framed with dark fluttering curtains

The shutters open and close
Sending a message via visual telegraph
Only dreaming through filtered sun rays

The walls are curved and strong
A temple with art etched in

The paint is older than before
I get lost in the shapes made by the cracks and scars

The library is filled with magic and stories
Thought and presence
A strong sweeping resonance

The steps lead inward, upward, and outward
Going where they will and willing where they will go

This dwelling is where I live
I live where this dwelling is

Underground Parking (tanka prose)

We knew we’d have to draw on all our reserves of strength while my husband was undergoing a stem cell transplant. We would be staying 100 miles away from home for 2 months, immersed in a cancer treatment center, surrounded by cancer patients and medical personnel, while his immune system would be destroyed and reconstituted.

Perhaps because his medical complications were few, and relatively minor, we found that what pushed us to the edges of our tolerance was the parking garage under the apartment house for the families of transplant patients. It had been built in the 1960s, when (apparently) cars were smaller. The parking spaces were narrow, and concrete pillars and walls dotted its landscape. On our way out to the hospital for the surgical insertion of Paul’s central line, I couldn’t negotiate the narrow ramp up and out of the depths, and dented and scraped the left side of our hybrid Camry. On our return from the last weekend we were allowed to go home, Paul scraped the other side trying to get into our designated parking space.

We were both thrown into deep despair. The sense of incompetence, diminishment, and vulnerability was intolerable. Our new knowledge, that we were no more exempt from the vagaries of fate and aging than anyone else, had already softened us up for this blow.

dead crow
on our dead-end street
I pause
to admire its blackness
before walking on

prompt 8, hour 6 ~ locked out

That Monday in Algiers

The door would not unlock.
No key in my pocket. No cell phone
so many years ago to call my white knight

I knocked ~ timid, tentative, as if the knock
spoke another unlearned language, not even
my resurrected Français ~ on the silent door next

Pantomine & speaking hands, fingers turning
imaginary keys in invisible locks. My neighbor
nodded, swung the wood and iron door open

She led me through the two small rooms
to a balcony, once more miming: climb over
she showed me, my nextdoor balcony open.

A small crowd of ragged boys my audience
I swung one leg over wrought iron filigree
another to where I belonged. Inside.

Safe within, I thought of doors & locks & keys.
Of language. Of how so little but so much separates us
wondering still how to unlock these heavy doors