The Poetry Marathon

2019 #4-When we die

I watched a lizard

Go after a single french fry that had fallen off my plate

In an empty outdoor cafe in Ghana

I wished him good luck as he latched on

And darted away with his prize.

Just before that

We had toured the shops

Where craftsmen create fantasy coffins,

These impossibly intricate, almost absurd caskets,

At least to my sullen and mediocre ideas of death.

Lions, crabs, racing cars, trees, shoes, airplanes,

Colors and shapes bursting out at you

Knowing no bounds; death ends limitations

Celebrating a life and taking it forward

To what comes after.

When that lizard dies

Would his coffin be that potato?

A favored tree limb or patch of ground?

Or that meaty insect that got away?

And what will he be

In his next life?

Hour 4

Little wet, little damp
Are my eyes
Haven’t slept
Much since last night
Eyes half closed
And heavy lidded
Such a strange feeling
My mind playing
Tricks on me
Heavy with sleep
My trembling eyes
Bringing back
Memories
Feels like first time
But it’s not
Have done this
Before…
I gave fallen
asleep
I have gotten
lost
May somebody
Be coming
To wake me
Again
In tears silence
Is soaked
Nothing but
Tales of
My heart
Little wet, little damp…

Prompt 5/Holiday Bookmark

We've been floating
                            
                            for how long? Hours, but 
it no longer matters
                            
                           for the tourists we are
and travelers
                            
                           we pretend to be.
I make an attempt 
                            
                           at assembling a sentence
about an itinerary
                            
                           as remote as the pebbled
rooftops and forgiving 
                            
                           root path
we took to 
                            
                           reach the shore.
We waved off
                            
                           our guide,
who looked uncertain
                            
                           then splashed his way 
to us and climbed in
                            
                           to take over the steering wheel,
his crooked smile
                            
                           
                           as he did so
reminding us
                            
                           we had no chance
of finding our
                            
                           way back.
We might just have
                            
                           been another pair of lost
tourists, 
                            
                           our sunburned smiles
in a photo
                           
                           from an obliging waitress
the last
                           
                           anyone
would ever 
                           
                           see of us.
 

Possibilities

Just above the valley

Just beyond the hills

Just outside of a sunken place

Close by but not enough to feel

If you stay afloat

If you keep your sail

If you stay inside of the boat

Move forward without fail

There are stars above to light your way

To endless possibilities

The chance for to change the world

Is more evident than your eyes can see

Sail on

Don’t wait for the wind

The wind may never come around

Move even in darkness and you will see

That Morning is destined to come around

jj2019 2019 Poetry Marathon

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When they buried you

I was ten. Service started
in the mausoleum, cold in August, dry
in Charleston. My face was swollen
blooming in red— crying still doesn’t suit me.
Men I didn’t know in sharp uniform
draped a flag over your casket
as if it was an honor. It would be
an honor to hear your laugh
crack and wheeze. Mourners lined up
in six prim rows split
down the middle. Men in sharp uniform
marched through glass doors into sunlight,
rifles on shoulders. More lines.
Some mechanism, invisible strings, prompted
them to lift and switch and snap, rifles
more lines, 70 degree angle held tight.
Those were the first shots I heard
since you… since you… since you…
My shoes were off, bare blistered feet
on marble, pads only pumping
to the opposite wall. All glass and names.
I watched from the dark
hands over ears and the shots
kept coming. My navy blue dress itched
inside and out.

Ready. Get Set. Go! (Poem #4)

Be strong

Stand tall

The battle isn’t over

The journey has just begun

Life isn’t easy

But we can make it fun

Do not give up

Take heart

Stand tall

Be strong

Prompt 5: Flowers for 100 years

My Dad would be 100 years,

His body lies in earth.

My Dad would be 100 years.

I didn’t see his birth.

 

Flowers for 100 years:

I laid down on his grave.

Flowers for 100 years—

Damned ‘squitos won’t behave.

 

My Dad might be 100 years.

On this, all Father’s Day.

Myself— might live 100 years;

If I could find the way.

 

Flowers for 100 years;

well, that might be the means.

Flowers for 100 years.

Eat flowers, not pork and beans?

 

 

 

 

Perspective on Obstacles (prompt 5, Hour 4)

 

Dark rocky cliffs rise abruptly up
to block a starry night sky.
They feel immense seen from the base.
A tall waterfall heaves violently
over the edge in the high distance.
There is no path forward.

In a perfect world I could take my cursor
and stretch the image out far to the right.
Suddenly the ground would smooth before me.
Scree become a gentle valley
where children lie sleeping in safe beds.
The cliffs recede to low, rounded swells,
and the waterfall is a distant river
waiting to be crossed.

In Indra’s net there is no reality,
only a point of view.

4 – closing

she lay, a hill in the half light

an echo of laughter creased her brow

a rag crumpled, against the wooden floor

lips parted

a drop of blood kissing the still soft strands of hair

dressed in the memory of a mothers love, knit one pearl one

a tear stain, left drying on her check

the last thought of a life

 

 

Mount Skinner

Flutter, flutter, crisp and soft

Across the path flies a moth

Glittering wings nearly collide with a bee

Under the pines, a canopy of trees

Hearing the birds sing their songs,

This magical sight is for us to savor

All summer long.

Mary Gabis

6/22/19