The Poetry Marathon

It’s Woke

The President is on TV just now

telling us it’s fake news again.

They stole the win, he did nothing wrong,

And he should know this

because HE’S THE PRESIDENT,

THE  PRESIDENT of all Presidents,

Past, Present, and Future. I listen as

sirens flutter overhead

like helicopters searching for truth.

I take off my gloves

and walk out into the night, watching

cold faces gathering

to photograph the evidence,

asking each other how it happened

in front of their noses.

No one saw anything until it all

went up in flames. I watched

the vastness of his blonde hair waving

across his face like explosives. He said,

“It’s fake news again. Fake, Fake News

again”. Then the tiny hands of our watches stopped

ticking and fell silent.

Transformations

The caterpillar is one of the most ordinary creatures.

Strange-looking and smelly, the caterpillar eats,

walks, makes frass and molts.

Repeat! Repeat!

 

until it begins the laborious process

of shedding its final skin, as its body breaks

down within, attached only by the heart.

Quietly! Quietly!

 

The odd gem that is the chrysalis hangs hidden

from danger as the caterpillar inside transforms

around its heart into a butterfly.

Extraordinary!

 

Taking a risk

I am where “Frost” was with only one pathway.
And I had to choose

I saw a beautiful green pathway, with shrubs
covering both sides.

Light is filling the front of the pathway, and
makes the whole scene to look like part of
heaven.

The back of the pathway is totally dark, and
makes the scene frightening’ like an abyss

I sat there for a long time thinking to move
forward or return to where I felt safe.

Finally I decided to move forward to explore

That has been the story of my life.

 

Hour #11: An Extraordinary, Ordinary Camino

My Home: An Extraordinary, Ordinary Camino

Don Quixote envisioned a mission; Sancho Panza saddled along for adventure.
Jack Kerouac took us on the road, and a new world opened inside our country.
Women gathered all over the world to march together.
Power comes in journeying together, in pacing each small step in rhythm to a sweeping song.

Promise awaits in exotic lands; thrill comes with surprises.
Still, roots come from where we are now, deep breaths down, down, down
as we ground ourselves in the rich land underfoot, right here and now.
Power comes in standing still, closing eyes, and trusting the directon of our toes.

These past years I've journeyed through my home: bus routes, sidewalks, nature trails, parks.
Dogs know me and wag tails, I've come to see babies grow, and I've seen many pass me with 
waves some days, worries other times, and absence leading to perhaps never again. 
Power comes in embracing home, thanking those who came before, and preparing for others who will follow.

We've tilted at windmills even in our quiet corner of the world
Adventures and freedom became all the more precious on the bright days at home.
We join together in our smaller communities now as we strive for a better world.
This camino is near, yet its sun markers are blest; its pilgrims, holy. Ordinary home is extraordinary.

 

Image by Tim Foster

 

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The Little Ones

Right there on the chair
Flowers that must have been for me.

An orchid corsage atop a box.
Inside, a white dress – my size.

His jacket draped over the chair
and a seat cushion from an airplane.

I waited by the window,
where was his car?

Where was he?
No text, no call, nothing.

That’s when I saw it,
a thread on the floor.

Long, red, so close to the
cherry of the hardwood

that I would have missed it
were the sun not so bright

through such clean windows.
Clean windows! Such clean windows!

My mind raced… were they clean
the day we signed the lease?

I sat waiting for as long as
I thought reasonable, given, well…

You know… the strangeness of it all.
Then, as the sun left the floor

creeping up onto the wall
the tiny hands appeared.

One by one. Handprints about the size
of one of those tiny monkeys

you see at the zoo. They were all
over the wall. Just the hands.

Then, behind me, footsteps!
Not human footsteps.

No. Not a ghost, like a human ghost,
a dead person or something.

Tiny footsteps running fast,
as if a crowd of them were gathering.

I tried to pick up the flowers and
the dress, which had fallen to the floor,

But they became so heavy,
as if suddenly made of lead,

like gravity had somehow multiplied
by thousands and thousands,

yet I could move effortlessly.
Needless to say, fear took over,

and I ran to the door.
When I turned around,

everything was back as it was…
the dress in the box,

his jacket draped just so,
and the orchids like a bow on top.

Those Who Do Not Learn From History…

They were told to leave the land alone, but children never listen.

They touted their banners, blared their horns, and stamped their horses hooves until they wearied.

When the earth groaned and spewed her dark humors, they took but a single heartbeat to declare it a blessing and consign her to sacrilege for the cost of a pretty penny.

Now hungry hands reach at broken bones and fly-struck flesh with nothing left to comfort.

Now the midnight moon creeps closer, a doppleganger painted upon waves hiding a ledger centuries old. The shore glitters with her sharp silver kisses.

They were told to leave the land alone, but children never listen.

(Hour 11)

Eleven: Epicured

Epicured
An ode to pepperoni
Eleven

If perfection existed as a production of the sum of human genius
It would be the delight before me now
Slicings of superior joy
A mastery in form and function that elevates all it touches
Cured savagery spiced and served like tiny offerings for the holiness of our mouths

Were we as a species ever so godlike in our ability to create
That we could conceive of such perfection writ small
A triumph in form and color and flavor such as the mastery of flesh
A sacred act of cleansing and preservation in purification
Gilded scarlet and anointed in oils
To be venerated thusly, or in great ceremony,
Kissed in the burning heart of our desires
Above the bubbling beds of gluttony,
Born of heat and pressure milked from each worshipful act
As to station such civility.

And thus, as gods, we feast divine
To serve such communion to community
For never again could there stand such a monument to voracity
That our appetites be slaked in the exaltation of such a hunger.

“That’s Not Lotion”

Ekphrastic using Tim Foster photograph.

When a body leaves a shine

wherever it’s been

Can’t help but wonder, good creature or creator of Original sin.

The leaves are not wilting, the fronds look bright green

Yet one can’t help but

wonder, are you a magician or a fiend.

When a body leaves a shine

And leaves are not wilting.

One can’t help but wonder

are you a body, a spirit or introducing some other semi- ethereal theme? DMW

Runaway

I left the dome,
I saw the sun,
Its caramel sky
Unwhorled by glass.
I heard the sounds
Of water unbound
From a fountain.
I found the green.
I found the grass
Its roots our hands
Buried in the scarlet soil.
The path was still
But for straining leaves
The sun traced pools
That stretched away
Behind my feet.
The first rebellious prints
Pressed in Martian earth
That wasn’t paved.