The Poetry Marathon

AGAINST HIS-STORY

Serious people consider themselves pardons of indulgence. He will go out of his way to talk for an attempt at scholarly validity. Impatient with individual blindness.

Confront it head on. Stormy waves broken with great mountains of gigantic fish. Mythological subjects airy in imagination.

The feats, the fates, the proper history of the world fabricated as his-story! Forecasting the day men propel themselves to penetrate and kill. A wrecking excrescence she exudes from between her thighs.

Cadaverous human communities sold for thousands of generations. She commits suicide as we murder her. She is a broken delicate crust as we are trapped whales squirming to find blame.

Despite beautification, despite death, despite human beings…

the gunpowder and the rum are stronger than the horses

The king does not cry for us but for the Capital and Technology. The legendary cries for everything he touches turns to gold. Even his tongue.

But, not his humans.

We bow down and turn to death. Shriveling into ships that will carry conquistadors along with rats over the seas into a fiscal ruin.

Disease is our weapon. Rampage our faith. Foreign lands our home.

2017 – Hour Twelve

Yearning for the impossible
a fourth dimensional life
Where time’s a place you visit
Day and night forever dance
Back and forth around me
Never enough of either
Too few hours there are in a day
Our time, too short
Where are you?
So much completed
but so much undone
How can I rewind?
Memories past
Vivid and clear
Can I remember the future?
Subtract more sleep
Silly addiction
Who needs it?
Multitask, streamline
Make efficient use of time
How do I outsource myself?
Waiting, biding
Standing, queuing
What the hell are we supposed to be doing?
Relax, relax
Patience friend
Allow trust and faith to prevail
The night will pass
And in the day
The light may shine at last

Evening Fog

Evening fog has set in

While everyone else is in bed

Rhyme schemes dance in my head

 

I’m sleepy and grumpy

And full of despair

Half-marathoners have no more cares

 

Five more hours to stay up

Five more poems yet to think

Five more hours of writing that really stinks

Starchild

I fly through the heavens
Make a pit stop in the Milky Way
And have a picnic.
I munch on crunchy star bites
And then take a drink of clear sunlight.
I launch myself on a moonbeam and hover around
The moon and wave to the man who resides there
I scoop up some cheese from a crater
To nibble along the way
Skim on over to slide along
The rings of Saturn.
I sit on one of the circular rings
Rest my feet on an asteroid.
I contemplate the earth I left behind
I smile, as I rocket away.

 

Exodus (poem 19)

We put to paper
what things once were writ in bone
carry maps of home

underneath our skins
nothing can remain hidden
nothing’s lost for good

children concealed in
baskets hidden among reeds
may one day part seas

The Unsung Hero

This one is for those adventurers that no one sees or notices,

To the support cast,

who above all else work not for their benefit, but that of others.

We may not get the credit,

we may not get the recognition,

but at the end of the day, every Frodo needs his Samwise.

Every hero needs a hero of their own.

 

Playing the ukulele

Playing the ukulele

 

for the first time leaves

you with fingers numb

as a child’s blue

ones after playing

in the blizzard, as

Mom’s after scraping

ice from the windshield,

as bones grown raw.

Hour 19

My Star

Floating between stars

Watching galaxies pass by

I keep watching

Trying to find that one star

The one that always shines for me

The star that has gotten me through

The rough nights

The long nights

And the nights that were perfect

I am looking for my star

VCS

Wouda
VCS

Do you know the Wouda’s?
They live most any place
They can be both good or evil
A pleasure or a disgrace
Under the sea they creep like starfish
On land they hide
A secretive race

Do you know the Wouda?
You may have mistaken them for
Someone’s hand or a toy
But I assure you they are alive and well
They adapt to any situation
With alacrity and joy

Do you know the Wouda?
Not the Coulda, Shoulda or even Buddha?
But in fact the Wouda
Who creeps up in disguise
It is the helping hand you need
When all else seems lost

It isn’t a pixie, a gnome or a dwarf
It is the noble Wouda
And if you don’t know about them
I think its time you shoulda
because they’re the helpers we all need
The very special Wouda

Miniature Monsters

Summer evening rain beats down on the hot pavement
Frantic frogs protest loudly
Leaping in and out of the rising steam
A sinister game of hide and seek
Dodging shrieking children, sporting muddy adventure raincoats
Eyes filled with wonder, excitement and glee
Mason jars with shiny lids, ready for the conquest
Unsolved mystery of captive creatures