The Poetry Marathon

#2 paradise lost

and then it happened. by evening, they told us we were no longer

children. we could not chase frogs and follow their hop, wear pink

raincoats with matching boots and fake ear drops and the worst

was, from now on, our hearts would be kept in overnight jars to harden

in tomatoes and salt. only in acid and tang can preservation occur, they

insisted. for us, who skipped, why did we trade for a chewed up crayon,

was mystery, when we wanted to dream in pisces, speak with sage beasts, and

burn tongues in chocolate steam. life would be magic as an adult, they nodded,

just believe. so we learned the practice of peculating with striped suits and lost

our childhood, its friends and sugar cane. and never scraped an elbow again.

Perspectives

8:30 PM  Perspectives

Can we really see things as they are

or

Are we slaves to our own filters and the way we see things

Or

The way that we want things to be?

Can we truly listen and hear what someone is saying without expectations and our past awarenesses about them?

Is it ever possible?

Are we doomed to be slaves to our own thoughts and awareness?

But he said he would be back tomorrow

He said he would be back tomorrow

He said he would see us the next day

He wouldn’t have said that if he was planning this

People don’t say things like that if they’re planning on killing themselves

Could you ever tell when I told you that and in my head I was already thinking about how my life would end that night?

Hour Six

Pick up stix

Someone once told me if you think in rhymes

You have a mental issue

I rather differ

Poetry is a far more effective method of communication

And it helps me be okay with not actually trying

Pick up stix

Isolating a thought pattern

Selecting one

Without disturbing any others

When all I want to do is combine all the thoughts together

My favorite part was always dropping the

Pick up stix

To see where each one would lay

Which would nuzzle against the other

Which one would move if you dared prove your brother wrong

(Clearly a favored game of our multi-year mandatory, induced boredom)

I never really cared to win

Pick up stix

To pass the time

Instead of competition or advantage

I just never really tried

Left them there on the floor

Someone would say it was understandable

Pick up stix

That would be my therapist

I believe in the mystery

I believe in the mystery,

—of what the frog choir sings

as they vibrate sound oscillating
breath from lung to vocal cords
in late summer evening light,
the throaty croaks in full sermon
at the pulpit of love.

—of how a wrist to elbow

measures the length of your foot,
or fingertip to fingertip is my height
And the width of your mouth
Maps the distance of pupil to pupil.

—of the steam rising from tomatoes.

Beans, grape, radicchio, cucumbers,
And basil after the mid-day heat-pour
Or the churning earthworm writhing
To the sound of five beating hearts.

—of the soulless men who’d peculate

Our children’s futures on a handshake
Rob their health for pocketed pennies
By those who love their babies too.

To understand

I lined the street with empty mason jars
The heat of the whiskey steamed the cold of the street
My raincoat torn
The evening brought the dark to me
That woman, a mystery
Turn to the drink to understand

The Bayou

The evening sounds of jazz squealing through the New Orleans streets kept the children alive and burning with heat. The unsettling energy was like fire beneath their feet generating instant mischief and moves so fast the music lost it’s beat.
The bayou is filled with mystery and gigantic frogs along the river. As they call for rain the children gathers jars to quiet the sounds of their dinner.
The gentleman laying under the stars considered the inquisitive minds of his nearby litter. Do they understand the life in the bayou and the death in the river.
The children approach his madness and wonder if this man has kept his promise and their reward.
The sudden quiet released whispers as he stood strong and tall against the midnight sky.
The gentleman released a ribbon of light and the children celebrated and one even cried for this was the greatest of gift of all as the illuminated path led them back to the very beginning of the afternoon sounds of smooth jazz.

14.

Late evening in the country
is colored differently than in the city
the smog shrouds the colors that would be
in mystery. A mystery that the country sky
does not peculate. A wash of dark blues and violets
soft in the clouds with undertones of fuchsia.
a veritable palette. An artisan plate of deliciousness
that the cuisine of the city keeps masked in too much
oil. Out here frogs are frogs, in there frogs are roaches.
Out there steam rises in healthy billows blown away by the
Breeze. In there the steam petrifies.

Hour 14: Froggy Mystery

Froggy Mystery

The children ponder the mystery
Tomatoes canned in jars
Appearing along the streambank
When evening reveals its stars

They slip into their raincoats
Tiptoe across the lawn
Then sneak down to the water’s edge
Just at the break of dawn

They elbow each other silently
Oh! what a sight to see!
Frogs in numerous squadrons
Working feverously

Harvesting from the garden
Tomatoes ripe and plump
Cooked in giant kettles
On many a rotted stump

Frogs that can tomatoes?
The mystery only deepens
My keen and percolating brain
Cannot grasp the reasons

The stream it flows; the frogs, they can
I’ve seen it from afar
We sit and ponder the mystery
Tomatoes canned in jars

#14 5 of 10 given words

The mystery of the time at night when guided by jars of firefly light.

As steam rose from the lake in the moonbeams like fog, the crickets harmonized with the baritone frog.

Laughter of children filled the evening air, as they played a rousing round of Truth or Dare.

I sat silently near the shore on a boat, wrapped in memories and an old raincoat.