The Poetry Marathon

5. The Lake

I remember the wind in my hair

riding my Schwinn down the hill to

the Lake….

Summer, so long on fun

so carefree and abundant.

Our easement had a lock

and rack full of canoes (one of them Mine!)

and a dock with a slide and a diving board.

Next door was the fancier Country Club version, but I preferred our humble piece

of the Lake.

With my friends, we would lift the canoe

into the water

and paddle as Huck Finn

on back bay adventures,

carrying it over shallow rocky inlets.

Later, my friends

were old enough to pilot

their parents’ boats.

We inner tubed and water skied

and generally cruised

the Lake.

(Watch out for the Lake Patrol!)

As I grew older,

we began to make fun of the lake…

it’s smell, it’s algae blooms,

the human wealth

upon it’s shores.

But we still enjoyed it’s bounty.

In wintertime, I went there alone

writing poems

to the sound of water lapping

upon the dock.

I remember the Lake

it’s welcoming cool depth,

it’s freedom and adventure.

For this

I am grateful.

 

Mindful Warrior

Eyes saddened

of worries

and

tiredness

not claiming

defeat amongst

the impossible 

yet,

wore down

of the heavy load

carrying each step

out of many doors of

locks and

reintroductions of

reflected mirrors

fighting tough

as a Warrior.

Mind racing

on a second clock,

defending actions

striking down inablities,

seeking capabilities

to conquer.

Slicing for clarity 

amongst the midst

that breaks the

cemented storm

around a hurted heart,

crossed by checkers

pretending chess

moves 

of punches,

tasting reality

into a 

blast-shooting for Peace.

Poem by: JGomez

Park Lane East

 

 

Park Lane East

 

Steve called me sophomore year in college and asked if I wanted to lifeguard with him the coming summer even though I had no training. Soon after I was shooshing Timmy as he said, “He’s not Steve,” to the state inspector who was saying, “The pH is excellent Steve, you’re doing a great job!”

 

I was known to Timmy and the other kids as Boss Kahuna and once in a while wore the black top hat that was inexplicably on the lifeguard stand one morning when I opened up. And there were days when Bob invited me to his and Saundra’s apartment to comingle with the smells of incense and float amidst the East Indian quilts adorning the walls and ceilings. I went through the rabbit hole and back to the pool and could somehow keep my focus. I was flying on the astral plane while swimming in the glorified bathtub known as the Park Lane East pool.

 

Only once in three years did anyone need to be saved. And just about when my mouth opened in notice that Danny had gone down and not come up, a nearby adult grabbed him automatically and lifted him up.

 

I remember Clyde who was a balding forty and seemed to be the only one that noticed my visits to a teacher’s apartment who was about ten years older than me. I nonchalantly returned and

sidestepped his questions just like I had learned to strategize in sports. “Vicky’s adding fabric to a pair of Levi’s – turning them to bellbottoms,” I told him (which was true).

 

And I also learned that lies can come back to bite you when I made up a whopper about an uncle having a heart attack in Connecticut and having to go there from Philly to run his business while he recuperated…when I was really going to Woodstock. And how improbably was it when I became a cabana boy in the Borsht Belt after Woodstock, a job gotten for me by Steve’s twin brother Alan, that someone from Park Lane East would go there on vacation and tell my boss?

 

I was both attracted and repelled by the hippie movement but Woodstock nudged me to join up. The next thing I know I was dropping out of dental school and joining a hippie commune, which then propelled me to hitchhike west. And I’m still here. So even though a lie began a chain reaction that has defined the rest of my life…I sure make it a point to tell the truth.

 

 

 

5~17

when i was young

and first met you

you made me laugh

that’s what you do

 

when i was young

we loved to chase

you followed me

such a fun race

 

when i was young

we found a park

i climbed the slide

as it turned dark

 

when i was young

we met at the top

i kissed you good

it was hard to stop

 

when i was young

you made me buzz

i wish i could remember

which park it was

Poem no. 4 Careful Coffee

I sip my coffee carefully in the small cafe.
Carefully lift my scone, cutlery and napkin in turn.
I arrange them to my liking; I organise my space.

I sip my coffee carefully in the small cafe.
Shopping bags lean persistently against my ankles,
Heavy as small friendly dogs on the edge of sleep.

I sip my coffee carefully in the small cafe.
The waitress notes a fine young man easing his way into the queue.
I see her look away and smile as she tucks her hair carefully behind an ear.

I sip my coffee carefully in the small cafe.
Observe two ladies push unspoken thoughts across their plates
Then lift sweet-crumbed fingers to their mouths; tasting the words they have not said.

Memory Space

In our now time,
we count not on
our brains
but on our electronics

In other places,
without written language,
life was dependent
on trusting our neurons.

This reliance was deposited
into ritual space made up
place, sticks, dance, stories
and the rhythm of the seasons

My way has been to hold on to books,
old t shirts, streets I have lived on,
as memory sticks to guide me
in this world.

Our machines are becoming
too complex to fix and
we are losing the ability
to heal the world

What will happen
when our memories are all
encoded in our devices
and the power goes out?

Hour Five: Laughter of Children

Same Old, Same Old Threshold – Hour Five

The coal fire smoke piped like a snake-charmers tune

Between the symmetrical council terraced houses

Out on winter parade

Not allowed to blink or smile at the skittish snowflakes

Tickling their nose

Doorsteps lay burdened

Like a too-late harvest festival alter

Maybe a coal sack

Or an empty glass Alderwicks pop bottle out to get the money back

And then a heap of a child

Home for Christmas from across the miles

Jumping once at the territorial bark of a dog

Then at the sound of a door unlocked by a Nan not seen in oh-so-long,

And nothing’s changed –

Not one single decoration rearranged

On the tree since last year

And the little lantern lights still light the same route

Through the pretend branches and Santa’s boots

And just as it’s time to relax

Nan disappears to the pantry for snacks

And they haven’t changed either –

Still the same cheese and still the same pickle

And things not changing means a lot when you’re little!

Hour Five: Home

She steps off the school bus, walks into the woods, climbs a tree, opens a book.

Her two older sisters will not be coming home for a while.

Her mother and father until after that.

An empty house is not a home.

The branches of the tree hold no fear.

She teaches her dolls the ABC’s, reads to them—they listen well.

A Doctor of Education, she teaches, now, at the University—

comes home to me and to her two fur-children.

Fainthearted Need Not Apply

Pastor, business manager, and shepherd,

Teacher, spiritual leader, minister, divine,

Administer, evangelize, placate, mediate,

Counsel, direct, budget, outreach, preach,

Guide and, if necessary, occasionally chide us,

But, For Heaven’s sake, don’t over reach!

Take the good news into a fallen world

While feeding a tetchy, cantankerous flock.

Wed, christen, confirm, bury, dole out alms,

Always stay on call to support with aplomb.

Spur the slackers, console questioning saints,

Balance the budget, spearhead fund drives

While recruiting youngsters (those under 55).

Suburban church is in the market for a pastor,

So aspiring retirees and seminarians beware,

We chew them up and spit them out every few years.