The Poetry Marathon

Fright

I felt a tremor shake the house

on the night of the storm

thunder roared as lightning shattered the sky

 

I heard weird sounds in the night

like an elk crying

a buffalo snorting

 

I hid under the blankets

with just my elbow sticking out of my jacket

I pulled it in, when it got chilled

 

I summoned up the courage

to investigate an irritating banging noise

I heard it coming from the carport

 

slowly I climbed down the stairs

one step at a time

the noise seemed to be getting louder

 

the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling

was swaying back and forth and banging

a bucket on the floor was filled with red bloody liquid

 

what’s going on?

I stuck my pinky in to identify the bubbly

OMG…it was delicious beet juice

 

just then I heard my alarm clock go off

my mother yelling at me to get ready for school

grateful to end this nightmare of a dream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hour 9 – futures

sometimes I lay awake thinking               about how ten years from now
there will be fewer of us                         and fewer days for me
to spend with you.                                     under Edison bulbs
in honeysuckle gardens,                         mug of camomile tea. yet
even in this dream i see                            how i am colder,
pulling your jacket around me,                      thin skin eyelids,
and the morning glory vine                               less vibrant,
like colors are in memory.

sunset on the pacific                            pink as a newborn
drawing my hand to yours.                       there is nothing gained, you say,
in anticipating misery. we walk             collecting the pearlescent once-homes
of pea-sized creatures                                   to place on bookshelves
and into our palms. grief                                   is this same transmutation
and too prefers to be held,                     to be greeted as a friend,
as if he is                                                      an idea whose time has come.

Hour 9–Please Explain This to Me

I’m not here really

The bath wiped some time off my skin

but it’s only hour 9

and I’m braindead

there’s this unfocused layer underneath the mask of my face

that’s named Bleary or whatever

He’s not real sure what about this English language he’s not sure about

but prone to wiping his hand acrost hisself to express his innermost

feelings and that will have to suffice

So if a poem could be about a guy wiping his hand acrost his face

then Bleary could come through for you bigtime

Madeline loves him

don’t ask me why

but she tolerates him being quiet like that

She talks and he listens or so she thinks so

And when she swings her hips and he gets that

big dumb grin on his face, dipping all embarrassed like

well she just about loves that the best there’s just no explainin it

She just gets the biggest chuckle out of him

so in conclusion

That’s just mammal magnetism is all I can say

 

 

 

 

Hour 9: Points of Transition

Parts of life, all life offer points of transition
Butterflies show us this most clearly
Seemingly soft, but strong and resilient
So much comes from the struggle
-to change
-to move through
-what was; to
-what can be
They are unmade and remade
Adding strength to their wings in the effort to escape the chrysalis
Support, resources from outside sources – these can be used
But to intervene, to cut them free? Dooms them.
They dissolve their sense of flesh, of self
-To move on
-To transition
-To transform
The future inside them made gloriously manifest
Just so – our future is within
Waiting for moments of transition
Those transitions are not, are never, cannot be:
-Without consequences
-Without pain
-Without struggle
We cannot know the shape of our future
But we can know that
-some strengths
-some understandings
-some manifestations of potential
For all their beauty
Are born in pain
As, in truth, we all are.

Looking for a New Friend

There is a monster

that lives under my bed

I send it to do my bidding

when I don’t get

my way

you look skeptical

so cross me

and see what happens

 

 

Post Modern Folk Medicine

Whether enjoying blood-pressure improving picked beet
or chowing down on nutrient dense, low in fat elk meat,
catching copper-rich crawdads from a Louisiana bayou,
or leaving your car in the carport is what you do,
such simple habits will expand your life and health span.
As for wearing a warm jacket only when its cold,
feeling the cool is really a hack to behold.
And if you’ll take a little folk medicine advice,
a little cinnamon sprinkled on your toast is quite nice.
Moreover, that pesky, old hand tremor can be cured,
and bursitis elbow pain doesn’t need to be endured
since you don’t really yet need to kick the bucket,
whether living in fabled blue zones or Nantucket
if a night you only burn a low-watt blue lightbulb.

The Landlord’s feast ( hour 9 prompts)

the landlord announced a festival.

the butterflies happily flapped their wings:

slippery sleepy beauty signals the night’s success.

“beat the beets to liquid, tonight our mouth shall be filled.

get me my best jacket, I do not want to be late.”

the landlord shivered with tremors

of anxiety. tonight’s feast must be really great,

i definitely heard him mention the setting

as one beside the bayou. oh, the guest must be ready

to bend their elbows!

“order 50 incandescent bulbs, history must

know that my party was day in night. spice

the venue with Solomon’s cinnamon delivered in

seven buckets. for the fries, go hunt for elks, boy,

while the rest fix the carport. we’ve quite an unpredictable weather.”

 

then

all of a sudden he collapsed.

how sweet it was to imagine: here he was,

lonely in his stead- a peasant farmer.

“and don’t forget the blue song” he 

whispered in tears.

Hour 9

The tremors that hit the heart,

A drop in the bucket compared to

The many earthquakes and floods

And fires, shape it into something

We don’t recognize.

Red like a beet, but dimmer than

A lightbulb, it shocks our system

And short circuits our brains

And makes them just a car in

A carport, rather than the highways

We prefer. Without them

We are a dull husk, with them

A Frankenstein’s monster

Lumbering, lonely, but alive.

 

Safety

Grandma Toledo never stinted on love.

She was old, I was the youngest child

in a family of seven.

Mother never let any of us sit on her lap,

but Grandma Toledo welcomed me to hers.

Wrinkled, sagging arms radiated comfort,

smelled of baby talcum powder.

Tucked in there, I could fall asleep.

No need to be on high alert against danger.

 

Bismarck, peridot-eyed Russian Blue cat

had a spurt of white hair on his chest

like pastry Bismarcks,

fried doughnuts with a spurt of cream on a side.

In his last elder years,

at night, purring, he leapt up on the bed,

padded over my body

and plumped down on my head–

we shared the pillow.

 

Like Grandma Toledo,

Bismarck kept insomnia at bay.

I could sleep the night.

Cool Air

My air conditioner is a window unit

and if I didn’t rent

I think that I would shoot it.

Its loud and noisy

and I can’t bear it.

It doesn’t cool anywhere. It

seems to hate me.

My ears are rattled

and myself is sweating.

I don’t know but

maybe I am just getting

old.