The Poetry Marathon

Flight

Birds on winged flight.
Unseen wind lifts and carries,
Suspended in time.

Autobiography of a Face (hour 10, 6:02pm)

He smiles, and utters

a strange muted sound.

His face does not reflect

his irritation.

He is bored,

uninterested,

wishing he were

somewhere else.

He squints his eyes,

and turns his mouth,

as in a smile.

Again, the sound.

Should I save him?

If I do not,

his anger will spill,

like his words,

over me, and consume

all the air

around him.

Bored,

uninterested.

He will tell me later,

or the whole way home,

how this,

these moments,

listening to that person,

took away from him,

precious time;

time he will never get back.

I watch his face.

There is so much in him,

to love, to admire,

to respect.

This, is not

one of them.

Kai…..

….of the sea, and earth, and stars

he rode in on a pulsing red wave

settling all safely into

his deep, blue ocean

where we became his tides

washing ashore to lap delicate

granules of sand and turn the shells

back to him, as he waits under

the canopy of sky, and moon, and angels

while we sway, and rock

in his deep, blue ocean.

Grandmother’s Toy Box

Grandmother’s Toy Box
Virginia Carraway Stark

Mystical
Magical toy box
With unlimited
Possibility
Every time a new discovery
Little red riding hood
Flip her
She turns into a wolf
Puppets
And dolls
In handmade dresses and coats
Storybook treasures
Of pirates and ghosts
Lego pieces
Eclectic in their random glory
In a wooden box
With oiled hinges
Out comes backgammon
And marbles
And bits of ribbon
In
Grandmother’s toy box

ever after

our first thanksgiving
you agreed to be alone with me,
away from your family in Queens.
we rented that house near Woodstock
and you chopped wood,
more than we needed, but you loved
the feel of swinging the axe.
i baked two cornish hens, stuffed
with apple stuffing,
which i’d never done before.
they were beautiful,
dark brown birds with charred edges.
you said you were happy,
and glad we’d left Brooklyn for the weekend.
there was a blue sky,
a slight chill, a fire in the fireplace.
we were married, yet this is when
i knew we belonged together, huddled
in that small bed,
our arms around each other,
the thick smell of burned wood on
our skin.

A lone dreamer of unimultiverses

a loner to the world of possibilities
a dreamer who ponders on his own vision
always looking upon
different realities in every endeavor
discovering new means to convey
the messages of life, love, friendship,
community, unity and common expression

Stuff

A tissue box of ugly roses sitting askew atop DVDs.
Their broken player’s four short green lines a disturbing lie.

My guide holds children in a painting of orange, black and yellow.
Stevie Ray and Jimmie, a rare photo, on a shelf marred with grime.

A dirty plate where a sandwich is but a memory of homemade bread
And salmon with fennel dust and arugula.

Bieres de la Meuse, the old tile of an art project not yet begun
The gift from my son. Poetry on the mother’s bearing.

A photo of the woman who saved my life, Saint Ann of Santa Monica,
And me, dressed for Halloween.

My mother, in a frame I need to change.
Photos of my two loves, Johnathan and Seane, as children.

The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition Box set,
Unplayable, in Irish format.

Stacks of music, CDs, DVDs, relics of near history.
Musical stone coasters.

The palm I ignored, still thriving on the patio.
Boxes. And the mess I’ve ignored for months.

My red sweater, dry on the arm of the couch.
Green sweater, taupe sweater, scarves.

The ugliest wall hanging ever. It was a gift from a friend.
A screwdriver, and some pliers.

Open drawers in the kitchen. Dishes that need to be put away.
Pine boughs gently swaying in the cloudy breeze.

Candles, half burned. Cameras, undeveloped.
A couch unkempt.

Dusty ceiling fan. Beams and screens.
Gift baskets and wine.

All mine. Too much. Mine.

Calm (6:00 PM)

It intrigues me how in this world filled

with chaos and christs nothing

can soothe me like you.

No massage or therapy can calm me

like the affliction of your touch.

Your smile and kiss is

all I need to pull me from

my cloud of questions, lost keys

and too many teeth gnashing

and demanding at once.

You ground me in a place where

others’ lives don’t rely on my

punctuality or presence.

When the violence of society is over

I retreat to you,

Where questions can go unanswered

and yours is all I need to be.

#10 – Face it

Fully going after all that I know I deserve

Ever so purposefully striving towards my best

Allowing myself to grow, process, & learn

Righting my wrongs, forgiving others as well as myself

Focusing on what I can control & not worrying about what I can’t

Understanding that life is a journey & that I must continue forward

Learning that FEARFUL doesn’t mean don’t do it, it means face it head on

 

Autobiography Of A Face

I pick at my skin. Right now there is a small hole
next to my mouth, just below my left cheek.

I say “hole.” I think of deeper, darker holes
in friendlier ground, soil that does not erupt with blood.

This isn’t a hole in my face, then, but a simple
depression. It is a blemish, an irregularity.

Ironically, it was with the intent to rid my face
of a blemish that it arose. One iteration of a cycle.

The smart thing to do would be to bandage it
and leave it alone. Instead, my fingers wander

like ivy on a brick wall, clinging, grasping, searching
for imperfections to root into, deepen, and destroy.