The Poetry Marathon

Scar 2 (9)

Silvery ripples across my hips
flowing thickly towards my thighs
unnoticed until the sun bronzes my skin
but leaves these symbols untouched.

I cup my bare breasts, lifting
turning this way and that to catch
a twinkle. Faintly, twins of the
lower branches wink in the light.

My belly escaped these cicatrix
internalizing its own failures
by heads tucked into rib cages
pressing lungs for months on end.

When the life has drained
all that’s left are the scars
like grooves on the bottom of
an ancient, dried creek bed.

Hour 9: Dear William Stafford

Kind sir: I feel as if I know you, having
met your boy Kim, and your daughters
Kit and Barbara. I missed Bret, sad to say.
I know you missed him, too, with that feeling
of grief, as you put it, like snow in Wyoming.

Your Dorothy cheered me more than I could ever
tell you, but I know you could close your eyes
and see her smile. Helen, too, gave Kim such
encouragement to go on, without you and Bret.

Ah, what a group, what a tribe. And your poems,
so familiar to me now, but always fresh. I lean forward,
straining to hear what the river says, no matter how
often I read, “Sometime when the river is ice, ask me.”

Your elephants holding tails, your purification of the
language, the call you made to Kansas, years after
your folks were dead. Kim gives me your jacket
to wear, to cut the chill of Colorado Springs at 3 am.

We walk and talk about you, so recently dead, the
glass of milk you were drinking when the heart attack
hit. It might still be sitting on the counter, except there
was no time for that. You let it go. You let it all go

#9

What, what am I doing?

Typing the words
I don’t recall worrying about the poems
Spilling onto the page
Easy thoughts, not perfect

Time marching, tick tock
What a joyous, sunny, warm day
Enjoying this marathon

What!

Lament Lost

Hey, we need to take the dog for a mani-pedi. He really rocks that purple nail polish.

I’m down for that.

I’ve really thought about this. We need to create edible candles.

I’m down for that.

Oh! We need some garlic flavored jelly beans for a zesty new aioli.

I’m down for that.

It’s times like this when we need gorilla glue and sawdust to put this whole contraption together.

I’m down for that.

Finally, we need a Chia pet.

I’m NOT down for that!

#9bis – The best place

The best place

Always comes after

The storm

Which is not even always true

For the sun

 

Sun is always here

But he is unfairly

Forgotten

All the time

When the clock

Is ticking

You take the light

For granted

Until you run

Into the dark

Of your forgetfulness

Where all ants are stuck

And so irritating

You can’t stay put

Any longer

With her screaming at you

 

That’s when suddenly

Sun rays gets into the room

And naughtiness floats around

Our necks

That next

Slip on each other’s

Sweet skins

Tender kisses

We can’t resist

The appeal of our beats

To soften our words

And sugar coat our spiky desires

 

Soon we slowly

Get to

The best place

We both ever been

The name on the panel

Says it’s called

“US – the Best Place”

What a strange name

For an imaginary village

Where nobody really lives

That provides so much security

And fun with just flat decoration

 

The best place

Always comes after

The storm

Which is not even always true

For the sun

 

The Mathematics of Faith

The Mathematics of Faith

Calculate how long you will live without Googling it. Will you survive until you’re 80? Will you make it past your next doctor’s visit this coming Wednesday? You remember that your sister and mother died when they were younger than you are now. You look forward to meals out with your spouse in expensive seafood restaurants you’ve haven’t been to yet. You have less time for outdoor physical recreation now that you must visit each one of your doctors more often. At night you dream about the jobs you once held during your lifetime and wonder why they are so nightmarish. You are thankful for the opportunities you have to write memoirs and fiction and poetry and read aloud in front of an audience. You are thankful to those who read and respond to and inspire your writing. You are thankful that you are still productive, neither stagnating, nor despairing.

Ugh, editing.

Schizophrenia

I hit a wall…

Blocked

Persuaded

Jaded

My words are faded my and my thoughts are cloudy

This salad is pretty good

It is a sunny day and my son doesn’t want to play

A nice day to ride on two wheels or escape

Is karma real?

What’s my fate?

The T.V. is really loud

I see lots of bees buzzing around

I am anxious and I am bored

I want something more than the life I have

I’m not sure what to wear tonight

Was my timing right? There goes my thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t be

I love him and he loves me.

I miss my sisters and brothers and I wish we liked each other

What does that bird have in his mouth?

Has the butterfly cocooned?

This chair is now uncomfortable and I need to move

I have a bad habit that I need to quit

I’ve given up more than I’ve had so that you had it too

Man! I hated being broke

This is my poem, this is my mind, try  not to stumble

until next time….

A Poster of Robert Plant

Matted grass, where bodies had lain,

a swirl of capillaries on the neck, like a tie dye.

Me sitting on the car hood and it began to move.

You hung out the passenger window grasping for me,

with awe and concern on your face.

Your shirt rising with the reach, to expose your scar.

The skin on the lower back like a pizza,

from when the furnace exploded.

You were eight, and bending to unload the clothes dryer.

When I see the poster, of Robert Plant and the bird- I always think of you.

Ant Trap

Do you remember that time

we were picking blackberries by the side of the road

and you said you would still try to save her

if you had the chance, even knowing

that she was half-crazy, and one quarter mean,

because she was oh-so tragic

and completely hot?

 

I don’t say all the things I think to say

nor can I think of all the things I want to say

in a moment like that, when you are fixing to sleep with me

but still banging on and on about the one who got away.

 

Got away? You dodged a bullet, when

she didn’t give you herpes and screw all

your friends and accuse you of rape and

break your things and make fun of you

behind your back, but still, you are so wistful

that you never got to fuck her.

 

And I think, but do not say

that all men must be fools

because, like a trail of ants to a trap

you march on eagerly where other have fallen

and think the safe one sour

and the poison one sweet,

and that, anyways, the same fare will always be there

for you to come back to.