The Poetry Marathon

Poem #8

The clouds are calling out to each other overhead,
anger flashing between them,
and the remnents of their words coming down to us in a cacaphony.

Sometimes I wonder about what they must be arguing about,
or if some of it is just a show of force to those of us on the ground.
Reasons for us to not taunt those beyond our understanding,
and so far up above our heads.

They must have really high opinions of themselves,
or they wouldn’t be so loud when they choose to be.
I think they like the attention that a bright light or a loud boom gets them.

Or maybe they’re just lonely up there,
and want to be seen again,
since cloudwatching has become such a lost pastime lately.
They miss the admiring eyes of those on the ground looking up,
and seeing amazing shapes and creatures in their midst.

Do you Need Me?

We need to talk.
We need to see.
We need each other.
We need a moment alone.
We need to have faith.
We need kindness.
We need trust.
We need love.
We need the way we compliment each other.
We need the feelings we share.
We need the idea of us will endure.
I need you.

we need

we need one another

we need to support one another

we need to spur one another

we need to bring vitality to one another

we need to be with each other

in each other springs life anew

in each other sparkling another to life loving

Little Mouse

Little Mouse
Virginia Carraway Stark

Little black teardrop
Mouse
Brought to the bearer of light
Big eyes
Of black
Ness
Eating up
Potential with
Little chittering teeth
Long tail
Dark brown fur
Fallen to doom
In this
The thirteenth
Of June

Rat Race

Hustle till I can’t see,

muscle not necessary,

bustle because the brook is deep,

subtle as far as eye can see,

huddle is where I wanna be,

muddle so you can picture me,

escape until eternity,

imprint so you remember me.

This side of empty

Purple deep and dark,
I hear no trees but wind-cars.
I will fall back in.

Frisco

With my heart tucked into my pocket I flew into the massive city of San Francisco where petrified giants and delicious cacophony consumed me

In that city I met beautiful women, with delicious skin, blonde hair,and blue eyes that pierced my soul

When I wasn’t falling over the street curbs and cracks in the sidewalks, I was falling in love with every single woman that smiled at me

 

 

#8 – Have you seen my boxes?

sometimes i wonder if anyone has actually seen me
i know with obvious senses they have
whether through sight, smell, taste or touch
but have they SEEN me
the parts that sometimes aren’t what they appear
the parts they have to engage
look for
dust off
uncover
to clear cobwebs from
that no one has looked for in a long while
possibly ever
the very best parts of me that have been packed away
waiting
in the attic way up high & the basement down below
waiting to be discovered
they were packed away long ago when they kept getting forgotten
when people stopped looking for them
if they even ever did before giving up if it became a challenge to look harder
the actual search required too much effort
keeping only what pieces out that were needed or beneficial
the rest got stashed
the best things
the most valuable
the ones that got overshadowed
that went unused
the best parts
they got put in boxes, on shelves, behind closet doors & inside cabinets
stored away in hopes that one day they would be found or needed
when i ask if anyone has seen me
the real question might be
how long has it been
since i have seen myself
since i have allowed myself the opportunity to be seen
to be unpacked
unearthed
opened
how much have i simply allowed myself & others to put me in boxes
boxes i never belonged in to begin with

Hour Seven: The Apron Dress

My mother’s clothes
always smelled of yeast and flour,
cinnamon sugar and vanilla.
For years I thought her apron
was sewn onto her dress.
She never took it off, except on
Sundays, when church was mandatory.
Daddy, her husband, had been ordained
although he secretly drank in the woods
and molested her daughters, the neighbors’
daughters, too, if he could lure them to revival.

Like Steinbeck’s Casy, always fingering his buttons,
most preachers can’t be trusted with daughters.
I can see mama donning her apron dress, returning
to the oil cloth table, the rolling pin, the gas oven
that might explode in all our faces,
if we ever told.

#7

Dark,moist,rich soil
From your fertility springs life
Green,poking shoots erupt
Seed coats sitting jauntily like hats upon cotyledons
Seeking things to climb on and
Warm, bright light to convert to energy