The Poetry Marathon

FREAK OF NATURE

HOUR FIVE

POEM # 5

24 HOUR

POEM

MARATHON

FREAK OF NATURE

Am I am don’t you see

I only have one leg instead of three,

My leg made from the fine birch tree.

Am I am don’t you see

Pretty face with two noses instead of four,

Is two enough or do I need more?

Am I am don’t you see

Boxer with three arms instead of five,

One punch opponents take a dive.

Am I am don’t you see

Feet with four big toes instead of six,

Pair of shoes out of a box of KIX.

Am I am don’t you see

Five big eyes instead of seven,

Waiting for my Lord, take me to Heaven.

Am I am don’t you see

Written by Carl Mann

The kurlman

6-13-2015

“Liar, Cheater, Heathen” (Hour 5)

Liar, cheater, heathen,
are the only words they’re breathing,
while the laws are so deceiving,
thinking it will be relieving,
to continue believing our old ways,
even if it was all just a phase,
given to us by ones
following some strange craze,
but these are the days we live in.
An oppression of the imperial power,
putting one more flower on their grave,
yet continue with their rave,
only standing with one more foot in the grave,
mindlessly popping more pills,
then hills they had traveled,
baffled by the amazement,
given by these pills,
they ignore the worry and chills,
no expectations to acknowledge,
when none are going near college.
Liar, cheater, heathen,
are the only words I want
to hear them breathing,
even though their laws are deceiving,
I find their words relieving,
the truth that they’re speaking,
calming yet relieving,
I see how reality can be deceiving,
hopeless without meaning.
So they changed their wills,
began with popping pills,
spending late nights hiding in the mills,
these were the greatest thrills
of their lives.

poem #5 underwater

what the shell said

when the water claimed me
took my salt & copper body
deep into its bluegreen throat
and swallowed me whole
I thought of my mother
how her tears would taste
of this same saltwater
how she would wail
like the rushing sound
of tidal surge around me

warmed by the sun
I could not see beneath
the ocean’s surface
water the colour of the sky
lifted me high
still wrapped in water
slammed me into ocean floor
and in my ears my mother
a whisper in a shell
calling me home

some visceral fear
tore from me
ripped by the tide
sank into the sand
and I spread my arms like wings
soaring underwater
into rescue

Haiku, Hour 5

Mud and sticky air—
Grateful for icky weather.
No wildfires today!

“The Bones Speak”

I watched the girl as she waded knee deep in the swamps and reefs.

I watched as she was flailing in the bushes.

How could I not?

She made enough ruckus to raise the dead.

Her feeble attempts to pry the chest from my fingers only resolved my ire.

Did she think the gold would somehow usher her off of the island?

What a fool!

The gold is a curse, a mere tool.

Soon she will be no more than a pile of bones on a desolate isle-

Just like me.

Warning

Unexpected loop

taken by surprise

dreams forewarning

meditating eyes

analytical thoughts

waiting in disguise

this is why Lord sees

bigger pictures from the skies.

Persona: Emily Dickinson

Some of my Stage Experience #5/24

#5/24 Some of my Stage Experience

The best written script
from which I have played lead
is an intriguing, unpredictable tale
of an odd woman at the age of 50
who is living almost alone, but not really
alone enough for what she needs to do
(It’s the backstory, really, that is compelling
in a dramatic way, wonderfully emotional
monologues achingly written with such realism
makes you wonder what sort of life she’s lived)
I have lived a colorful life of many experiences
that culminate beautifully into the director’s dream
cinematic in vision and powerful in emotion
(We don’t see everything. Ever. The small tense rooms.
The anxious waits. Things she’ll never tell us.)
It’s not all a bed of roses and that’s what makes it magic
on-stage. I’m choosing my words with far more
discrimination now that I’m fully aware
of the way the head writer
has arranged it all–
the big finish, the falling action,
“the end”

Small Town Shopping Blues during the 3rd marathon hour

Hurry, hurry, hurry…

I’m late!

Grocery store quick stop.

Alas, spotted by friends: didya hear? and whaaat? and gotta go, but but but…

Grocery store quick stop?

Not in a small town!

Fifth poem

I love the big man.
He’s loving and kind.
And when I say, “hold you,”
I know that he’s mine.

We like to blow bubbles
And go out for walks.
I’ll point out the airplanes
Or pull off my socks.

You’ll find us both covered,
Wearing chalk dust.
If you love him like I do,
I’ll give you my trust.