The Poetry Marathon

A Day at the Flea

The fog is slowly lifting
I feel it whispering to me

“two hours west”

Promises of a good morning with rich coffee
The Bay beckons to grand adventure
at The Treasure Island Flea.
Anticipation and glee fuel my drive through the valleys and passes
Wind farms and wildflower fields with loud proud poppies.

The Bridge is a beast
but the sight of water, cools my travel weary eyes.
It smells of secrets and such
wafting over and under cold metal structures.

Carnival colored tents of every shape and size
Demand my attention as I arrive
Where do I start?
What to do I touch?
Fancy food trucks with festive feasts
Musty dusty boxes full of scarves and laces and blouses with broken beads

That special tiny painting of a girl in a silly hat
I couldn’t possibly go home without that.

The DIY is strong in this place
Papier-mâché pigeon perched atop petrified bacon branches
You are not speaking to me

I walk to the bay and hum to the skyline
I always find the real treasure on this Island
The view

But those crimson crushed velvet Mary Jane’s with satin ribbons
had stories to tell of mad dancing days.
They need a new home.
“Be honest,” I ask the vendor, “Did your great, great grandmother really wear these?
I’ll take them.

Colors Dance Together

Almond feather steps inside
Tangerine
Salomon arctic lime grinds into a cosmic love line,
Emerald green
Autumn septic airwaves signs sonic above pines
Authentic scene- Amethyst dreams
Apple green
Celtic signs

Fishing

I guess I’ve been once before
I remember some poles, my grandpa,
a can of live pink worms
Maybe a boat or just standing over a bridge
And mostly I remember screaming and being very not into the idea of touching a worm to put it on a hook to catch a fish on said hook to then have to unhook and smell and look at and later eat
I was that kind of kid and yes, am still that kind of adult
My little sister did it though and I remember my grandpa being proud of her – not that he was upset or shamed me – he let me be and didn’t push it
My grandpa was a chef in the army during the Don Draper years, Korea
I remember watching him peel potatoes
So fast so efficient
And I remember loving his meals
My grandma was a good cook too but near the end they were both on the Richard Simmons deal a meal kick – a lot of good that did
Though I do love me some Richard
I was a kid, under 12, and wasn’t ready to see gore before dinner
I don’t remember if I caught a fish or if we ever went again
I think by the time my memory started filing things away both grandparents were dead (heart attack for one, six months later a swift suicide for the other) and I spent years, decades, waking up and remembering that fact over and over again
Bummer
I remember fish fries though at the VA
And how much I liked being there the only kid
The only girl
Hearing these old men talk about what they’ve seen done and been through
And having them treat me like a 1950s lady
Buying me Shirley Temples
Jesus no wonder I cry at Mad Men episodes and hold that show as sacred not profane
The best part besides being there as grandpas girl
Was that the fish didn’t taste like fish
Which of course goes a long way with someone who was grossed out by the food chain
Breaded fried battered and unrecognizable

Fantasy Haiku (Poem 4/24)

Glittering Rainbow

Hugs the Unicorn

Time to make a Wish

Malfunction

There’s a lump in my chest the size of a heart ,

It keeps demanding i feel yet it won’t beat .

It won’t start

These words in my mind,

they collide with my tounge .

Denying this depression,

Screaming my pain is too young.

8 a.m.

I know this isn’t what you wanted

and i’d like to say I’m sorry

I didn’t fit

into your mold of what a woman

should be.

Quiet, demure, barefoot in the kitchen.

That woman doesn’t exist

on any planet.

I see your pain

over the loss of the idea

I was the ONE

to lay down for you,

the woman who would take your arm

and be beautiful, as a rainbow

every day of your life.

and for me to set the stage of togetherness

so you wouldn’t have to,

and to keep the passion fires

roaring for your pale, scentless body.

I’m walking away now, from this place,

from you.

for me.

4. Love Limerick

Looking for some love

The bird found a lovely dove

Flying here and there

Chasing everywhere

He lastly found his true love

(Limerick 2015 @11:15 a.m.)

Poem #4

Why can’t I get your voice out of my head?
It would be easier if all of it was the horrible stuff.
The sounds of you screaming, throwing things or people to the ground.
The moments where all I could do was crawl under a blanket, or in a corner, and try to pretend that Ididn’t exist.

It would be better if I didn’t have the good memories.
Of you taking me to the theatre, watching my soccer games and choir concerts, or singing along to showtunes with me in the car.

It would be so much easier if this world was just black and white,
And if monsters and people could never be one in the same.
Greyscale sucks.

Two…

Black dot on my hand…

(After hours I read my first “grown-up” book, Treasure Island, and I dream…)

Black dot on MY hand? What kind of dream is this?

Sandy toes squishing muck as I search for glints of gold in soft moonlight and find piranha instead…

In the Ocean? Ahhh, yes…it’s my dream…and here begins the mare of night…

Hour 4 (Genre: Drama)

Don’t you
believe in anything?

I believed
In “We”

But one fuck
Destroyed
The trust

The demise
of us