The Poetry Marathon

“Seven Ages”

Dear Stranger Across A Crowded Room,

 

I feel like I’ve known you all my life.

Through the mass of bodies,

Our eyes did meet.

And in that glance, I just knew,

What our future would be.

I’ll glide across,

And introduce myself.

Awkward as usual,

Yet, you’ll laugh at my jokes.

Like every cliché in the world,

We’ll share a lifetime’s history,

Compressed in a few brief hours.

Then comes that moment,

Fraught with uncertainty,

When we linger,

Not willing to part,

Not wanting to end.

But I’ll be bold as I’ve been all evening.

And I’ll say, “Please stay, let’s never part.”

Then hand in hand, we’ll stroll.

Off into a new dawn.

 

I reach you at last, and smile.

Laughing gaily,

You point and say,

“Your fly’s undone.”

 

Oh, well.

 

Best regards.

The Struggle

The struggle…

It was there inside,

Underneath

All the smiles

And pretension.

A mask of many faces

Worn on many occasions

Painted, plastic

What a masterpiece

It was then.

 

Now when rising up

There is no need for masks

Or pretension.

All washed away

And beauty takes its place

True beauty.

Losing momentum

Usually my words come from motivation not force I feel the fatigue of this challenge yet I push through I lost my breath long ago but I jog my pace slowed as I needed to catch my breath. I will get my second wind in the next hour passing sights I never thought I’d see landmarks and ideas that cause my pen to flow ink from the tip like the sweat from my brow. I am gaining momentum chasing down that finish line if for nothing else than to be able to say I did it. That in itself is enough incentive to keep going the finish line is there I just have to reach it.

The tattooed lady

Train tracks like a tattoo
Down the arm of my city
Bogged down in boom time
Every house tells
Of another boom that flared
Then died
Cities aren’t trees
They are built for industry
Not for beauty
Or the practicality
Of water and air
Or even sunlight
She’s a tattooed lady
With children sucking
At her teat
I don’t judge her
Bark and leaves
Aren’t much fun to eat

Summer Skin.

I can taste it, the seething heat of a summer afternoon.
It wraps me up like a blanket, its warmth kissing my skin like a long lost lover.
I’m pulled into a dreamy haze, every step taking more effort than the last, wading through a swamp of invisible mud up to my ankles in expectations and the list of accomplishments I’m yet to tick off.

Maybe they can wait.

Maybe the whole world can wait.

I lie beneath the blanket, gather it around me like it is not a summer day, but the most bitter night of winter. I take a breath. I dare not open my eyes lest the illusion be shattered. For now the world belongs to me, and if I ask it to wait, then it shall wait.

 

Why? …5pm

You inspire me.

But I don’t want you to!!

I’m afraid of what you would do to me if I let you in.

But do you even want to be let in?

Do you want to be my inspiration?

My Muse?

The truth is…

Whether or not you want to be.

It’s because of you that I sing…

It’s because of you that I write…

in the end

there is little to be said for the end of things

much to be felt but very little to be said

no excuses to render that will justify

no amount of apology or special gift

there is nothing one can do to fill the

giant empty space you left in the soul

of someone you used to love

no springtime flowers can drive out the scent of loneliness

or enough witty banter to replace the heart-to-heart

that used to overwhelm their world

and in the end you learn

it isn’t how you got here

it’s what you learned in the process.

9pm

The under toe

on my tippy toes

yoga

The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

Part XIII

Not many weeks after my prayer offered
to a perfect God,
from the pit of my sinful nature,
my daughter was conceived…
the conception that finally put alcohol beyond my reach,
and my husband became even more irritating;
he was much better tolerated through inebriation.

when early morning breaks,
and I see parcels of light,
break through the venetians,
summer’s end nearing…
I realize that I am still in a war;
I pick a pocket full of poppies,
take in a long, deep breath,
choke on myself and go on.

Go on…
why must I?
Is there a law that says I have to go on?
I mean now,
not then.
Then I was young,
thought I had a chance,
carrying the love of my life,
the same life that would marry
and bring two more loves of my life…
crazy how that works –
life, procreation,
little hands and feet that march on your heart
and create a trail that no briar can cover.

Go on…
why must I?
I stayed with that man until he found sobriety,
I stayed with him faithfully until…
well, even now…
I was there when he decided I was no longer useful
and he cast me aside,
found someone else,
they broke up two homes,
hurt three children,
destroyed my spirit,
and yet,
I forgave –
in his current putrid state,
I can look him in the eyes and know, I have forgiven…
so I ask again,
why go on?
I have no regrets,
I will die a one man woman,
I birthed the perfect, beautiful daughter,
I love and know my two perfect grandchildren,
I love the poppies;
anything red…just like my little grandson;
why fight a war,
when I don’t think there will ever be a winner?
It’s like Vietnam –
no winner.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 8 PM

Picture, Picture on the Wall…4pm

We are the picture of society that we want to see.

We have to make the choice that creates a world that can make us proud.

But when parents neglect their duties,

And children refuse to grow.

When teachers choose not to teach,

And students choose not to learn.

When leaders refuse to lead,

And countrymen refuse to feel.

We create a picture filled with…

Hate

Greed

Selfishness

Need.

And then we wonder what is going on in this world.

But aren’t we the picture of what we want to see?