The Poetry Marathon

HOUR 3: OUT OF THE RICH BAYOU

Life folds you into a paper crane;
Yet you feel like an alligator,
Taste sweet as honey,
Look like Garbo,
Sound like a Stradivarius,
Smell like mangled marigolds
Smooth as glass.
The tinkle of fresh bread, Leonardo and Paris remind you that alligators can’t be creased.
Yet a yellowed amphibian in your scrapbook begs to be folded.
Galumping downhill sends you backward faster and faster,
Until you taste like a fool.
You are the wooden dragon of yesterday burning yourself with your own fire, and that Phoenix actually dies, never to raise hope again.
So you fold yourself into that paper crane;
And Bucky is so proud of you, of what you will be, a wad of wobbling glass making sense only to the logical mind of your smiling swamp thing.

“Vive la France!” you hear him say, scaly tail scraping circles in stinking, fertile mud.

Life After 65

LIFE AFTER 65

(a haiku)

 

WOW! I’m 65

Wrinkled and gray, aches and pains

Thankful for it all!

Hour Three: Election Season

The politician roared,

His lips swollen with alphabet soup.

Adherents heard him say, “Challenge,” though their feet burned on the infernal asphalt and their razor gazes slashed this three-piece suit on a sizzling stage.

They smelled his smoky words, tasting them like passing perfume in an elevator, stale and repellant.

“I am Sir Ellwin Darwin of Pointless Promontory, outside the state of Michigan, and I am here to fleece you of your vote.”

The crowd cheered and dared him to shed his swimsuit.

But he only whispered, “I never wanted to be here. It just ended up that way.”

The crowd discombobulated, their spirits rising once the brainstorm rushed in.

One mother gave her tiny son the peace-out sign, while a bystander heard her say, “You know what that means.”

And all I could make of it was the throttling gurgle of love—a peace sign, wrapped in a finger-shaped heart, a violent cry for help.

Then the mouther of promises levitated above the crowd, and Piggy was not impressed. She, leader of the church of disbelief, set her cup down and knew the ending: they will return to earth but never be grounded, like a hydrogen barge out to sea.

I’d give them my lunch money if I didn’t have to walk to school. Mais, alas, en fin, je ne sais quoi—politics and me never broke bread on a Sunday morning. Yeast lies, as untrustworthy as a sunken balloon.

And yet, here we are, you, me, the shouting floater, mother, child, neighbor, and countrymen, sweltering under the weight or wordlessness, a nightmare history will look back on in astonishment and then repeat itself.

(Hour 03) 12.30-01.30am. TEXT PROMPT Twenty Little Poetry Projects

I quite enjoyed fulfilling (half) the tasks for this prompt. Look forward to editing it [wrestling a fraction more sense from it] post marathon.

swish

the world is an orange
it can be eaten in just three bites
acidic nose bitter tasting waxy
skinned squelching overripe bright orange
the acid bright on my tongue
the waxy squelching in my ear
the bitterness burning my eyes
but despite his best efforts Ryan
is never going to arrive in Arden
it’s all too big to be consumed
besides no one’s left to play basketball
whether you’re a buzzer-beater
double-dribbler or alley-oopper
it matter’s not cos the world’s ending
the bugs have three in the key
they’re putting on a clinic
not a cloud left in the sky to make it rain
& we’re just gonna fadeaway
chomp chomp chomp
juice gets in our eyes & we cry

Chasing Inspiration

I scout around, I scent the air
Quite fruitlessly I cast my fly
No inspiration anywhere

The barren minutes flutter by
My thoughts net only empty space
Quite fruitlessly I cast my fly

My idle pen just spins in place
Vague doodles overtake the page
My thoughts net only empty space

I seek this dullness to assuage
In metaphor and meta-verse
Vague doodles overtake the page

Such tricks just make my struggles worse
A wild goose chase of wasted time
In metaphor and meta-verse

So as I pen this final rhyme
I scout around, I scent the air
A wild goose chase of wasted time
No inspiration anywhere

Prompt for hour three 20 “Vanessa”

The rocks of longing in my heart build cairns

that balance serendipitously on dunes built of sugar

like the sweet and sticky buns of my youth

sounds of sucking my fingertips

before dipping them in the sands of the Ocean City beach

where I lie in ageless wonder at Vanessa’s poise

as she topples the stones

only to rebuild them with sandhands

outlasting the incoming tides with their sweet memories

shifting sands of time my ass!

the wandering waves of grief

create as they reclaim

Vanessa’s laugh coming now from my throat

the little sis who I still am

with the broken shells she gave me as a joke

that I now treasure and always will

the sickly sweet sounds of breaking seashells

that burst me open

freeing my tears

Grazie mille sis

the waves seem to scream

lapping up against the cairn in my heart

 

 

 

Manzanita songs

A crow calls,
celebrating the morning.
I tap my Merlin app to chronicle
the answered greetings of
the chestnut-backed Chickadees.

Soon others are joining in song:
a Stellar’s Jay, a Brown Creeper,
now the barn swallows and a
red crossbill.
These are not my desert birds.

I drink in my coffee and peer up
through the branches
of the towering firs,
into the cloudless blue sky.
I feel untethered, free.

The wind rustles the leaves,
dogs bark today’s messages and
far-away voices catch in the breeze.
In the distance, I can hear the waves:
the ocean beckons.

hour 3 – no, it was love

the wasp in my stomach lost her wings
on December 28^th in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
what was aflutter snapped as the syllables
fell out of me and on to
the once-white table. yes, it’s true
i was never suitably grateful
for the taste of your sweatshirt and
the scratch of your voice from 3,000 proper miles.
later, when this haunts me, it won’t be your face,
but the switchblade sound my heart made
that burns the blue girl at her gas stove.
tell me that i’m selfish.
agaonidae only live for 48 hours and this wasn’t my first mistake.
i would go back if i was not wingless,
stuck forever in living amber,
surviving on sequential cups of espresso and absinthe.
i would rechrysalize in new time
and fail to torment you, entirely.
make no mistake, i was the mistake.
please hold that
with you when you never think of me,
with you when i realize, i won’t have flight again.

Eyes of the Cat

Hour Three

Oh how you mesmerize me those spheres of peridot flecked with black circled by brown. A calm mixed with fierceness, and the need to survive.
Such powerful grace. Sleek, muscular, and strong. A tree climber. Prowler, a thief which stole my heart.
Fur like the down of a chick, whiskers that tickle, pointed ears, a button nose of the slightest pink.
A carnivore. A grazer of grass, bug catcher, birder, mouser, regale. Paws of steel, thick pads for lurking, skulking round corners along fences.
Contented. Rhythmic sounds deep in your throat,, a soft purring giving thanks for the day.

House trained and house bound, your every need provided. No hunger nor thirst, a warm cozy bed, a lap to curl up on. Domesticated no longer wild. Tame and affectionate. You’re more canine than feline. An equal. A friend, pal, a comrade and confidante.

What lies behind those eyes of the cat? What lurks deep within? Is the wildness born of your ancestors still inside, or just a hint remains? What secrets do you hold? What stories could you tell? Do you dream? Love? Hate? Are you happy? Content? Oh, what could you show what could you say? Within the eyes of the cat, a wonderment lives of which we’ll never know.

Utopia

Utopia

Underrated presence in the moment

Tranquility for the soul

Overwhelming, over the top silence in your

mind

Paused – to reflect on the now

Incredibly slow pace of your heart

Amazing, peaceful time- dedicated to your

body

EVERYDAY