The Poetry Marathon

content warning: anti-homeless infrastructure is the literal worst and it’s mentioned, but not focused on.

There’s an old bus stop.
A countless number of feet have tread here.
Person after person, waiting
for the right bus to come.
The shelter over the bench is tilted,
and the metal bench is rusted.

(The handle, forcing it to become
two different seats, is new.)

People know here, have been here,
will return here. Day after day,
they take the bus to work and school
and the grocery store.
It’s a familiar staple on the side of the road,
as familiar as fences
and houses painted beige and light blue.

(Someone used to sleep here, sometimes,
when all the rooms were full.)

Today, it’s raining. People cluster.
The bus stop is busy. Umbrellas overlap,
create a collage of colors from above.
Someone sneezes, swears “I’m not sick”.
People laugh. Connection.
Here and gone in an instant.
These are familiar strangers that bring comfort,
and knowing you will see them,
day after day, at the same stop as always.

Campbell’s Tomato Soup.

That was my sick soup.

When the fever had broken

and I was hungry again

Mother fixed me a grilled cheese sandwich

and Campbell’s Tomato Soup

in a mug, not a bowl,

so I could drink it.

It almost made me think she loved me.

Family Dinner Time (Poetry Marathon 2022 – Hour 9)

My mother used to keep spaghetti
Warm on a hot plate heated by a candle
She’d mix in the sauce and mix it in a bowl
And place the bowl in the frame
And then light the candle
We ate dinner as a family
We listened to the news on the radio as we ate
Every night was a meal designated for that night
One night was meat night and it could be beef
Or lamb or whatever my parents could afford
Another night was chicken a la king night
Where we ate chicken in goop
On either white bread or rice
Another night was spaghetti night
My father used to mash his peas into
His potatoes as he didn’t really like peas
He was not big into vegetables
Though his parents used to own a fruit
And vegetable store
He taught his father that tomatoes
Were fruits not vegetables
I’ve learned since then that there are
Many what we call vegetables that are really fruits
My mother did her best to cook dinner
My father usually made breakfast
And his trick was that he would cook the eggs
Using the toaster timer
So the eggs would be ready at the same time as the toast
My parents did not really like food very much
They had no curiosity about food
And would not eat anything they were unfamiliar with
But my mother had this contraption
That was a kind of hot plate
That she used to keep the spaghetti warm
Heated by a candle
After she put the sauce in, whatever sauce was on sale that week.
My father hated it and would yell at me
If I had changed the station on the radio
In the kitchen
And didn’t change it back
As he was not very good at tuning the radio
That was before the radios were push button.
My mother heated spaghetti and discounted sauce – with a candle.

In front of the fireplace with a book

A warm blanket maybe a mug of tea

Exhaustion overtakes quickly

First behind the eyes

Unfocusing from the words on the page

The mind wandering, making stops to daydream

Next it’s dinner time, the smell of food acting like an alarm clock

Blink again and it’s midnight but well-rested

An Ominous Observation (Valkyrie)

Wild beast, rampant and voracious,
I observe as you storm through the debris.
Feasting with fang and claw,
Identifying a fatalistic flaw,
A plan hatches for this bird to be set free.

Time imperative, trust regained,
For the strategy to be realised,
I hide the tears for I know with certainty,
That a sorrowful consequence is our mutual demise.

Sleight of hand required,
Horror movies must inspire,
Brainstorming the tropes,
Mind filled with hopes,
For success to duly transpire.

Inspiration calls in night’s interim,
To sew together the colourful dead,
Stacked into the van,
Another ghastly plan,
A mural spread over the forest bed.

I remember when I was a young lad
So innocent and a bit of a twit
I was between 4 or 5, maybe 7
When I really fell in the shit

My mother was serving us dinner
Burgers, served with chips of course
When I, not paying attention
Rashly reached for the sauce

For what child of indeterminate age
Would want a ketchup-less burger
It would be like having spaghetti without bolognaise
I caution, dear reader, no further

For in my haste I had made the assumption
That probably doesn’t need to be said
That ketchup, so patently awesome
Is basically anything red

So I made an obvious error
I grabbed the first red thing I saw
And then when I tasted my burger
My forehead quickly hit the floor

For I had never tasted Tabasco
That Hot sauce from far off Latin shore
Imagine my mothers surprise when she
Heard a high pitched scream no-one could ignore

So that is the story dear reader
And hopefully realise my stance
On the time I had a bottle of hot sauce
And burned a hole in the back of my pants…

My-mite

One thing will always make my day just right
Scoffing anything smeared in sticky marmite
I indulge my guilty little secret alone
Then shove it to back behind the tins
To keep it safe and out of sight
As the last thing I need when I have a craving
Is find my jar’s been plundered
Which leaves me to wonder
Just who it was
For everyone that shares my life
Insists they are in the haters gang
And would never in a million years
Touch the stuff so I should have no fears
There should always be enough to satisfy my urge
But more and more I find the jar’s been purged
Of all but the slightest scrap
Not enough to cover toast
Just a buttered crumpet at the most
Love it or loath it
I couldn’t care less
But remember … my jar is mine alone
So go please go out and buy your own

[Prompt: Look in your cupboards and find a food that brings up a childhood memory.]

melting marshmallows

with moon playing hide and seek-

crackling bonfire sounds