The Poetry Marathon

Hail, Rain and Drought

Hail, Rain and Drought

He moved a bit more than before in hour eight,
and the rain soaked the lawn. Now, sun overhead
it left Charlie with a feeling of dread. Wait,
Listen, I’m not quite done. A feeling of dread;

roughly made bed or one just used for fun.
Another cold night you will never see,
if hope springs eternal the deed will be done.
Never worry Charlie, I’ve just got to be me

And you just got to be you. If the heel
now fits the shoe, follow the bread crumb
dotted trail. What perils remain to test his steel?
Dropped in the poor box but priceless to some.

Rutted. Charlie fights and digs his burrow, a shady
outcrop tract of earth and molted clay.
Under the oak tree leaf roof, Charlie bravely
goes through the motions and gets through the day.

Hold on! Wait! What do I see? What are those things?
The nymph becomes a fly? Have you sprouted wings?

Hour eight, 4pm
Hail, Rain and Drought
(form Acrostic/ Heroic Sonnet)
Charlie the Mayfly.

v.j.calone

Hour Eight: Small Town Gigan

Hour Eight: Small Town Gigan

Small towns dream of skyscrapers and busy streets
as the coffee perks and the usual crowd gathers for eggs and gossip.

Johnsons’ hound got into Maeve’s hens again and now there’s hell to pay.
And what’s that sky gonna do, d’ya think? Look like rain?
While Main Street runs just two blocks past the only stop sign in town.

Visions of gleaming steel, fast-talking men, fashionable women
Flash in the rearview mirror of the pickup truck as it rolls through town

To a stop at Tractor Supply to pick up some feed, check the price of seed
The local doc snatches a donut down at Murphy’s before starting his rounds

and the undertaker stares out the window, gathering his thoughts.
Small towns dream of skyscrapers and busy streets

Visions of gleaming steel, fast-talking men, fashionable women
Gleam in the wistful eyes of 15-year-old Annie as she gets off the school bus
And in the regrets of her teacher, looking over lesson plans one more time.

And while small towns dream, the big city swelters
And wonders if there’s a place where a green shade cools.

the bloodstain

the bloodstain dark brown on bright white textured sheets

i’m so sorry. it’s just i’ve been bleeding for so long i didn’t see it

 

until it dried. now it’s there, evidence of my inadequacy, of my

disgusting life and habits, the scabbing, the nonstop blood and

compulsion to keep picking for more. more blood for me. more

 

wounds across my body. scarred. ugly and horrific. if you only

knew what was under my clothes you would lose it. look at me

 

different. i’m not the friendly girl on the phone or the woman who

smiles brightly when you enter the office. i’m not the person making

 

you laugh or making you think hard about the state of the world.

the bloodstain dark brown on bright white textured sheets.

 

wounds across my body. scarred. ugly and horrific. i’m not the

sweetheart doing you favors without pay to preserve some

good on this earth. i’m nothing like that. i’m rotten and nasty;

 

a walking sore, always oozing, never healing. a black hole of

self-destruction and regret. i’m so sorry. i’ll clean it right away.

Prompt Eight: What I Do Not Know

What I Do Not Know

 

What I do not know, about her, her person.

What I will never know, about this person.

 

Certainly, I knew her a bit, briefly, a few moments.

My take was not always positive, she was tough…

In an unnecessary way. In my humble opinion. Not just to me.

 

Did not, would not, wish her harm . . . certainly not.

I have known much worse. The very worst. She was not.

 

Although, yes, harsh to me. Did not choose me to do, as I do.

Judged me too harshly, in my opinion. Not my humble opinion.

 

What I do not know, about her, her person.

There was an accident. She was just visiting her mother.

 

Did not, would not, wish her harm . . . certainly not.

Mother was killed instantly. Hit and run, not her fault. A visit.

She was thrown into a coma. Unresponsive. Too young.

 

Today she has crossed. She has died. Joined her mother.

Her sister has a second funeral. Her only family has left her.

 

Hour 7: My Love is the River

The river flows, and for some it fades

When I come back tomorrow, she’s not the same 

But I still call it a river 

I have cried many rivers, and drowned many sinners 

In my journals and my bedrooms

In dark, eerie parking lots 

Where if you go late enough, magic blooms

And touch sparks lights bright enough to make you believe 

Every crease, was worth the pain of carving 

Disarming my soul so you can take a look

Call it a hook 

His smile, and maybe my eyes

And oh, now we’ve spilled a dream all over my dress

I shake it off but its stained my skin

Akin to his love, now I have dreams stuck to my pillow 

I try to wash it while the tide is still low 

When did my river become an ocean? 

Some potion, some spell, he left behind some shelf last he stayed

I’m entrapped, now that’s just rude

Crude skin under my finger tips, at the cusp of desire

But I am not tomorrow what I was tonight 

And he loves in spite

Of the scarred bedroom walls, and empty bathroom stalls 

Of stale lingering desire in unattended mire

And so my love must be a river, 

It must flow and it must fade, 

So I am neither scarred bedroom wall, nor someone else’s desire 

I am new today, as I will be tomorrow 

Love me today and again tomorrow. 

 

Hour Eight

Hustle and bustle and quick quick quick

Running around is making me sick

I try and I try to stop and rest

And try to put these coping skills to the test

But try as I might it’s just so hard to stop

And

.

.

.

Breathe

What I Should Have Said Was–Hour 8

unsolicited advice

is not being accepted today

or any other day

 

Hour 5: Turbulence

The turn, the approach, the slice through each moment with drive and craze, in tune, in place, we sail in confidence, with charm and luck for wings.

Changes fold over our outstretched arms, lifting us, trembling into new ascents, we shake, we falter, instantaneously thwarted we drop and recover, drop and recover, drop and recover, recover.

Surprises, obstacles, momentum steady, disappointment, killjoys, steady, steady.

The adventure continues looming over, under, it is now, we all feel it when it gets close, we all feel it when it slips away. Steady, stay steady.

 

 

i.

my life’s a movie

and i’m the main character

I ain’t no joke ,

I ain’t no caricature

The Reclamation (Hour 8)

There is this grip it thought I didn’t have,
a grip I didn’t know I had, until my eyes were born.

There is this strength it thought I never possessed,
a strength I took for granted that I had, until my mind was born.
It doesn’t matter how much of the strength deposit was withdrawn behind me.

There is this joy it thought I’d never find,
a joy I misplaced and never bothered to cultivate.

There is this precision it though I’d never master,
a precision that’s so simple its stupidity blinds everyone who are the way I was.

It fed fat on glee, seeing me goof around on slippery plane.
There is this grip it thought I didn’t have.

There is this joy it thought I’d never find;
one that erects walls of love, light, and laughter,
a joy it made obscure before my face, until my eyes were born.

There is this life it hoped I’d never find,
a life that was given to me in fine sheets of gold, long before I was born.