The Poetry Marathon

“I have lived too long in foreign parts!” – from Daisy Miller by Henry James

“I have lived too long in foreign parts.”

I have become foreign to myself, made up of bits and pieces like a Frankenstein turned inside out. The scars are there, only they are on the inside where no one can see them.

Nor can anyone see me. Or rather they do see me, but only recognize the parts that are familiar to them. But seeing half of me is seeing nothing at all.

Blessed are those who, like my sister, have lived on the same street their whole life. Maggie is sure of herself, she has never questioned her marriage, her religion, her culture or her taste.

I question everything. Some people say my personality changes with my language. In Germany, a few who can judge, say they see a German Robbie and an American Robbie. But still, they have never seen the Chinese or the Paraguayan Robbie.

Some days, I just want to go home – if I could find it.

For “I have lived too long in foreign parts.” (Henry James, Daisy Miller)

Jungle Tour

He moves with angelic grace and devilish stealth.

His shoulders roll with each padded step.

Silently, not to alarm his prey.

Camouflaged, his black stripes imitate the jungle shadows.

Hiding not in fear but in power and control, he reigns supreme.

Exuding awe he inspires us as he glides through his jungle home.

Until he exposes his plan.

With a leaping jolt, he crashes through his protective screen, squelching a young mother with two babies,

We look away in disgust-

The Shaman

Spiritual need

takes an unusual turn

for this Sioux Shaman.

 

For he is the last

of his kind,

a remnant of strength.

 

Even a remnant

voices his regrets and fears

even the last one left.

 

Inspired by the book “Shaman” by Noal Gordon

 

 

The Bake-Off

Whoever said men cannot bake

A chocolate-covered birthday cake

Or crusty bread from sourdough

With luscious spreads atop to go?

“Forest Ranger Elmer Kraut

Will want to get his mixer out,”

Says Jerry Jenkins with a grin,

Absolutely sure he’ll win

Any bake-off with this foe,

Who doesn’t even seem to know

That puce and brown and periwinkle

Are not the proper shades to sprinkle

Cakes with the very lofty purpose

To entice us and divert us.

The storefront of Bob Chitlin’s shop

Provides the space to mix and chop.

Both men want very much to win.

The prize: a pint of finest gin.

With aprons on, they take their places

And bake the goods of baking races.

Now Bob, he is the best of judges

And never takes sides or begrudges

The rightful winner of the match

To whom he gives his treasured cache.

This time though, it went too far

When both men emptied Bob’s own bar

When Elmer Kraut had finished making

The cake, now in the oven baking,

He sat down on a rattan chair

And Jerry Jenkins joined him there.

They sipped the last of Chitlin’s wine

Not asking Chitlin, bear in mind.

And when the baking cakes were done,

Did all the neighbors have their fun.

Kraut’s angelfood looks like a spare

Tire gone flat from lack of air.

Jerry Jenkins’ laughs at that

Until he sees his own so flat.

Bob Chitlin laughs sardonically

And grabs the pint ironically.

When neither Bob or Jerry wins,

Then old Bob Chitlin claims the gin.

So that’s the tale of two men baking –

A sad but humorous undertaking.

My Own Path

All my life I have gone my own way.

It’s a lonely path filled with traps

and dangers but also joy.

Because ever-present

in times of sorrow,

in times of strength,

self-respect

dwells in

me.

#8 Nonet for Babka

Babka prances, carrying a box

proud to have captured cardboard prey

the evisceration brief

loud ripping and chewing

so satisfying

yet so simple

and bloodless

hunter

quenched

my cheese poem never posted, a sad affair indeed

the wheels turn

harden

sour

salt

curdle

and bring us together

The Railroad

Undisturbed, sedated sounds— there

As I gazed across the vast,  empty space

With my eyes fixed—blank to which they stare

At each and every piece in its proper place

 

The railroad, both—long and wide

An unknown journey, I felt belonged

To this, this place to which it resides

To this, this home— to which it longed

The Forgotten Promise

Buried within the depths of wisdom

Sacred words were all but—whispered

Bound together in—a rhythm

Leaving nothing left unanswered

 

Pages turned and by mine hand

One before another

As my heart did now understand

Exactly what you sought to answer

 

Loudly did I start to hear

Precisely what you sought to speak

As I did now lend my ear

To what it was that I did seek

 

A forgotten promise in the midst of wisdom

Between both sleep and awoken times

Clinging to life it’s spoken outcome

Concealed within these arcane rhymes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wide Awake

Deep sleep is where I laid

Even while awake

For it was when I obeyed

That serpent, wise—old snake

 

When my thoughts returned to me

From where they once had gone

That I began to stop and see

The path to which they fasten—

 

For as the sun is said to rise

Each and every—day

From the east until it dies

Returning to obey—

 

For light might move from east to west

Giving life to all that live

As it seems to never rest

As though its been taken captive

 

From life to death and what’s left in between

A course to which we are forced

To obey this same, wise—old routine

Until it is divorced—

 

For sleep no longer reigns in me

As I’m wide—awake

And the spirit of prophecy

Is finally burned at the stake

 

For words themselves must be bound

When concealed until the light might show

That they will often be found

When its time to know

 

Knowing is they key that reveals

What’s hidden deep inside

That which was once concealed

But is now very much brought to life