The Poetry Marathon

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 20

Progress is progress – you’ve got this

and you truly are capable of so much

more than you ever seem to realize;

but that said, you owe me a salsa

with time and a tango with potential –

 

don’t put me on hold again, I know

you’re waltzing with memory and

you wouldn’t even have that power

if it weren’t for me. And yes I know

now that I’ve written about you and

used your name in a way much more

directly than your song scavenger hunts

and unoriginal bastardized codes –

 

which I suppose also isn’t saying much

I’ve been cast into the eye of forever

by many a drunken artist – a want to be

promise – a story that never dared to

grow into anything other than what-if.

 

And before you say it – I am not a calmaity

I am not chaos or order or anything worth

defining in such ways but I am also far more

concrete than anyone seems to acknowledge.

 

I am certain someday you’ll taste paradise

and realize you’ll never get so close as me – again.

 

But also you’re far too interesting for the world

to be rid of completely when age comes

swooping in for not just one dance – but eternity.

 

-M. Rene’

Abstract sanctuary (19th Hour)

surrounded by the carpet

and the pillars and the Köts,

cats, cauts, kittens.

No cats.

When- win,

Wind- does,

do’s, doe’s

Windowes

,win those.

Pains,

window pains.

Enclosed white walls,

The kitchen,

Re-frigerated ice box

With the built in meat preserver.

 

Frozen watermelon chunks and tidbits

The books,

a molin Rouge,

Falcon mosaic balcony

The view of pch

on pcp

PTSD,

ADHD,

An STD or two.

 

My study,

Red oak

soak smoke

Red thread spread

of

leather lathered scent

Brunnetted Bloke.

A Gamer chair,

horrendous mess.

incredulous dishes unkept,

unsweetened, unswept.

My bed, unslept.

The epidermis of

our poverty is

Just the tip of the

iceberg lettuce.

 

I am manicured letters,

bad wheathers-

Squirting bedwetters’

bedwettings,

Are better than

weddings.

All this, orbits,

motorists, Otis Reddings

Poetry readings every night.

In thee ghettos, all is bright.

 

Not quite right but rype,

I am now inside a space. I write-

And

Race

Mirrors paste a clearer face

Than what equates approximates.

6 by 8’s,

Impersonate your prison mates.

Inspirations instigates,

These our quarters,

In accordance

With incorporated laws.

Glimps

of my

abstract sanctuary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a short delirious stream of thought interupted

Blue skies suck out my eyes

these summer days make me blind

a late night heat hears my cries

my painting come out undefined

blobs of paint on a canvas

dropped to the ground

the concrete makes it sizzle

the fumes rise up

to hit my cheeks

the gas burns my flesh

and the night sets fire

shooting stars launch across the sky

lasers born of a billions years

to end humanity in seconds

Poem for Hour Twenty (20/24)

Common Raven | Corvus corax |  L 24″ (61 cm)

Large, with long, heavy bills, appearing on a bracelet I lost that very same road trip, but I didn’t stop thinking about ravens for a single day after I first time I saw them. Shaggy throats, I noted, but didn’t know what it meant, as I kept squinting at every black bird with a pulse to see if I could identify the bird to which I was newly and wholly devoted.

Voice: I learned to hear, that trip, what a raven really was. It wasn’t just the croaks and caws, it’s clacking and clicking and contemplative calls. I bought a DVD all about ravens and that narrator, too, had a voice I could listen to for hours.

Range: Found in a variety of habitats– hey, me and you both, great gothic bird. Can be seen from mountains, to coasts, to deserts. On occasion, a mated pair will nest and pass on their stunning genetics in the middle of pandemic and give you a reason to get outside every day, just to see if their little one has made the great leap from the government building’s window ledge.

HR20 – Prayer

Putting aside my ego, I

Recognize that You Are.

All-seeing, All-knowing, Always here.

Your Kingdom come, Your will be done, on

Earth, as it is in Heaven. I

Rest and leave the rest to You.

MMIW: Sacajawea

MMIW: Sacajwea

 

Another name that was lost in time.

To be honest,

the only time I’ve heard

of Sacajeewa was in a book

“Streams to the River, Rivers to the Sea”

By Scott O’Dell.

 

It was in her point of view,

but it was watered down,

because Scott O’Dell

is a children/teens author.

 

After that,

it was the dollar coin.

A coin dedicated to her,

for her voyage with Lewis and Clark.

 

But again,

her story wasn’t told.

 

She was only in her teens,

forced into an abusive marriage.

Having kids during the expedition.

She gave her last child to Lewis,

left to live her last few days alone.

19. Erroneous Around

Sitting in the light, of night

Rested like a cat, at that

Penning like Ol’ Poe, you know

And never rhyming better.

Senses quickened, like a chicken

Revveling in the gab, like a hermit crab

Eyesight whole as mole

Because I’m not a quitter.

Hour 20: Mornings Aren’t For The Weak

Each morning when I wake up, I slowly check the time

Try to remember what day it is, even if I heard my alarm chime.

I crawl out of bed all bleary-eyed and take care of necessities

Honestly, up to that point, I avoided all complexities.

Once I finish up on that part of my routine

I go to take my dog out, he is a small one and thirteen.

We make our way back inside, I make a beeline for the kitchen

I tend to be grumbly up to that point, but I refrain from any bitc…griping.

As my coffee in the Keurig brews, I feed the dog and cat

The cat is usually yowling at me, can you imagine that?

I doctor up my coffee, a little sugar and some cream

Finally, I can sit, this is where I begin to scheme.

I think about what my day holds, work or is it a weekend?

If it is work, I gulp my drink for my energy to spend.

10pm. Poem 20 Mornings with Lucy

10pm. Poem 20

Mornings with Lucy

She comes to me at first alarm
laying her head on my breast
settling in tummy to tummy

She makes biscuits
and closes her eyes
to heal me with her rhythmic purr.

She is my morning.
She is the start of each day.
She is why I can do what I do.
When so much is uncertain
she is my constant.
She is my love.

twenty: Uniform Corruption

Uniform Corruption

All of the deeds witnessed
We took pictures and oaths of truth
Wanted freedom to need of freedom
Was confronted by the devil
A cunning fellow disguised as overseer
Chance that we would be seen being pushed
To the road to hell with savage intent…
Talk to my lawyer

(Inspired by “The Charade” by D’Angelo & Kendra Foster)