The Poetry Marathon

The hour has come for me to sleep

Another marathon, mine to keep

The night is dark the body tired,

What once was alive is now expired

What once I kept, I now delete

I am off to bed to sleep

I don’t know who I am any more

Names mean nothing now

Words are just letters strewn into a blurry line

What is a poem?

Can I even write one at this point?

No. I am just typing sequentially right now.

I guess I am typing.

Maybe it is someone else.

I am not sure

The part of my brain

That is used to these things

Has taken charge now.

l cannot be held responsible.

I know, I am whining

Why not? Where am I?

I should write something profound

Something with deep meaning

Something with pizzazz

Instead, I shall type along randomly

Acting like I have some inkling

Of what the hell is going on.

I need an idea

to reach out and grab me

Shake me awake

Pull me out of dreamland

Bring me back to the almost alive

An idea to pull me back from the precipice

I need an idea

Something to fly with, drive with

Or at the very least cry with

An idea I can sink my teeth into

Throw in some words,

some sentence structure,

and mix them all up.

Just one small idea

Something, anything at all.

Toss me a word, a generality

A token or a snippet maybe

Just not the word “tenderness”

That won’t do it

I need something less soft and

more word worthy.

No, I won’t do it

I refuse to place an almond and an umbrella in any poem just randomly.

It isn’t raining.

I have cashews.

Why would I do that?

Why should I advertise almonds like that?

Especially in hour 21.

Next thing I know you will draw faces on eggs.

Hour twenty

Achieved at last

Things go better in the twenties

The teens last forever

In the twenties you can see the end

Those voices aren’t singing about the lady in the top hat.

They are excited about finishing

The second breakfast is now the third dinner

We aren’t beginners any longer

If we ever were.

There will be no self-help books now

No beds lying beneath palms

Our own beds are whispering

Excited for our return.

Hour twenty

A Milestone

A countdown to completion.

We can see it, smell it.

It tastes like old clothes and hope

Hour twenty, my old friend

We really are going to do this thing.

I grew up in small cities

Asphalt coexisted

with huge lawns

Sprawling green/ blue parks

Houses nicely spaced so you couldn’t hear

What the neighbors were watching on television.

We had the best of both worlds i suppose

Well placed schools,

Public Libraries just the right size.

Every fast food you could want.

I moved to a bigger city

A place with tiny lawns

and three units on one property.

Walking distance to a huge mall

And a bustling downtown

Intimidating, daunting

Scary, exciting.

I visited San Francisco and LA

Where the concrete eats everything

The bustle raises blood pressure

The traffic murders people daily.

So much to see and do

But I wanted to crawl home

To those sprawling lawns

And big spacious houses

I was used to.

A compromise was reached

And I found a place

Not too busy, not too quiet

Plenty to do and see.

I miss the lawns

The house I will never own

But I needn’t lose myself

In a city too big.

Or decay away in a place too small

And now

Your moment of joy.

This marathon is done

Another bunch of poems tucked away

Your head hits the pillow

Your body folds into a soft mattress

NO STOP

Not yet

A moment of joy.

A pot of coffee

A cup swirling to cozy quiet

My eyes drift

Closing, darkness

NO STOP

not yet.

A moment of joy.

Garbled words

Smashing into each other

Like bumper cars

I black out

Silently dreaming

NO STOP

Not yet.

Brass bands

Drum circles

Cold water splashing

That’s better.

Yes, splashing cold

Iced coffee

Bright lights

Timpanis

Adrenalin

Clapping, dancing

Spinning

AWAKE!

The real monsters

are the ones in suits

who bellow about Jesus and immigration.

They spew fiery lies

Inciting, dividing

The real monsters are the ones

Who think they have a God-given right

to make decisions for people

who don’t need their help.

These monster in suits says whites

are discriminated against,

gay people are hated by Jesus.

and women know nothing about their own health.

The real monsters carry guns

Into Subway and Starbucks

They want to arm teachers,

defund education, and carry their AR-15 into Congress

The real monsters wave their flag

as if it means something to them.

The real monsters worship trump, the NRA and white supremacy.

They bow at the feet of Hannity and Carlson

The real monsters use the blood of others

To score their political points

They don’t care about children dying

They will do anything to win a donation

and steal a vote.

Nothing is coming to me now

Those words that were zipping above my head

have all been used now.

I am struggling to find new ones

Not even Perry Mason could help me now.

I sense the brain needs caffeine,

or a nap,

protein maybe

Those are words I can use

And have though, often today.

This is the point

bordering on tediousness and exhaustion.

Here word soup and word salad are matched

with a word and mayonnaise sandwich.

Genius won’t happen in this place

The ideas are trapped

In a hollow cavern

Just a few knocking around.

I imagine they are lonely.

Contrite.

They don’t want exposure.

Words, where are you?

I need your loveliness.

I need you to make gallant sentence structures.

I need you to come and play.

Words where have you gone?

The prompt says to write

About something I lust over

At this point in time

That is a good night’s sleep

A quality ice cream,

and those magical 10 days between semesters.

Once upon a time

I lusted for the perfect partner

I found him.

The ideal job

I don’t think those exist.

A nice car

Better to have a practical model.

I used to lust for a nice house

Now, the cost and the hours cleaning are prohibitive

I guess my lusty days are gone

I am too practical for that

Too sensible.

Life has taken away my wants

And replaced them with haves

My lusts have subsided

Replaced by much better things.