on a telephone wire
waiting for things
to make sense below
I run with a swollen knee
at forty and pushing off asphalt
(28 marathons later
and none the wiser or richer)
'Dietro Casa' is playing
Behind the house
is where the best of them
grow love
I envy the birds
I envy their altitude
I envy their patience
I envy everything else
I cannot reach
from my marriage
to unforgiving ground
Someone is playing the piano
Someone is playing a cello
too many houses away
Water runs its rivers home
while I undercook the pasta
The birds know better
The birds align themselves
as sentences in the sky
All of my life I have been in a race it seems,
as a school girl I wanted the best marks;
to be the top,
this was my goal.
As I grew older I chased a golden reward,
in dance class I needed to be a star:
in writing I want that first place always,
that hollow sanctified, coveted by others, place:
to hold a fake gilded trophy.
But, now the years have mellowed me,
oh, a few wins;
in contests is okay.
Gone the need to sprint to the top of the mountain,
to be held in the spotlight and adored;
gold is just a color,
not a basic need.
Oh, no more marathons for this girl anymore,
I walk slowly, peacefully through life's paths:
the golden allure is nature's glory,
a halcyon sun a blessing;
I feel anointed by God.
What of a challenge you may ask ?
Well, peace is my choice,
and who could ask for more.
Faux lashes, little arrows to the heart.
Cradling her sternum, bleeding so kindly.
Love knows where to aim.
I'd tell you I'd run marathons, only for my breathing to become an enclosure.
I'd tell you of the wild things in my head and you'd laugh and say "my home is not a quiet place for rampage."
I'd respond, only with frowning eyes, ears perked for an apology from the mouth that hurts.
While you'd stay empty hearted, pouring it down the drain.
I apply lipstick to chapped lips, rubbing blush into the cheekbones of the girl of the year.
You can spot her eyes in the many who gaze.
They still taste of her, reek of her perfumed haze.
And yet as girl of the year, no man could love a woman so ablaze.
Sure, youth can run marathons,
But not of the sort
It takes to get old,
That’s a far different sport.
Getting old takes patience
And you must set a pace
To perform to the end,
For this is far from a race.
But here’s some advice,
To aid in the run:
Make sure to hydrate
With wine and bourbon.
Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
Reach for the eternal urged my brain
Beauty’s a battle; kisses, marathons
Butterflies flee their cocoons, wings wet in June
A love song’s a tease, waning with the moon…
Shouts surreal overwhelm eternity
~ staggered by uncertainty
You were
twice my age
and told me
you had no
friends,
but I might be
pretty enough to
go around
with you.
I ran
marathons,
and with
Mammon eyes
scanning,
you
measured
that I must have a
nice
body.
You tried to
convince me
that I was
interesting
enough
to deserve your
attention.
You chose
carefully.
You gave
my credit
to my father.
I agreed,
as absence
makes the heart
build
itself.
You acted like
you were the
first being to
discover
me, but
you didn’t know
how many
like
you
I had already
run into
on my way
out of
hell.
I was enjoying
this game
until you
ruined it.
You might not have
any friends because
you’re
too transparent
through that
Asmodeus
smile.
I dream of being bold, without a want or care,
To charm the crowd with wit, and much fanfare,
A fearless soul, who plays to the crowd every night.
Never doubting, never ever wrong, ever forever right.
I’d run marathons while eating cake.
I’d climb Mount Everest thrice without a break.
I'd compose a symphony from an idle hum.
I'd speak five languages fluently, just for fun.
I dream of being cool, calm, and collected,
Always sharply focused, never misdirected,
A polished version of myself, always on the ball.
Never prone to any slip up, tumble, trip or fall.
I'd love to anticipate, to always be way ahead,
To never stumble as I scramble from my bed,
To awaken with hope fulfilled to greet the morn.
To never be bedraggled, hung-over, nor forlorn.
But, here I sit, entangled in my own unkempt hair,
Locked by procrastination’s grip, tied up, in my chair.
I plan great things ahead, but then, I simply sit and stare,
To better myself, I'd need to be, another's self, elsewhere.
Allotted Time
Miracle Man
4/6/2024
Audible days have become as whispers,
and nights often resemble marathons.
Where once his days seemed to be etched in gold,
time’s ravenous appetite rendered bronze.
Like fruit, from a bud man starts to ripen,
taking life for granted his days descend.
Viewing hinder he encounters “what if’s,”
but his time once spent he cannot amend.
Pain squizzes life out of my paralyzed mind and it feels like a grain of sugar under attack from ants.
Induring comes with an ocean of tears
Never ending and excruciating
Sending my body into manifestational shivers
Needing an escape with immediate effect
Every nerve is hyperbolically numbing
Enough to shut doors when the world outside peeps into my life
Darts of mental disorders are hurled at me , my mind is infested with anxious ants nibbling on my confidence
Looking for rest I drown my fears and anxieties in a slumber.
Echoes of numbing pain pin me down as I crawl to the exit door
Shaky knees won't hold me for long lest my life I lose without the anchors of heaven.
So I pray and become the prey
Failing to comprehend my period of testing marathons from my predator
I fail to testify for the man at Calvary playing scavenge hunting for my sake
Not wanting to form scars to avenge
Every single day I seek him, he lifts my fallen face and reminds me of his might
And when my enemies attack he is my shield in this tag of war .
So I know when my iniquities hide his face I'll tag him to my place of refuge
that carves out a space of measured boundaries
that's given shape by force of will
that makes one smaller in walled existence
to think outside the box
to forge a different understanding
to upend expectations
to act on words that burn with fire
trail blazers
like seniors lapsing marathons
what's blocking the exit?
a box of familiarity that isn't freedom
when shadows stand in for substance
a lethargy of vision
where no fresh colors flash their sheen
what can be wrenched apart?
the box that traps us in seclusion
to re-imagine music
to elevate like choosing
Poem written April 30, 2023
END, Truth, Pain, Life
The beauty in the death of life lies in the life of death.
I sigh in my mortal flesh
Of my mortal thoughts and ask
Should I remind you of your true nature
and your pursuit of final free freedom?
Or your unilateral universe burdened with unending pursuits and endless marathons?
I lost the battle in the East before the West
In these tattered, splintered, useless shreds of crown diamonds
Soaked in the eternal muddy pool veiled with ignorance
I have from my graves will learn
Love, Live, Ask, Think
Suffer, Persevere, Listen, Learn
While wailing waves woven with worry of
SAMSARA
I will dodge raindrops before they pour
And challenge myself to a duel with a mirror
Breath, Move, Grave, BEGIN!
I'm quite a bit of a devil I am
Born with a big smirk on my kisser
But don't ever take me at face value
You can trust me like my sister
I'm honest as the day is long
You can trust me with your daughter
Well scratch that last one
Maybe you should take care you oughter
Guess I should knock this stuff off
Close to ninety I am I am
Not as agile like when I was sixty-four
Sometimes walk into door jambes
Well how about this dear friends
Marathons are still a possibility
Need a walker for the last mile or so
Still not beyond my capability
Well all in all still hanging in there
A model of sustainability I am
Hope to make it to a hundred or so
So far don't belong in a mausoleum
As we age, we yearn to return to a time:
when innocence was considered a virtue.
Time is a progression of experiences.
Today, guides us toward tomorrow's discoveries,
while yesterday is woven into permanence;
and thus, unchangeable.
Memories, like a fine wine, sweeten with age:
images of youth garnered from favored thoughts,
bring nostalgia to the forefront of our minds;
where we can experience them once again.
Life is a series of memories,
and although they're not always pleasant:
they are welcomed nonetheless.
Time gives us notice that life is temporary;
gradually reminding us of our mortality:
and yet, we are eternal souls.
Baby steps taught us to walk:
and soon, we were running marathons.
When we first opened our eyes:
we beheld a world of wonder;
imagination, trust, hope, and best of all, love.
For love stands apart from all other feelings;
penetrating reality's shadow
with its light:
it defines our humanity.
The bones are loud and heavy
they don't like exercise anymore.
The treadmill chugs along
while vertigo topples unready toes.
Nothing can push these bones along,
time has filled them with concrete,
the rubble of marathons once run.
A young woman sprinting effortlessly
beside me smirks my way
as I stumble through a flat-footed mile.
Maybe she cannot see her future yet
while mine is clearly
painted on a wall I will soon hit.
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