I spent two hours on the website trying to renew my license
new system installed in January
Much easier they said
My husband spent an hour on it
He brought me their phone number
Call them, he suggested
I could not get a person, only a recorded message
If you are in group A, press 1
If you are in group B, press 2
If you are in group C…..
I did not know what group I was in
That is on a teensy postcard we had accidentally thrown away
I resolved to try the next day
Spent half an hour on the phone when I noticed online help
I called the number
The lady talked me through steps one through eight.
I cannot help you past this step, she informed me.
It has to be the director of your group.
Which group are you in?
.
No Way Out
A genie in the bottle to grant my wishes—
I’m drifting,
looking for the red exit sign.
My desire for freedom waning
like the moon reflected in hues of blue
on the glass
of a Klein bottle:
A line begins,
yet never ends,
curling inward,
outward.
The terrarium of my life
shelved between the dust motes of indifference—
dancing ill-conceived clichés in soporific sunbeams—
it’s a mere curiosity …
Words chocked back,
thoughts lost
in the
labyrinth …
No out
A man coming home from work saw a shadow
a figure leaning against a dead olive polishing
his hoofs and sharpening his scythe.
The man said no, you are too young to harvest
he then took a plane to Madrid
where he got employment at a legal office.
the first day, he knocked on the door
death sat in the chair and said
from now on, you are my helper
Go back home and dispose of your parents and their
time has come, greatly disturbed
the man took a plane home
and the death was leaning against an olive tree
a shadow on a sunny autumnal
day. In the house, his parents said they had buried
their son, but they did not see or hear him,
and the man knew that henceforward he was
Death`s little helper.
There once was a dame in New York
Who plugged her hole with a cork
Some thought her insane
For not wanting a wean
But she still got one from a stork
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”
Was how John Keats extolled the Autumntide.
But I’m afraid I like the season less,
For next comes winter that I can’t abide
It’s not for nothing that they call it ‘Fall’.
Those falling leaves are nothing but a pain.
You sweep them up then, next day, sweep again.
And normally it rains as I recall.
But, worst of all, it brings back thoughts of Eve,
The one who was the apple of my eye.
It was October when she chose to leave
Without a word of explanation why.
So sorry Mr. Keats to be a bore.
“To Autumn” doesn’t cut it any more.
Is there no way
No path
No distant beacon
Naught but the roar
Of roiling breakers
Scattering the stony beach
With driftwood scarecrows
Is there no truth
No quietude of soul
No vibratory vindication
Save the shrieking tremor
Of faltering hearts
Weeping
For unknown lovers
Is there no light
Untouched by darkness
Un-blinded by the shadows
Fearless in its ferocity
Gentle in its gaze
Unmindful
Of its magnificence
If Life is an escape from Death
Can Death be an escape from Life
Nothing seems real.
The cold evening wind
stinging the eyes and through
a watery squint, a blurred parade
of lights bounce and fracture
on wet streets sending splinters
into glazed eyeballs.
The air strops its edges
on bare cheeks until the skin
is numb. Shadows cower
in vacated corners.
All sense of self
pulls back into the warmth
of a padded coat, the head hooded
within its own muffled enclave.
I feel like a space suited visitor
to an alien world, cut off,
a trespasser on territory
that is not my home.
I often feel like this,
hidden beneath layers,
at times struggling to breathe
the alien air, ungainly
in such a weighted world
with no way back
to wherever I came from.
No way
No way you are away from me
No way there is more sobering nights without you
No way the moon is away from me without you
No way I am crying for you anymore
No way my streets are lone without you
No way more I am to wait for you
The biggest mistake I ever made…
leaving the place I was going to
Frozen inside a desperate moment
—stolen bartered and gone
(Yellowstone: September, 2022)
Slogging swampy bogs, suction at the feet
Like pushing through molasses with a spoon
No evidence of forward progress made
Mired in a morass of foul decay
Vile filth closing in on what once was
Trapped in horrid ever-present now
Who can say what tomorrow brings?
What does tomorrow even mean?
The hands of time are bound up tight
Fetid vapors rushing up
Senses overwhelmed, recoil
Oppressive, suffocating
Forward has no meaning
No option for retreat
The world is closing in
Rudderless and lost
Disoriented
Every way is down
Such heaviness
Stoops the shoulders
Buckles the knees
Despairing
Silent screams
Go unheard
Hopeless
Endless
Nightmare
No
Way
Out
—————
For the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Written 07/13/2022
There’s no way
I’ll ever walk away
From those I know.
There’s no way
I’ll ever let go
Of those I shall never forget.
There’s no way
I’ll ever turn from
Those I have chose.
There’s no way
I’ll ever walk away
From those I’ve always known.
It is a Renoir she said.
I was in no way interested.
The only artist I feel is less interesting is Monet.
But I liked her, so I agreed to go to the art exhibit.
One of Renoir's paintings intrigued me.
Captured a bit of my heart and soul.
I sat and stared at The Bathers for a long time.
Ready to go? She asked.
Not yet.
It’s a bright day and crystal clear sky,
There’s an open road and cool breeze,
And yet, I am driven into a quandary
beleaguered by a deep personal malaise...
My virtues overshadowed by some vice.
For me to ride out this rolling storm,
Do I use the reins or the spurs?
That I weave not a web of my own woes
It behooves me how not to die with guilt…
A guiltless mind yields not to sorrow.
I'm befuddled by a doubtful dilemma:
Is my fate a willful folly of mine
or a preordained wretched destiny?
Why redemption comes through crucifixion
and why salvation only by penance?
I wonder, must I banish my baneful whims
Lest, my much fostered hopes turn to ashes?
A flushed sun is lolling near the horizon
and the crimson sky turning drowsy gray
I must appease my innate quest for beauty
and find love to sweeten my sullen days,
But lost as I am in this doleful haze
with despair and belittled by doubt…
Pray, how do I find my way out?
~11/10/21
~Contest: "U" (Utterly)
~Sponsor: Constance La France
How do gnats enter?
A million dollar question
Puzzles me till now
Brought preventives this and that
Closed all doors but of no use
A friend advised me
To lit a herbal dhoop stick
Smoke made me breathless
Smeared sticky balm, kept lights on
To get rid off but in vain
Swiveling their wings
Whining at our earlobes
Devilish music
Scratching bites makes much itching
No way- tucked from head to toe.
A Buggy Tanka Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: M. L. Kiser
Date: 02-09-2021
PLACE : 4 th
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