Sixty-nine:

69

What if one day in a fit of emptiness and metaphor 

Gustave Flaubert gave up writing novels 

and invented the Flowbee instead. What if he wrote 

irregular strophes that seeped sideways 

from his mouth, painting everything in your 

midnight living room with huckster and flimflam?

“The Flaubert Flowbee!” Not sold in stores!

Guaranteed to crack your cauldron 

bang out tunes and make bears dance 

for the exact measure of your deeds!

Without stars! And without pity!

Non refundable! No money back!

Would we be the worse for wear?

Would we have to invent Bovary ourselves?

Markle~

30March2021

Sixty-eight:

68

If I suck at baseball can I be good at math 

instead? What are universal truths 

without faith? What is abstract thought 

if not a three demential rendering 

of love? I can stare at a map for hours.

Maybe I am a poet instead...

What does all this have to do

with the cartography of the heart?

I listened to you breathe last night.

What if I’m a poet by accident?

What is the art of language 

if not a theory of consequence?

Sometimes life goes on sometimes. 

I suck at math, let’s play baseball instead.

Markle~

26March2021

Sixty-seven:

67

I suck at math but I love baseball.

Oh, you’re an artist you must be 

good at geometry...

His geographical tongue 

taught him nothing of navigation.

I think in the round 

dimensions are a consequence. 

Math is the universal language.

Geomorphology is a new word 

to me that my auto correct 

discovered on it’s own. 

Baseball is a game of skill 

they added the analytics 

for the rest of us to suck at it.

Markle~

26March2021

Sixty-six:

66

Covid-19, like a burglar, slipped in the unlocked 

second-floor window and ransacked our house. 

Next thing you know, we were breathing through 

jello and our lungs became water balloons. 

Now, older people who are fully vaccinated, 

are emerging into spring with the daffodils, 

tilting towards the sunlight, filling restaurants, 

and booking flights! I however remain cautious. 

Like the crocus I see from my window blooming in

the daylight I fold quietly back into my stem at night. 

I am no longer afraid, but not fear free either. 

After a year of carefulness I will continue 

to protect myself,  hug my grandchildren 

and be thankful.

Markle~

21March2021

Sixty-five:

65

My mind, my mouth, my heart.

I’ve been fixing things 

that weren’t broken all of my life.

We were always the last 

ones picked in kickball.

My art does not always reflect

my reality but sometimes...

My mind, my mouth, my heart.

I don’t wanna live like this 

anymore and yet He makes me.

I can hear a distant calliope now.

I stopped being The White Knight long...

Is it time to play nice now?

My mind, my mouth, my...

Markle~

14/15/16March2021

Rev:18March2021

Sixty-four:

64

The third book I ever read cover to cover 

was “The Agony and the Ecstasy.” 

The biography of  Michelangelo.

His life, work and struggles with the pope.

I loved the book. Hated the movie.

Mostly because I disliked Charlton Heston

His hands didn’t look like they could 

work marble to me. Let alone paint.

To this day I feel connected to Michelangelo. 

They say he cut marble like it was butter.

I wonder if he suffered from carpel tunnel 

and repetitive stress syndrome?

I wonder if they had to take his mallet

From his cold dead hands.

Markle~

12March2021

Sixty-three:

63

When I can’t sleep I look at the moon and ponder wander.

My great great grandfather James Alexander Gilmour 

owned and operated a cooperage in lower Manhattan.

The location of which is now a high rise financial building. 

His boxes and barrels shipped product all over the world. 

The entire family worked there including his father who 

taught him the trade. As his father taught him in Killaloo. 

His children called him Pappy. My grandchildren call me 

Pappy. “The past is gone, we cannot go back.”

When I make a box it is as if I am sleep working. 

I know how to do things I have not been taught. 

The smell of wood shavings is like a drug. 

The past is present in the wood. 

The moon knows all the answers.

Markle~

11March2021

Sixty-two:

62

The first book I read cover to cover was “The Little Prince.”

The second book I read cover to cover was “Lust for life.”

I was precocious to say the least. In grade school I had to 

do a presentation book report. I did it on “Vincent van Gogh.” 

I remember spending hours molding a lifelike ear from red 

modeling clay. I wrapped my head in bandage and wore 

my mom’s painting smock all covered in Grumbacher and 

Windsor Newton. It was my first moment “on stage”. 

I worried and fretted for weeks. On the big day Mr. Nicolas 

showed up with an 8 millimeter movie camera and recorded 

every speech. For all my worry I got an A and more than 

one “Ewww!” from the girls when they looked at the ear. 

Weeks later Mr Nicolas played a silent movie of our readings.

I looked like Charlie Chaplin. What was I worried about?

Markle~

10March2021

Sixty-One:

61

Sometimes when a poem goes off

chasing it’s tail into a field 

of flowers and stumbles 

into the nettles it takes me 

a few days to lick my wounds 

and recover. The last one is no 

exception. Some of my happiest 

memories and my finest hours 

are because of a holy person. 

When they fail horribly 

and show their humanity my heart 

stumbles into a gopher hole

curls up, hides, and no longer

wants to look into the Son.

Markle~

06March2021

Sixty Also:

60.2

When I was a child in public school

I remember a special weekly bus ride 

for “Religious instruction” to Christ 

The King School. It was a 20 minute 

hellion free for all. The Bus driver had 

no control and was frequently drunk. 

The nuns however used to browbeat 

us with “The Fires of Gehenna.” We 

responded with nervous laughter thinking 

it a spooky fairytale. Little did we know it 

was based in truth. Meanwhile across the 

sea 796 of our peers waring our names 

and faces were being tossed in a sewage 

tank by the Good Sisters of Bon Secours.

Markle~

03/March2021

Sixty:

60.1

Aside from the litany of things

my wife believes will be sending me 

to hell in a hand basket. The real 

reason was foretold millennia before 

by Father Joe DiMaggio on transfiguration 

Sunday. It was the first day of baseball.

I was antsy and wriggling to get free of 

the monsignor’s penitence.

When I looked up from my pew 

he raised the host and it 

transformed into a baseball!

My eight year old self knew right then 

and there that I was condemned 

to suffer the fires of Gahanna.

Markle~

02March2021

 

Fifty-nine:

59

Sometimes when I awake 

in the morning and look 

at what I wrote 

in the lucid hours 

I wonder 

who wrote this stuff! 

Sometimes I think, 

hey I’d like to 

have a beer with him 

by the fireside. 

Wait! Am I writing another 

poem here? 

But I’m wide awake! 

Help me Mister Wizard!

Markle~

01March2021