The Poetry Marathon

The pavement hot beneath he

sandaled feet, walking briskly,

leather satchel swinging at her side. 

Sitting in their favorite space 

preparing the wine glass and

cheddar cheese, her favorite. 

A lovely knitting gift, a sunflower

blanket beneath her, allowed 

her dainty sandals to slide away. 

Her satchel hanging on a nail

placed so long ago for just 

that reason, on the old oak tree. 

She could barely contain 

her excitement and wonder 

being with him again this day. 

Reverently, longingly, lovingly 

she pulled out her hardback novel,

opened it, and there he was. 

A picture found in the old trash heap. 

A mother and child quietly

peruse it together. 

Little girl or perhaps boy,

hard to tell beneath the dirty uniform

and still dirtier skin and hair asked, 

Momma, what is that? 

That’s a piano dear,

you knew that. 

The child pointed

to the area beneath, around 

and all over the picture. 

A sighing mother explained

they were grasses, trees and bushes 

the way it used to be. 

And that funny color, Momma?

Astonished, anguished eyes

look down into the aged eyes

of her very young child. 

Green my child, the color green. 

We don’t have that down here.

She wondered if anyone was listening. 

Dear Mrs. Booth,

You didn’t like me much

in high school choir. You 

thought I was lazy and 

believed me to be a slouch. 

You never knew how much 

I adored the wonderful music 

you chose.  The class,

so in awe of the other students. 

I adored everyone, except me.

I wanted to sing for you more than

you could know, though you did try,

you did. Once you looked right

at me astonished, up there

hidden away in the back row.

Only three of us sang alto

and first soprano in the choir.

One was already a soloist 

for you at recitals and such. 

That left two of us, she and I.  

You looked directly at me 

you knew, you knew! 

I looked away, I looked 

at the floor and I pointedly 

looked at her beside me.  

Please, please do not pick me,

Mrs. Booth. I mantra’d to you

over and over again and you 

did not pick me, thankfully

you picked her, but she knew too. 

So I’d like to apologize today

for my inadequacy in your eyes. For my lack

of gumption, my lack of ambition, and extreme

shyness, now there’s a name for it –

Aspergers Syndrome.  

The pavement hot beneath her

sandaled feet, walking briskly,

leather satchel swinging at her side. 

Sitting in their favorite space 

preparing the wine glass and

cheddar cheese, her favorite. 

A lovely knitting gift, a sunflower

blanket beneath her, allowed 

her dainty sandals to slide away. 

Her satchel hanging on a nail

placed so long ago for just 

that reason, on the old oak tree. 

She could barely accommodate 

her excitement and wonder, 

being with him again this day. 

Reverently, longingly, lovingly 

she pulled out her hardback novel,

opened it, and there he was. 

Cello drums out his rhythm, 

in time using his base note biblical 

forms – sheet music.  

cello answers in her high, treble clef voice

in two two time against Cello’s

four four rhythms. 

The sound of their strings 

accordantly unique

within their harmonious bonding. 

Cello’s rhythm increases

reaching deeper and faster 

cello’s staccato pure beneath his.

Intensity increases, volume louder

and louder and louder still! 

Strings vibrate, tension builds. 

Their climax reached, 

they fade away 

into silence. 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening      Original poem by Robert Frost

As I walk this dusty path                                     acres and acres of neutral sand                         stretch to my right stretch to my left

Merging with the yellow muted sky                    above the monotonous desert                      Unmoved by the ever present

shades of beige and tan and gray to retain            my humanity my very sanity my sight my mind      sees the woods are lovely dark and deep

The rain splashed against

eyes closed relishing

the joy and warmth

of the first Summer shower

A blast of frigid air

wrapped my body

within its steely grasp

pulling me away

Upon a mound of frozen snow

on the first day of the solstice

sat an abhorrent polygon creature

cold wind swirling from it’s out-stretched arms

Bodies of my Brethren circled 

the monstrosity in a macabre 

dance of Antarctic death destruction

and despair 

Hi Everyone,

This will be my second year doing the full 24 hour marathon. I am looking forward to it, the first was hard but so very rewarding and I ended up with many very nice poems after. This year I will have my ten year old, very ADHD, ODD, RAD grandson with me but, I am determined! Wish me luck and good luck to everyone as well!! Gypsie-Ami

The arms of nature is where I live

A loving cocoon 

No ridicule 

No scorn

Things the way they used to be

The forests mist rise at first light

A wolfs sweet song 

The bats swift flight 

Traversing the rapids

Of the mighty Grand Canyon

Visiting tribes

In the Amazon

Into a canoe I’d happily glide

Paddle to paradise to see all the 

Brightly colored birds

Breath a huge palm tree I’d sit

Flirt with turtles and gators and

Little black squirrels 

Grow flowers galore

And swim in the sea

Watch dolphins play 

And manta’s fly 

The water to them

So much like the sky

Then when the sun starts

To dip it’s bright crown 

Beyond the horizon 

To sleep for the night

I’d tuck in my wings

To fly steadily home to the nest 

Where’s he’s waiting patiently for me

The Hawk calls me home 

That’s where I will be

In France it’s called a light fromage 

Yet for the cameras it’s Marmoset

In a pot it melts to a special sauce

And then it becomes a thick fondue 

Mexico uses lots of Queso

Upon hot chips it can be found 

Jalapeño’s dipped into ranchero

Taste much, much better splashed with Queso 

The Germans they have got the touch 

For Hartkäse and Schnittkäse

But my favorite shining star

Is Hartkäse from Württemberg

Turn the corner and you will see

A cheese with holes from a Swiss factory

Baby Swiss is great it’s true

Yet Emmental is all the rage

And so at last it comes to pass

That yellow cheese is made by Kraft

Not aged, nor sharp nor holes a one

But in the USA it beats them all