The Poetry Marathon

after tomorrow I become another

person unlike who I am tonight.

this person is tired,

tomorrow she is vivid,

revived, without caffeine,

you will see another

butterfly emerge.

ninety degrees

doldrums

dis-activity

denial

disinterest

December will be warm enough

no matter how cold it goes

this august meltdown

would be better if it

was slathered with

chocolate mint chip

soft sand

cooling water

blue sky breezes

treacherous path

to reach the sea

beauty Is veiled

by missteps

too many names

too many friends

goodbye to you

what I miss is the

laughter and nothing

brings back the laughter

the tears are replaced

by so many other names.

We rented a Jeep to travel over

rutted roads to the family’s

welcoming piney wood cabin.

When we reached our destination,

the panic I felt had dissolved into joy.

We were cloistered by the tranquility,

hominess and comfort of the

gingham curtains and canopied bed.

Outside, the half-moon sky recalled

the glory of the vast hours spent

reading, swimming or rowing the

tboat across the lake where we

talked through the idleness of

August’s green days and genial

nights that came in late summer.

I want to live in the purple house

we used to pass

when we drove

to visit our grandparents.

Mommy would laugh at me,

my sisters would tease me, yet I

still want to live in that purple house.

Perhaps that house would be near the ocean.

My dream is to live near the ocean in the purple house

with a few other wishes thrown in as well, but let it begin

with the purple house and let it be near the ocean.

For the flowers in the urban tree pits,

for pictures of flowers on facebook,

for flowers for sale and displayed

in the city groceries.

For remembrance of flowers

in the front yard and in the back yard

at our home and at my grandparent’s,

for Mom who volunteered at the Garden Club.

For the church member who brought flowers

to my parents in the nursing home,

for my sister who works for a florist,

for another sister who takes photos of flowers.

For my best friend who has a tattoo of a tiger lily

encircling her belly button.

For someone who gave me an Easter Lily with love,

for those who enable my love to flower.

For all who read this and learn they

gave their gift as a flower to grow.

Peering at the crystal underside,

I walked, reached the edge and

discovered I could go no further.

Slowly turning around, I

returned to the beginning.

When the journey had begun, a voice said,

I am magic.

At the edge of the path

the voice carried me home.

Then the magic and the voice disappeared,

the walkway became sand.

I dreamed no more,

I travelled no more.

Asian origins.

Armenian plums.

Alexander the Great.

there is a lot to learn about apricots but I don’t really want to learn about apricots,

I just want to eat two that I bought yesterday and which seem less flashy

than the peach.

I bought three peaches, too,

haven’t dared to eat them, yet.

peaches are for poets,

apricots for the rest of us

who dare to live everyday,

we buy peaches in a can.

our stories are prose.

in a hat created from a fuschia scarf

with three butterflies perched

where there was no space,

I samba too rapidly to the finale.

a half dozen bracelets

encircle my arms,

my heels are high enough

to touch euphoria.

each step makes me an icon.

each hat makes me immortal.