The Poetry Marathon

Earthy, nutty, smooth, warmth

cradled between two hands.

Slowly sipped, savored.

The clock ticks,

oranges and yellows streak the blue sky,

illuminating fuzzy thoughts

that slowly coalesce into purpose.

Cozied under covers and dark skies.

Heavy eyelids, sluggish eyes.

Wrists, weak, fail to hold the weight

that slowly tips, tips, tips.

Need to know what happens next.

Blink them open, yet

eyes slide closed.

Finally, book lands on nose.

Hello! This is my third attempt at the half marathon. In my first year, I think I made it 8 hours. Last year, I couldn’t even start as I was overwhelmed with quarantine and its challenges. I hope to actually finish the half marathon this year. I have cleared my desk, saved photos and songs for inspiration, and am trying to clear my schedule as much as a mother of two can. Let the writing begin!

My name is Amy. I live in Aguanga, which is in Southern California, on a homestead with my husband, 2 kids, & 5 chickens.  I teach high school English and have been writing poetry since my own sophomore year. I have one published poem in the BIOLA University anthology The Inkslinger. This is my second attempt at the half marathon. Last year, I made it about 7 hours before life overwhelmed me. I enjoyed my experience last year, especially the comments my poems received. I hope to complete the first half marathon and comment on more marathoners poetry this year.

Moonbeams cannot break through the fog,

so dense it blankets the surrounding firs,

that damn concrete dock, and it’s uneven plane. 

Hobbling I try and fail to reach the shelf holding my canteen. Oh well.

Instead, coffee warms me in the hush before dawn breaks. 

Dear Former Self,

You are extraordinary. 

Don’t let anyone tell you differently. They lie when they call you fat. 

Don’t believe your own self doubt. You are smart enough, strong enough, & enough just the way you are. 

You do not have to earn love. It is freely given and no misdeed can change it. 

Do not be afraid. Your silence isn’t safety. Your words are your power. 

Strength already lies inside you. Your body is capable of healing. 

Your heart will heal, too.  A broken heart is both an emotional and physical pain, like your anxious burning gasps when you fell off the jungle gym in third grade.

Do not stop dreaming. Dream big, dream often. 

You do not need to find yourself. You are not lost. You are creating an extraordinary you with every choice, every act, every day. 

Chirp the ref’s whistle sounds

Five green girls face off 

against five grey boys

Sweat runs down red faces 

“Ugh,” kick, thwap

Ball hurtles down the court

”Go green!”

The goalie stretches and leaps

THUD

The crowd erupts

In between the cracked concrete

and the burnt out lights,

our feet meet. 

Whispered secrets, poetry,

notebooks passed

between you and me. 

Nights spent sitting curbside,

drawn together magnetically,

fire sparking, chemistry. 

I am sweating, clammy, nervous. My heart beats quickly, loudly. I’m sure they can hear it.

“They are just teenagers.”

I am going to throw up. My stomach churns, roils.

“Remain calm.”

I am getting light headed. Breath in, out, in, out. Quick snatches through my nose.

“You are in control.”

I am standing in front of 36 judging eyes, assessing my trustworthiness.

“Show no fear.”

I am smiling. Teeth bared, lips spread, eyes sparkling, smiling.

I laugh.

They smile back.

“I am ok.”

“Beep, beep, beep!” my alarm screams. I roll & pat pat pat . . . silence.

“Zzzzzzz . . .zzzzzzz” my husband snores. I rub the crusty sleep out of my eyes as light breaks through the window blinds.

“Bawk, baaawwk, bbbbbaaawwwkkkkk” demands an answer. I stand and slip on well worn Uggs and a frayed BIOLA hoodie.

“Momma, momma” cries from down the hall. It’s time to start the day.