The Poetry Marathon

Bodies

Of ferns and furs,

O hibiscus and horns,

Meet like two colliding spacial lakes

In eclipse.

Their bodies are seen

In the canopy of forest rufage

And in fallen feathers and lost bones.

They are the bark on tree spirits

And the whiskers on a spirit guide.

Their energies run through

Oxygen and blood.

They are panic and glory

In every hunting and hunted beast.

They breathe through stems and breastbones,

Leaves and femurs.

Their spirits touch

To create great beauty.

Leftover sun falls on my shoulders

Like feeling, toxins, and words;

My past.

It wants me to wear it

Like a cloak to protect me

From the future.

It doesn’t want me to acknowledge it.

It wants me to live through it.

It wants me to be it.

It wants me to be everything

That I was before,

To hold onto and grasp it tightly

Like a quilt stitched of things left behind.

It doesn’t know that it is fading away.

It is a memory,

Nothing more than

A fading ray of light.

Soon, it’ll be lost

In the equivalency of a dream.

As the sun continues its way to rest,

The grasp of past days

Fall off my shoulders.

My future shines on the face of the moon.

I feel the rising of indigo and navy

With the clustering of stars.

The night surrounds me

As I wear no armor.

Tuition is high.

FAFSA owns my soul. Maybe

I’ll be free one day.

Don’t buy the textbook!

Three-hundred is too much for a

Book you’ll never use!

What’s that sound? Oh, no!

Your new roommate has a boyfriend…

Quiet hours aren’t real.

I’ve never liked goodbyes.

They are not a forever sentence

Nor are they a guarantee of a final meeting,

But they do hold those possibilities.

The entire word is about possibilities.

We say goodbye because

Life is short

Life is unpredictable

Life can eliminate things

Without warning.

We say goodbye because

We have learned to expect

Every possibility.

But the last thing that we should say

To one another

Should not be

Goodbye.

We need to tell people

How we feel about them.

We need to use our words

To express

Love,

Gratitude,

And strength.

Word are our universal power,

And like goodbyes,

They possess endless possibility.

I closed my eyes, entering all the colors of the rainbow and drifted into thirteen.

Thirteen…

Thirteen…

Thirteen…

I am moving at great speed through a forest. The head of a daunting black horse bobs in front of me. My hands hold its leather straps and I feel its galops between my legs. I don’t know why, but I adore this horse and fear for both of our lives. My vibrant hair flies backwards. It’s red-brown length catch the colors in the sun and melt into the shades of the surrounding trees. Pine, jade, yellow, orange, red brown leaves. I rush past branches and see the early morning sun franticly searching for me. My light chest matches the horse’s heavy gallope.My chest gallopes. Hot breath. Sweat. Wild heart inside my chest. My eyes are lost in the green. They spot the white line too late. A quick white line is drawn from the treetops down to my body below. I am struck. Stone or wood or steel or obsidian pierces through my skin, fat, and muscle. My wild heart explodes as the arrow finds its way home. I fall, blood kissing the forest ground, and the horse still gallops to thirteen…

Thirteen…

Thirteen…

Thirteen…

I come back to life.

The warmth of a cold night.

The warmth of snow coated, winter thoughts.

The warmth of imaginary snow in the heat of summer.

The warmth of wine inside the throat.

The warmth of an invitation.

The warmth of inclusion.

The warmth of laughter.

The warmth of fire that kindles behind eyes.

The warmth of wolves, together, in their pack.

The warmth that exists between hearts.

The warmth of a friend.

The warmth of a friend’s arm around you.

The warmth of a voice across the room.

The warmth of a voice inside of a phone.

The warmth of words and healed wounds.

The thought that warmth can be found in the coldest of places.

My body is a country.

It is a country

Of curves, rolling hills,

Valleys that move to the rhythm of steps,

Thick forests of redwood,

Rivers and streams that

Run through muscle and bone,

And it is a country

Ruled by culture.

It runs like the blood carrying

Oxygen to every settlement

And buries its roots deep

Like the branches

Of my brain cells.

I am inhabited by

Storytellers, artisans,

Wood witches, students,

Fortune tellers, thinkers,

And royalty.

Every piece,

Like a freckled star,

Is apart of me.

It makes my trees take root

And it makes my clouds rain.

But there is a war.

A great invasion.

Invators who slash at the moon and

Make the sun internally bleed.

There are battles and unrest.

Make the land smaller.

Blow through the mountains and hills.

Flatten out the land

So that it is smooth,

Perfect and beautiful.

Make it rain acid.

The water will never nourish,

It will only pollute.

Let there be control:

A dictatorship over what I never felt was truly mine.

It is a power toss.

Control will sit in my hand like an obedient bird,

But will then fly away.

It flutters out of control

With no way to return home.

It is a war.

The only way to win is

To keep chasing that bird.

I will keep chasing it into

The sunset.

I killed the noodles.

Too much water. No flavor.

I cannot adult…

Sun shower: (n) a light rain shower while the sun is shining.

Learning how to dance in the rain.

Seeing light on the horizon

Through the mists.

Magic.

Pure magic from

The hearts and powers of shapeshifters

Moving between time

On crystal winds.

Eyes squinting

Through stained glass windows

To see through deception

And into the outside world.

The sound of turquoise and lavender

Embracing sunset and cream.

It is fire and sky

Melting into earth and water.

It is the opening of eyes

And seeing clarity

After a long storm.

Feel the rough textured

Canvas.

It feels empty.

Just close your eyes and feel it.

Without even glancing at the canvas,

It feels white

Like fresh, untouched snow

or a pile or table salt.

Feel the layers of

Dried oils

On the pallet.

Its texture varies like mountains and valleys

As you grace your fingers

Against its grooves.

It is not empty.

It is quite full.

You can feel its fullness,

All its reds and blues

And oranges and greens

And violets,

All roaming free like a saffari.

Or a museum.

The colors are immobile,

Yet,

Their wild aura still exists.

You feel its wildness

Just as you feel the canvas’s coma.

Soon the two will meet.

Soon, the vivid dream will meet the silent night,

And from it,

You will create.