The Poetry Marathon

Old age ravishes the young who think

they will never be alone or

frail in bodily functions

or trembling, cracked with

mind bright making the

heart more wanting,

desperate

for a

friend.

Hour 12

The mountain range sat solidly,

spread out under

the periwinkle sky, the clouds

sitting causally

like sourdough bread on the countertop,

warm from the oven,

both healing hearts,

like a spiritual storefront

offering options for the lost and weary.

Hour 11

The twinkling lights still hang,

waiting to be packed up,

back to their dark boxes, in basements everywhere.

The New Year has slunk in,

the Bethlehem story hovers hoping

to change hearts,

revive the weary poised to drop

but the waiting darkness pulls

many away from the light

and the power of the choice they’ve had all along.

Hour 10

What sort of strength does it take

to hold her small hands

which has birthed her own story of failure?

Cradling the cold fingers and stroking

the flat palm, you whisper

‘”You are stronger than you think”

just before serving hot coffee,

two scoops of sugar: a sweet stirring.

But will the glug of good intentions

propel her towards action,

which is needed more than hope?

C.S. Lewis once wrote,

“Courage, dear heart!” Words. Just words,

often not enough to produce.

Floundering under pressure,

not knowing what depths to draw from,

not believing in her own strength or

ability to build the sinew of change

and string together the silver gleam

of weights, too heavy now, but

with daily pumping, sweat forming, bearing down,

results will come

bursting forth like a newborn ready, heart beating,

ready, unknowing of what lies ahead.

Hour 9

Choose to live a life

brave, full of wonder, even

So the sea can see.

Surviving Savannah by Patti Callahan

American Dirt

Covering our white privilege

Ignoring others.

Forced on a journey,

A mother and son, they move

greeted by struggle.

But they do survive.

Their story, like so many,

determined yet weak.

American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins

We just do not know

The struggles people carry

Hidden behind smiles.

Anxious People by Fredrick Bachman

Judging others is

A monstrous game played by so

Many who miss out.

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune

Dust-covered, dirty

migrate to California

heart set; tragedy.

The Four Winds by Kristin Hannah

Normal might be a limiting line

that hedges us into tight

corners and right angles.

For my grandma and my mom,

cutting quilt blocks

is everyday straight life

but my normal recognizes

the circle of quilting is outside my

power of comfort.

My patterned mandala creates

its own book-lined comfort;

each of us must find the geometry

to shape our own normal.

Hour 7

What does it mean to move

one foot in front of the other,

under boughs of trees planted long before

we were born,

under a rising sun, that since

creation has risen and fallen into

her place obscured some days but

always there,

under the pretense that we don’t have

to forage food or to be neighborly and kind?

Driving away our steps lost,

and our early demise comes fast.

A simple act, so recently neglected,

but so needed in this hyper, coddled existence

if only to feel the cool breeze,

to see the sun peeking out waving in cerulean glee

grateful to see us out and about on feet, moving forward.

Hour Six

The photo captured

a man, virile and strong,

bright in hope

but numbered days

like for us all.

Who could guess that danger’s

exciting call was tempered

by reason at times, or that

cheese would satisfy just as

easily as cold beer?

A lopsided grin and chiseled

arms crossed in a place

where dreams become a

familiar dialect pushing us

to live our own.

Hour Five

“Then, for no reason, you start to laugh”*

because hopelessness has its limits.

Collapse all around:

The water rushing in, the bills piled high,

the unknown illness with its inky red fingers

curling around your tightened neck

and still a pool of

contentment sits still in your gut

just waiting to stir up the feelings of

power and purpose,

a personal prayer

pushing you upward and onward and then

bursting forth in a gut-wrenching

ache to let go,

if even for just that brief moment

you know nothing can be done

except to live with your breath,

maybe even whoop at

the absurdity of the place you

have found yourself.

What better choice is there then than

to grab on,

let go, tittering, and feel

the curve of a smile creep

round your wrinkled countenance?

*On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” by Ocean Vuong

Hour Four

Hot, flaky bread

slathered in butter

moves something deep inside:

a body worn even in our easy days.

Hot, flaky bread

drowning in apple butter

baked by women who once picked

the wheat knowing no different way.

Hot, flaky bread

filling the wanting air

calling us to rise up,

eat, enjoy the miracle that it is:

homemade biscuits: hot and flaky

fresh from the oven

sustaining all that is

good and right in this cold world.

Hour Three