The Poetry Marathon

My child boy now a grown man

or solidly between the two

helps an elderly couple load

their mulch in the back of their car

in the parking lot of Home Depot.

Me, 20 minutes away, sipping tea

and grading papers has no idea

that at the moment, the life I raised

saw another life in need and reached

out to extend his humanity.

The joy of this unseen convinces

me that we will be all right.

That maybe I am a good parent

for all of my trying

who knows when it comes down to it

until moments like this

and suddenly my blood courses

with a hope that just might save us all.

Hour Two

I heard when a shark stops swimming

it will drown and realized sitting still

here in my own life, on this muted, sagging couch,

scrolling my phone, the television blaring, I am grasping

for air beneath the choices I make.

Even happy that I am

Not tying my shoes,

or the morning air still swirls about without

me breathing it in,

the tree leaves sway solitary missing my

thoughtful gaze.

I settle further into that couch,

the stress of papers and relationships

submerge me,

and  carry me away from the light

realistically still in my grasp.

Not even waving but drowning,

or clinging to a ray of hope

that might save me

but slowly, resignedly

dropping down, unmoving, slumping still

the dangerous creature I am,

sinks to be with the other lifeless

beings below

thinking all the while

I should just

keep moving

forward.

Hour One

I’ve just returned from my family’s vacation in Estes Park and I am getting ready to write poetry tomorrow. I participated last year and I am ready to accept the half-marathon challenge in 2021. I feel like life lived in the past year will be more than enough fodder to create moving poems in this marathon. I guess we shall see where inspiration will strike.

I am an English teacher (AP Literature, Creative Writing, and Junior English) with 25 years of experience! My sons are grown. One is a 1st Lt. in the Marines and my 19-year-old started his own arborist business after graduating high school in 2020. My husband and I have been married for 28 years this summer.

I have a goal this year of reading 100 books and I’ve currently read 59. I am 12 books ahead of schedule according to Goodreads. Last year I read 76. I know I will never read all of the books but I am sure enjoying trying.

I wish everyone just the right words to say what you feel! Happy writing!

We are light and dark. 

We are trapped in between

and 

Yet my country still stretches from sea to sea,

the rocket’s red glare gleams for you and I,

the pledge is to the united states

for all 

and 

“this is where I am.”*

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

I’ve never been to Mary Oliver’s woods.

The woods that wrapped her in words

that she spelled out in spilled ink

so that we might read,

and, in a sense, walk with her

and her dogs, loving and leading

the way in a place that literally

has changed the world.

If I ever lose my way,

the moonlight paths

will come again to show me.

Each night the way is made clear.

Even if I lose arms, legs, eyes, and teeth

I know that there is a path to tomorrow,

even if the path is sometimes shadowed by the worst,

the way will still come.

The sweet cottage snuggled deep

in a lethargic treeline, strange as it sounds.

The smoke from the chimney curled lazily in the evening sky.

The fireflies not yet visible slept deep in the wildflower

clumps just waiting to zoom about in the dark night

but now they slumbered, unaware of the hot porridge

made, the bottle of sweet syrup close by, the stocking feet

resting on a knotted rag rug, made from the masks

of Covid-19.

Protecting myself and I am proud of me.

Walking my own path, even if it means being alone.

The flowers and even the seashells call me, remind me of my lucky

life – full of hot drinks, books, clothes, the trappings of an existence.

Grounded in a life-giving bread and sweet fruits,

I can escape the worm and blossom into my own beauty.

My son Jack is a phenomenon unto himself.

He blows in and out,

this way and that.

Brilliance in a flash.

Brown eyes beaming

dimples gleaming.

“It’s awkward to talk to flowers,”

he says, moving my wildflowers

from his sight line.

He notices, fixes and builds the broken.

A detail, no-detail man.

Purpose-driven for reasons

only he knows.

This boy. This passion.

This wild child, this curious dreamer.

This season of the senior.

So many unknowns

still to conquer.

So batten down the hatches

the season of the Jack

is really just beginning.

Ideally my steaming mug of rose tea

would be brought to me

and sweetly served.

The steam would waft lazily above the

flaky croissants bathed in a liquid honey bath.

The sweet, pink bouquet would smile cheerfully

and fill my room with pleasantries that please my

smell and my soul.

Sunk into plush pillows and buried under

colorful, flannel-backed quilts, the dulcet crooning of

“As Time Goes By” drank in every drink sipped.

a tender kiss given

that taste just

like butter

and warming me

just as well as the cheery sun’s rays

casting light whimsically and well.