The Poetry Marathon

My father takes photos of birds for me now,

He sends them to me from wherever he is,

And the distance doesn’t feel so great.

Pyrrhuloxia, I tell him, when he captures its beauty on screen,

The dusty red bringing me close to the desert.

White pelicans, he tells me,

When he sends me another.

Tears sting my eyes,

Not in the doing, but the remembering,

The missing,

Running through fields, 

Chasing the haunting call of a snipe,

Trying to spot it as the light diminished.

Spending time finding ring-necked pheasants,

Teenaged quail and excited robin mothers,

Pointing, laughing at frigatebirds on the sandy beaches of Mexico.

PIGEONS ARE TERRIBLE NEST BUILDERS!

We domesticated them,

Housed them,

And now,

Their best attempts at building consist of two twigs on a roof shingle.

PIGEONS ARE TOO FRIENDLY FOR THEIR OWN GOOD!

They, like us, frequent cafes,

Ordering pastries,

Asking for nibbles,

Sitting daintily on our hands even though we are strangers.

PIGEONS BREED YEAR ROUND!

They live dangerously,

Along noisy streets,

Crowded intersections,

And still find time and peace enough to bring life into the world.

PIGEONS FALL FROM BUILDINGS WITHOUT THEIR WINGS OPEN!

Because even now,

After all this time,

They are still birds,

And they have learned to trust that their wings will catch them in freefall.

Upturned Avocet like it’s always asking questions,

Proud Shoveler like it has something to say.

Opulent King Eider with a face fit for royalty,

Cumbrous Surf Scoter with an expression of surprise.

Goofy Black Skimmer and its penchant for fishing,

Lovable Roseate Spoonbill and its clever feeding.

Superlative Hornbill my first avian love,

Charming Kiwi beloved by everyone.

Laughing Puffin has an apparent joy about its face,

Daunting Shoebill has a look of pure intimidation.

Lazy revolutions at thirty-thousand feet,

Waiting for news of lives since past,

Catching only whispers of scent through carved bone.

Long since considered a monster,

With great, black cloak,

And death reeking upon odd, bald face.

Ugly thing, sitting like plague across deserts,

Lurking in wait for some unfortunate end,

Poaching the stories from bone.

Each grim reaper with flesh-tearing intent,

Respects duty and questions not moral optics,

Apprehensive only just at the sight of a carcass, alive.

Cowards remain ignorant to this stewardship,

Fragile humans quaking under fear of mortality,

Continue cycles of hatred toward things un-understood.

The grim reaper rids the growing world of disease,

Finds a thankless welcome for necessary work,

Unbothered: gratitude feeds not the stomach.

Perfectly suited for orderly profession,

Paving the way for the world to reclaim its carbon,

The Vulture remains unchanging,

Stoic,

and beautiful.

Hey everyone! It’s going to be my first year completing the poetry marathon (my girlfriend and I are hunkering down to do it together, YAY!!). I am a SoCal-based visual artist with a BFA in Animation! I have a love for all things poetic and I am fascinated by the interplay between poetry and illustration. I plan to release a chapbook this winter for the first time ever!

I am also intensely into rock climbing, birding, storytelling, and learning new things!

Other marathons I have completed include a 3-year run of the 24 Hour Animation Challenge, where our team of 5 finished every time! I learned a LOT from that experience (including how many snacks to have stocked up, lol) and I feel that will help us both during this challenge!

I hope everyone has fun and we all make it through in one piece! GOOD LUCK TO ALL!!