The Poetry Marathon

Only the harsh wind

can open this blossom, the city

the cement gray sky

bringing out the red, yellow, and orange

of the petals, its people

The city, a morgue, no movement

in its capillaries

suddenly pumps to life

its breath, hot and muggy,

a four month dance,

flower of flames

I want to be my shadow

trade places for a day

go where she goes

what adventures she must

go on

always disappearing when I’m inside

To be my shape without a face

a blank slate

eyes that see but not be seen within

my secret smile

a hidden dance

a glowing dark world of my own

I want to be my shadow

an outline without a face

able to disappear

Hello!

My name is Elisa Shoenberger and I am a freelance writer in Chicago. I am a blogger and oral historian This is my second half-marathon. Can’t wait to begin!

Don’t Panic.

Stuck amongst the trees of steel and glass

whose canopy shields the moon and haze?

Don’t Panic. Don’t lose your sense of

Glory.

Drive straight out and away

(with some discernment and logic)

drive until the largest structure is a lake

Get out of your car.

Spare a moment.

Feel the gaze of the sun on your breastbone.

Exhale

They say that people live a mere 100 miles away

From where they grew up.

I can hardly understand it.

We summer in the midwest

We winter in Mexico

Without fail

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen

The flashes in between of green and blue

And the rainbow of beige in the desert

A flicker of orange and black at the edges of your visions.

The only way to live.

The only way to call home.

A discarded eyeball next to the bookcase

A fluffy arm in a sunbeam

A half chewed stuffed mascot under the couch

A tail dancing at the door’s first creak

A pair of brown butter eyes keen gaze on the street

An eager dance partner to silent music

A liquid body luxuriating on the bed

A warm presence on the couch

(and shadow for every other room)

Dishwasher, guardian, explorer

All contained in one creature

Given only a tail, four legs and a nose by nature

The creature as we know it: the first good choice of humanity

Like colorful buttons

From above

Then dull needles

at night

Black and white type on a page

Stale words by monotone historians

OFFICIAL HISTORY

Bring living words from breathing faces

Of movements

That were offset, slipped off the page

Putting a face on history

The stories that need to be told

To remind us that

nothing is ever given,

Nevered handed over,

Always demanded.

Always won.

Child of the city

so I thought

I knew my streets:

where to get bread,

where to choose sweets

and where to find soup.

Yet here I am

in what I thought was

My city

with unknown signs,

never tasted foods,

untraveled parks.

Its one city

and

One me,

split experiences

Need to be more complete,

need to be brought together:

learn those names,those parks, those snacks

to really know this city that

I am

part of.

Crackling above

Shadowy tracks on the street

Street songs chime each stop