The Poetry Marathon

Tiger, Tiger flame thrower!

Red stripped constellations–

fireworks: evergreen and deciduous.

You question the ghost man?

Take care, and watch the eye roll.

Then open your mouth, for it’s

yea big…the scream that will follow–

erupting from far back, fathomless.

It’s a revolution, you know.

Gifts sparkle, shake, and rattle.

They have ribbons and colorful

wrappings. Then when opened,

a surprise that makes us happy.

COVID-19 is a surprise.

It is round with flower-like

petals and triangular protrusions

Though it doesn’t make us happy.

I remember the polio vaccine,

and the long line we waited

in that trailed outside Finch

grade school and down

the block. We drank tiny vials

filled with serum to keep us

well. Now the surprise is the

number of new COVID cases.

The season won’t be over

until the vials arrive, delicate

glass with a potent fluid made

especial to foil the surprise.

Morning sun. A perfectly fried farm-fresh egg.

Toast with home-made raspberry jam. Hands in

garden dirt. Pinching back petunias. Transplanting

beets. Feet moving along park path. Sound shoes.

Dog sniffing critter trails. Sound of tumbling falls.

Tuna sandwich with garden lettuce. Potato chips.

Paddleboards careening along smooth water, sun

warmed skin. Cold water dip.  Back home: glass

of Cabernet Sauvignon on the deck. Roasted

vegetables. Nutty rice. Dance party: Swing Town,

Willy Nelson–cowboy two-step, East coast swing.

Fresh sheets dried on the line. Summer-scented skin.

Tender touch. Sleep like the dead.

The sound of nothing becomes a constant here

at 6,000 feet: flies buzz, wind rustles treetops.

The heat wafts up from the draw. We feel slow.

Slow muscles. Slow to answer. Slow to think.

It’s almost like sleepwalking through our days.

There is hauling water, taking weather stats,

preparing meals. And always, there is watching

for fire; now we watch the sun go down, orange-yellow

light igniting the valley. The forest needs our eyes.

We see chipmunks, ravens, eagles, and hawks.

We see camp robbers and quail. Wild flowers are

abundant: paintbrush, Kinnikinnick, Oregon grape,

and tiny new green huckleberries. We eat together,

alone with flies buzzing in lazy circles. Yellow jackets,

grasshoppers, and a distant plane. Then silence–

loud in its assertiveness. Heat settles down and the

glow begins to fade. We call it a day.

That spring morning in April, your granddaughter held the phone

to your ear when I called, you on your deathbed, me standing

alone at the back slider. I cried as your gravelly voice came over

the wire, systems shutting down at age 98. I knew how badly

you wanted to make it to 100. I wept so hard I couldn’t say what

was in my heart. Then a hummingbird came to the feeder hanging

outside the window. It was the first visit in a long time. I watched

the tiny bird sip nectar as you mumbled softly, words I could no longer

understand. But I knew your heart, and that you were saying, “I love you,

hon.” I wanted to ask you to say hello to my father, Virgil. But I knew you

would anyway. I remembered a friend’s words, Never say goodbye.

So, I said, I’ll see you again soon, Aunt Jean. And then you were gone.

Love,

Your niece, Nancy

My last color was March 3, 2020–

seventeen weeks ago stylist Lisa

mixed and slathered white roots,

shined and glossed ends, washed

and blew dry ’till smooth, a swinging

golden mane, a date with my husband.

Salons are closed due to COVID-19

I could color it myself, or I could let

my hair go al naturel. My friend says

“You are going to be so beautiful.” I think,

Aren’t I already? But won’t it make me look

old? I shop for color online…the right shade,

is sold out. I order Apricot Jam. It sits in the

sink cabinet unused. On the path, I check

other women’s grow out. Their’s the same.

Salons are open 50%…no blow outs.

My stylist will not be back until July,

and even then, they aren’t certain she will.

Two inches of snow on the mountain; a skiff.

Dark baby hair, the little hairs at the temple,

my true color. I decide to take my chances

and schedule with a new stylist–Lauren.

Salons are open 50%…masks required.

1. Turn around a thought: everything is hard becomes everything is easy.
2. Change a sour mood: smile and the sweetness returns.
3. Walk and observe: hummingbirds sip from glistening red cherries.
4. Watch the pond: red-winged blackbirds turn up leaves and eat bugs.
5. Smell the air: blackberry vines, mock orange, yellow flag, the lake.
6. Give something away: heart, socks, food, a helping hand.
7. Pet dogs and cats and birds and gerbils and rabbits and horses and….
8. Clean out a dresser drawer: fold clothing and stack on end for easy viewing.
9. Write a poem about pets or children curled in tight balls, sleeping.
10. Sing to your lover even if you don’t have a good voice and don’t know the words.

Birds sail past our bedroom

window each morning at daybreak.

Coffee on, we watch from bed.

Mallards wing 

           east 

           to Lake Whatcom

           ready to dabble weed and mud.

Some swim with ducklings, some alone.

          In our group of two

          we rise

          and fry eggs. 

Hi Marathoners,

I’m a prose writer (fiction & memoir) and a poet. I have a poetry book titled “Saltwater.” The poems are about my childhood growing up in an abusive home. Writing is both healing to me and it is also one of the ways I show my love of the natural world. I also have a novel “Celia’s Heaven,” that will launch in September. As a surprise today (my husband and my 3rd anniversary) we arrived home after a walk south of Bellingham at Bowman Bay to find five boxes of books on the porch. I was thrilled, but also, I felt a little scare rise in me knowing I now have to market these books…and in the time of COVID. Can do this! Yes, of course!

My other book, which is a project still I’m currently working on, is my memoir STRUCK, about two summers working as a fire lookout in the CLearwater Ranger District, Nez Perce National Forest, Idaho. I have a completed draft that I’m reading through and further revising it. When complete, I will write a proposal and send it out this year.

As a poet I’ve written a poem a day during Peace Poetry Month, April Poetry Month, and August Poetry Month. I love to write poems. I’m thinking I might write about isolation. I’m happy to be involved with the poetry marathon.

Best to all of you,

Nancy Canyon

Salmon swim loops

between you and me

through the river flowing,

dreaming us back to our home

where we meet before dawn,

one source, one being

one song.