The Poetry Marathon

The world was quiet on the 15th of April, 2017.
Everything worked the way it always had, and everybody went about their usual business.
But just as 8:35 p.m. came around, something decided that it wanted to watch the world burn.
All creatures and organics that had once been living, decided to all come back at once.
The predicted zombie events happened, with coroner’s, morticians, and gravediggers fleeing their posts immediately as corpses begin to walk and talk again.
But a few unexpected things occurred concurrently.
Everything was greater mass than a fistful of wood decided to sprout leaves,
And everything of the meat variety reverted to their living forms,
Bursting from fridges and meat lockers,
Joining the purses, jackets and shoes that also came alive.
Safe to say April 16th established a new world order, when nothing stayed dead for very long.
I’ll let you guess what happened next.

I wonder if there’s a point where the flow of creativity stops.
Does the muse just decide she’s done singing,
And the essence of creation halts its stream for good?
Will there be no more nuance or spiritualism in word?
An eternal absence of song, music, dance?
I think that would be a very quiet world.
One of boredom, apathy and sorrow.
What would raise the hopes of the fallen?
Push away the dreaded darkness?
I pray that day never comes,
Because for all the days i yell curses at that fickle muse,
The world would be cold without her.

The cool waters shimmer from turquoise to cerulean,
While shrieking children dive and cannonball into the deep end.
I sit here with my notebook,
Shielding it from the spray.
I should have brought my waterproof one.
Thia may’ve been a mistake…

I see the world in colors.
Shapes are hit-or-miss on most days.
They don’t really matter much anyway.
I know what a tree looks like.
It’s a trunk with needles or leaves.
What I care about is how bright the blue sky looks through the dark green curtain,
Or how the golden Autumn piles feel as I leap into them.
Who needs shapes anyway?
The beauty lies in the colors.

I was having a wonderful night so far, hours into a sleep that might’ve actually been refreshing,
Until that is, I felt the tickling sensation traveling across the bare skin of my back, from the center of my spine up to my shoulder.
Drowsiness slowing my mind and body,
I brushed away my hair that curtained down behind me, thinking that would banish the sensation.
I settled my eyes shut again and laid my cheek against the pillow, thinking now I could go back to sleep.
After barely any respite, the feeling of tiny legs crawling along my arm shook me awake once more.
With blurred eyes, I opened them and watched as an eight-legged intruder scrambled down my arm.
In a flurry of disgust and fury, I sent it flying to my sheet with a blow, swept it into a glass and fled my room, refusing it its freedom.
Before it could escape on its own, it was floating in the toilet bowl.
The sound of the water draining into hidden pipes was the only time the twilight silence had been broken. I’d made not a peep.
I returned to my warm bed, the conquering hero.
Every few minutes I awoke to that phantom sensation, alert as I was to it.
Sleep evaded me that night, thanks to the eight-legged intruder.

A Golden Shovel poem, inspired by:
“As is a landscape to a blind man’s eyes”
-William Wordsworth

The eyes and their fickle functions taunt my mind as
they pretend to reveal mysteries to those whose focus is
sharp and dedicated, but their true aims seem to be showing us a
world full of threats and anxieties that hide behind the beautiful landscape.
What appears at first is a breathtaking sight that steals away your worries, before leaving you to
Wonder on what lies beneath the beauty. Eventually, that which you thought was a
sight to clear your mind of all negative thoughts, reveals a plot to blind
you to its obvious beauty, and leave you hollow and empty inside, until you see the beauty of man’s
creations only. And for the sake of your own mind, to nature’s stunning showings, you turn a blind man’s eye.

Today’s space age tech,
Is still not quite as cool as
How they imagined.

You there, with the little legs, toddling and stumbling around, yes you.
I know you can’t talk so good yet.
That’ll come later, don’t stress about it.
You have more important stuff to think about right now, and I’m gonna dd a couple things to your list.

First, notice those little twitches on peoples’ lips when you smile. The ones that make their eyes glow, and the skin around their eyes wrinkle.
Pay attention to those faces. You’ll soon learn to love your own. But never forget to help people show those faces every now and again. You’ll realize why soon.

Second, don’t forget to give trees high fives, or see shapes in the clouds. Also, feel the grass on your feet, or how soft flower petals feel.
When you get bigger, people will tell you to forget these things and change the way you look at the world. Don’t listen. If you lose that, then the world will feel a lot colder and more boring.

Last, don’t forget to look in the mirror and watch how your face changes. It’ll be like a flash sometimes, or you won’t see any change at all. But all of that’s okay, because that face is still you. And no matter what it looks like, it’s still you.
You’re gonna grow and change so much, but you need to watch for all of it and enjoy it. Your first day of school, meeting your best friend, and playing in the pool. Splashing in the tide pool on a beach, climbing the monkey bars, and listening to birds sing.

It’ll all change you. So let it. And enjoy it.
You’re gonna learn so much and become more than you could ever imagine.
Enjoy it. I’m excited to watch you grow, and see what you become.

It’s not a children’s book title, even though that’s what it sounds like.
But it was where I lived as a kid. At least, some of the time.
When other people are asked about their childhood or family home,
Most have story after story to share,
Happy, sad, hilarious, or any other tinge of emotion aside, they’re there.
But while others remember clearly their favorite and worst memories alike,
There are very few clear pictures that emerge from my mind when I think about my childhood.
The few that do appear, are usually the ones that make my heart pound, hands shake, and consciousness flee.
Not all, but most.
Those are the clear ones.
The others are thin films of emotions and circumstances barely recalled,
Like home videos that have been faded and scratched so much they’ll barely play,
But because you’ve seen them and heard them described so many times,
You remember the plots and cues to laugh perfectly.

The Brown House should have been a place where years of treasured memories were made,
And remembered as my treasured childhood home.
But instead, those memories are haunted and tainted by the sounds of angry screaming and blows.
The me who lived there would crawl into bed, or put my back into a corner, and throw a blanket over my head, clapping fists over my ears to drown it out. Anything to stop the yelling.

Now, I know that I’m no longer that little girl.
I’m not defenseless. Not trapped. Not subject to the whims of an angry father.
But sometimes I still feel like I am.
When I hear a loud noise, or people arguing, or even just feel someone annoyed nearby,
I feel like I’m trapped within my own head again, or back at the Brown House.
Every word I say, feels like it could bring down fire and brimstone upon my head,
And I have to fight myself to say anything at all,
Let alone what I actually think.
So when I start crying for no reason in the middle of a semi-serious conversation, or I stutter, or I need to scribble my words down before I say them, please understand that I’m not breaking down,
I just had to go back to the Brown House.

The early morning light always looks so different to me.
It’s angles and tones are softer,
And the shadows slowly creep away,
Hiding in their corners and thickening.

The early morning light always looks so different to me.
The night is usually my domain.
With its cool air and calmness,
I feel my mind open,
And the words and ideas locked inside me find their way to sweet expression.
The light I have comes dimly down,
Or sits stark and unnatural.

The early morning light always looks so different to me.
Other than the quiet padding of my feet on tile,
And the waking tweets and twaddles of the birds,
It’s quiet, but not lonely.
The air fills with possibility for the day,
Opportunities for growth and discovery by the light of day.

The early morning light always look so different to me.
Seeing a new day begin,
And the Earth renew itself,
Gives me a new hope for the future.
That maybe one day,
The fog within my own mind will clear,
And the new day will come shining with a crisp new light.
I will stand there that day,
In wrinkled pajamas and with hair in my face, stomach growling,
And watch as the new day begins sharp and clean,
And the shadows slowly creep away.