The Poetry Marathon

no more than a cubicle

you talked to the chair, the table, the door –
you had to, out of necessity, because that was
all there was

you thought the world was just this big,
and nothing more beyond it

nightmares penetrated your dreams when you
were forced to sleep in the closet

feral-like in this non-wilderness –
crayons lined up for protection

symbiosis of love between mother and son
… enough

but freedom –
a foreign word

(Plot of ‘Room’ by Emma Donoghue)

Cristy Watson, 2021

this house

your front door, blue –
hers, purple –
mine, green –

but they open onto
us, just the same

behind this door, you care for
a newborn (tears from lack of
sleep – yours, not the child’s)

behind that door, she cares for
a grandmother (spotted hands
crinkling into smooth ones)

behind another other door, i care for
my best friend (multiple myeloma
filling his marrow)

larcrimal fluids spilling forth,
just the same

erythrocytes flowing through
us, just the same

hematopoietic cells filling
us, just the same

poetry elevates and renews us,
just the same

…common denominators

(Cristy Watson, 2021 – I used the image for this prompt)

Going Forward

This new pace – to embrace it slowly,
with the care of experience and wisdom?

Or bring forth the wild abandonment of youth –
carry it with me into tomorrow?

… tomorrow being a different rhythm
from yesterday.

Perhaps, dancing forward with a salsa
or meringue in my step?

A pause to catch my reflection (seeing the
possibilities) and then

gliding on with renewed fervor – not
slowing down and waiting for the

years to add up/
add on

but calling out to them and saying,
“Join me, now! There is much to see.”

Inspiration in the Peonies

Time-capsule – uprooted with dandelions, clover, and thistle –
lifting the cap as if twisting the cork on a bottle of champagne

Ripples along the flesh – a letter – like finding a bottle
washed up along the shores of Kye Bay

‘Dear Future Self,’ it begins – the first line resonating, wrenches
in the heart; rustlings of memory and hope

(the way you would start your keepsake)

‘I’m sorry for the lost time – the possibilities not pursued
the dreams dashed against the rocks; fear gripped

too many of my steps, and I floundered, forever stuck
in this place; this space… wishing.

If you find this: SING widely, DANCE freely, WRITE lavishly,
SPEAK wisely and open doors – walk through them fiercely –

grow yourself like glacier lilies, mountain heather and artic lupine:
make yourself a bouquet to daily grace your table.

Thrive, thrive, thrive and do not go gently.’

(Cristy Watson, 2021)

The Stage Set

Maybe we could eat blackberries together
now that my days will sprawl into tomorrows with
the ease of a cat, jumping from rooftop to rooftop

Maybe we could dance under a marmalade moon,
harvested with songs of the past, twirling
into twilight’s meandering hours

maybe we could lounge on the beach, the tide
washing over our toes until the other side of the noon
sun brings siestas and spirited dreams

Maybe this could be the next scene, the opening
act of the final play – the stage set –
if only just for one

The first line for this poem is taken from the last line of my first published novel, Benched (Cristy Watson, Orca Book Publishers, Victoria, 2011)

tomorrow

sheets of azure, an open canvas
writing my words on the wind
watching them waft towards new worlds –
standing on the cusp of myself

swells of liquid teal, swimming the depths
of imagination – reeds of metaphor
swaying like seaweed beds of simile –
standing on the cusp of myself

forest paths – taken and… not; nuanced needles
of cedar, pine, juniper and yew; fronds of fiddleheads
curled like foundling letters on the page –
standing on the cusp of myself

writing a different story for the days to come:
the kite set free, its string bobbing along the surface
of the sea, finding refuge in an auspicious bower –
on the cusp of myself, standing tall

The Joy of Unseen Things

Scouring the Northern Lights for a sleigh full of toys
and sleeping with assurances of things to come even
though no reindeer were spotted

Upturning stones to glean their treasures:
Coleoptera, Hymenoptera, Orthoptera and rolly-pollies;
the ground, full cities; insect-dotted

Being the kite – dragon-wings unfurled,
knowing the full
lay of the land

Star-riders, hopping between planets –
three-quarter time of the stellar dancer
taking your hand

Aurora-borealis, the night-painter, unseen;
like the artist of Morpho-Menelaus – patterns
etched onto Nature’s palate, exquistely drawn

The lightness of hope – stead-fast, stalwart
and always at your side,
carrying you to each new dawn

The Stars are Waiting

Not a door closing but
steps further away

Not steps further away but
in a different direction

Not steps in a different
direction but

new steps, full of vigor
carrying thirty years

of children with me –
their laughter, joy, and sorrow

Their curiosity and
wide-eyed wonder

Their innocence and will to
believe in things, unseen

Their ability to forgive and
care just as fully as before…

Their upside-down grins –
hanging from the monkey-bars

Their antics and giggles
while no-one is watching

Their antics and giggles
while everyone is watching

Their rush to comfort when
friends are down

and their love of everything new

Everything – no longer new
but my steps

New is what I’ll search for as I
take in my surroundings… seeing more –

New is stillness on the forest path; the
unturned stone of the future

New is learning to hop-skip on the beach again –
the invitation of the ocean’s swell

New is sitting in a tree
reading poetry by Maya Angelou

New is building a garden big enough to house
hundreds of peace stones; gifts, accumulated

New is baking up a storm for doors
once again, flung wide

New is flinging doors open-wide
arms, too – hearts, singing

Being the kite
wafting in the wind

the stars are waiting

(Cristy Watson, 2021)

From ‘The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers (And their Muses)’
“Today you’re a boy catching frogs in the marsh.”

today the headlines ring out with viral messages –
numbers and graphs crassly detailing data with
little regard for the human lives or losses
they tally

in a flash the world is thrust into isolation –
people trapped in their own homes where hearts
in windows and songs from balconies resonate
around the world

perhaps it is a necessary evil –
a seal bobbed alongside me on my walk at the beach and
I opened my curtains to find deer lazily munching grass
on my front lawn

they say you can now see through the smog –
cities shrouded in polluted clouds catch the sun’s rays in every
direction, finding hope for renewal as flowers open their petals
onto this new world

you’re at the cusp of it all –
no longer just a boy catching frogs but releasing them back to
the marsh, freeing everything in captivity and opening
your doors to humanity

to welcome them in

I will come upon the bower
where my muse resides
and citrus-scented flowers
of frangipani hide

a rivulet will wind its way
past this peaceful sanctuary
on the fronds of cattails sway
red-winged blackbirds tarry

the moon will rest above the trees
casting shadow dances at my feet
and words will flow more easily
in this romantic, veiled retreat