The Poetry Marathon

In One’s Nature

The wind knocks
and his gossamer trap
is torn asunder –
he wakes, and rebuilds.

A boy on his way to school
tears through the fine filaments
of hexagonal brilliance –
she spins, anew.

The couples yell and break
promises; webs of lies leave
destruction in their paths –
they separate, and walk away.

Moving Day

– End of the month and it
is raining. The truck we booked is
late and the house, a dangerous
mess of life, packed in boxes to
trip over. So, we slow the pace, nestle together on the veranda and read
Aesop’s fables, choosing his words, over the daily newspapers.

With thanks to Margaret Atwood for her brilliant poem,
“It is Dangerous to Read Newspapers”
(this line also appears in the body of the poem)

inside-out

because of his eyes
the moon waxed
out of tune
and like a dying star
she waned

because of his eyes
her tether
to the earth
held fast
and kept her chained

because of his eyes
she let things go
the house
her health
a child un-named

because of his eyes

Prompt Six:

Que Sera, Sera

At the halfway point
and the words jumble;
arthritis numbs each joint,
as fingers fumble.

Creative juices, gone,
the muse has left me.
Pages still undone –
what will be, will be.

A final attempt –
pulling threads of thought;
ideas unkempt –
half a sonnet, I’ve got;

but not a pentameter,
within the parameter.

playing ‘kick the can’ at thirteen

under a perse sky
as twilight curtains
the city –
our townhouses rowed
together like people
(huddled against the cold
we corner the same space)

our lips pursed
as heat actuates
our senses –
reaching out to each other
before our bodies link
(cuddled against the wall
lips fuse as our fingers lace)

a first kiss, pressed
into the album
of memory –
my playlist near full
but this song persists
(shuttled back to that night
with each new embrace)

Prompt Four:

Two Thumbs

The coffee shop teems with people –
a ruck of millennials.
Thumbs flying, heads bent;
gaps in the line-up.

Gaps in the line-up –
but nobody cares; they have time.
My coffee break dissipates,
like the mud in my cup.

Like the mud in my cup,
there’s a sluggishness to the conversations
once they reach the till; a moment of re-orientation
to the present world.

To the present world
I say, ‘hang on’ – these sophists
will find their way, or the future boasts babies
with two thumbs per hand.

Prompt three:

because

alike and unlike –
the cabin in disrepair

paint stripped, doors
and windows unclosed

so anyone can walk in
especially the air

that rips through
in frigid blasts

abandoned and unabandoned –
like the house that sits

empty, but for the frost that
hangs like bits

of christmas lights
and the brush that hides

the fenceline with candid strokes
the striking contrast

beautiful –
because

remnants of summer’s sun –
even in your
hard rime

On Fire

That careless hand
(manicured, fine long fingers)
lingers, then flicks –
and the yellow straw grass lining
the highway sighs before it sparks
(neither in the car look behind
them – the road ahead leading to
paradise)
and the wind exhales its breath;
giving life to a flame that rises
on its haunches, crawls across the earth
and finds its prey –
licking the aspen trunks,
swallowing whole trees
as it jumps from one to another
in search of more

and the fire rages

across the land.
Mother Earth’s hand
in so many…
(her heated breath,
spikes of angry light
shooting like fingers)
pointing at the forest
(she doesn’t look back –
she’s always known
paradise)
and the wind exhales its breath,
complicit, as old growth forests
with ancient trees, standing for
centuries, now crumble into
ash

and the fire rages

while a blue hand reaches
across the sky, spreading its fingers
wide –
(its canopy startling in its
beauty, startling in its danger:
no sign of paradise).
The wind holds her breath –
Omitted clouds for days and weeks,
While the sun and wind conspire

and the fire rages

even against oceans of water
(dumped at the hands of humans,
toiling with numb fingers and
tired arms to save
paradise)
into forty nights the battle ensues,
while the wind brushes the skies
(over quiet lands with brilliant
hues of neon pink and blood
orange, death-red)
it is silent

and the fire rages.

I just got my account up and running and hopefully, I completed my profile correctly! I will be entering the half-marathon, as this is my first time. I will be writing from Calgary, Alberta Canada where I am visiting my sister. I hope to practice over the next week to be ready for the big day! I entered a contest a few years ago called, The Coffee Shop Author Contest, and I created a book of poetry with coffee as the main thread through the poems. Hopefully, that has prepared me for this endeavour! Good luck to all!