The Poetry Marathon

Have you forgotten me yet?
The ways it was easy?
How I felt like home?
How you were never alone?

Have you forgotten the ways you
wanted to please me
the ways that I teased you
and then delivered it all?

So much time has passed.
And yet I’ve never forgotten.
The essence of you.

I hope you think of me too.

All night long in lamentations
she walks the murky water’s edge
it seems she’s lost her precious babies,
she desperately reaches down to dredge
the cold and black abysmal waters
of the swamp that took their lives
she wails and howls for all to hear her
a refusal to recognize
that they are gone to her forever
and forever curs-ed she will be.

As a young girl I cried tears with her
and swore she didn’t frighten me.

You have to die
to go to heaven
and new beginnings
need an end.
Sometimes the road
that blew your tire out
leads you to a place to mend.

Sometimes the knife stuck in your back
Cuts you free from chains that bind.
Sometimes cold betrayal
gives you a chance to redefine
all that you have wanted
the life you want to live.

It’s a paradox that’s sometimes painful
that there’s no get without some give.

Packing up a life
is not an easy thing to do.
You have to clean out
every drawer;
you may learn things you
never knew.

The finality of knowing
that they aren’t coming back
can pierce you like a dagger
causing a sudden grief attack.

With reverence for a history
that wasn’t yours to hold
you reflect upon your own life
and how you’ll soon be getting old.

And in that moment of awareness
you see the mortal end
when your dearest friends and family
will be packing away again.

Mirth breaks loose: we fall

a tangled heap on the floor.

So many smiles burst.

I’ve tried being peaceful
and cooing my song.
But this shit’s untenable;
it’s gone on far too long.

So I’m giving up peace and
going on the attack.
All you privileged white men
had best watch your backs!

My wingspan is strong
and will bring winds of change
my talons are sharp and can
inflict great pain.

What once was a coo,
now emits as a roar.
I’ve warned you,
I really can’t take any more.

You’d better get moving
because I’m coming for you.
And when I catch up there won’t be much
you can do.

But lie there and whimper
as you get what you deserve.

There’s no peace left in me.
I’m now a warrior bird.

“A ver mija,” he said as his work-worn hands gently mixed
flour, sugar, salt, shortening, baking powder, milk
and a hint of vanilla
into a simple dough,
he called it “pan loco” and laughed.

We had no language but this,
and the smile that would rise
on each of our faces as
we sat across the Formica table

dropping crumbs as we ate.

To tear down progress of a people oppressed
is a cruelty that takes a toll.

The harms cannot be measured once;
it’s the kind of hurt that grows.
It’s a poison that erodes hope and trust for generations.

We are left wondering what we know.
We are left wondering if we can endure

or if it’s worth it to even try.
When the powers that be can exert their might

and strip away our rights
to tear down progress of a people oppressed.

We are left wondering what we know.
Can we trust anything?

That the sun will still rise?
That the moon pulls the tides?
That it’s worth one more fight?

After reflecting on a day of pain,
I seek to find my self again.
Calm waters soothe my weary mind
and carry me away.

I drift away in timeless peace
I close my eyes and breathe release.
I carry home a hope within.
I’m feeling like myself again.