The Poetry Marathon

Once 700 Japanese-Americans were held here,
tents,
desert heat,
barbed wire,
guards.

Now we bring in new detainees,
adults,
young people,
toddlers,
infants.

Stop repeating history,
grim conditions,
dangerous conditions,
family separation.

You, the bookworm,
You, the nature lover, You, the animal mom.
You, the sensitive,
You, the shy kid, You, the fearful one.
You, writing in your journal
You, playing in the woods
You, singing your songs…
I hear you —
I care about you —
I love you —
And you are perfect, Dee Dee,
just the way you are
and just the way
you will always be.

Love,
Diane

Well, damn,
didn’t the fog descend so quickly
that morning?
It draped the little house
and the fir trees in its mist
and I felt such a peace in that hush,
alone, drinking my coffee
at that tiny kitchen table,
blissfully and tragically
unaware of your suffering.

This is the part of me
that hates my everyday pleasing
good-girl self and wants
to shake her and
scream at her:
“Wake up! Wake up!
The Wildness awaits and time
is running short.”

Our planet is a miracle:
dramatic waterfalls, soaring mountains,
brilliantly colored birds.

Our planet is in peril:
whales and dolphins washing up on our shores,
starving polar bears, the collapse of ecosystems.

The time is now.

Like underwater birds,
we used our wings
to skim the surface
of the pond and then
to dive deep
into its depths.

The dark waters enveloped us,
protected us,
freeing us from the weight
of everyday legs.

Above us, owls hooted from oak trees
below the purple of the sky
and bats emerged from caves
to swoop through the stillness.

I wanted to tell you then
how mistaken I’d been
but you had already seen
the falling stars of tomorrow
and knew the way to Amen.

Hello?
Yes, I am here.
Can you see me?
I am trapped.
Could you free me?
Please?
Oh — yes —
and thank you —

Big powerful horses
loudly stomp their hooves
deep into the earth
beside the creek.
Afraid, I take refuge
in a prairie
filled with saplings and boulders
and watch from afar their mourning ritual.
The horses are grieving – they lift their heads
and begin to neigh,
their voices echoing about me.
Softly I begin to sing
my own song of loss.
I look again at the horses —
their dappled hides,
their flicking ears,
their gentle eyes,
and my fear lifts
and I run toward them
and I sing to them
and I touch them
and we dance together
under an enchanted sky.

So delicate,
these little winged beings.
They sip sweet nectar
from orange slices and
then they launch into the air.
In the tent
outside the museum,
they are protected
from London’s rain and traffic.
Here, people of all ages,
point and laugh,
marveling at the creatures
flitting above and around them
and then,
one lands on you,
perches on you,
flaps its orange and brown wings
and you look so surprised and
so delighted and,
yes,
so beautiful.

The roadrunner makes a clicking sound
and spreads its wings in warning.
It is not my favorite bird,
the way it preys on others.
What I do love
are the hummingbirds buzzing by
like determined little helicopters,
their wings beating fast through the air.
Neighbors walk on the street, dogs at their sides.
I hear the dogs’ tags ringing like tiny bells.
Already the sun is hot against my skin.
It is summer now
and the desert stretches out her arms
to me —