The Poetry Marathon

Amid the chaos and cruelty of war,
amid the bombings, the fires,
amid the desperate attempts to flee,
amid the broken glass, smashed pots,
abandoned belongings,
the woman uncovers her beloved piano,
wipes the dark dust from the keys,
and then,
for the last time,
the very last time,
she sits down in her coat and hat and
she plays,
her hands floating across the keys,
creating notes of hope and peace
to fill the shattered home that
she now must leave behind.

I actually thought
the streets would sparkle with
twinkling light and diamond sunshine,
boundless possibility and joy in this,
the City of Stars.

But now I see
there is no sparkle here,
only lost hopes and broken promises,
a world of deep darkness in this,
the City of Stars.

And I am an angel without wings
picking my way
down uneven pavement,
trying not to breathe in the
forgotten dreams of yesterday.

And I am an angel without flight
resting under tall palm trees and
listening to the parrots overhead,
chattering and screeching as
they fly in groups across the sky

And I am an angel without spirit,
pulled down deep into darkness and
unable to lift my wings to fly
toward the light
of the real stars just above.

Snow crunches under my feet
with each step toward the forest path
and above me, fir branches bow,
weighted down with sparkling drifts:
the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

The moon shines down upon me
and stars twinkle in the sky above.
In the distance, an owl hoots and
then takes flight in a flutter
of powerful wings:
the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

Snowflakes twirl downward,
fluffy and magical,
settling on me, the trees, the ground and
blanketing the world in glistening white:
the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

Oh to stay here
always, forever, eternally
to live like a forest creature
alone and sustained
in the bountiful sacredness
in the hush of these woods:
so lovely, dark and deep.

Months elapse without rain and
the sun blazes over us,
unrelenting.
The air is dense and
crackling dry.

We search the sky for clouds,
for any hope of change, but
the deep blue is
painfully endless.

Birds huddle in shady patches
in the sand, their beaks open,
their songs muted.
Coyotes lope through
the ominous dawn,
their ribs showing.

We gather inside
in sterile rooms,
air conditioners blowing,
and we watch shows about
Norway and Sweden where
snows drift high and waterfalls thunder,
where rain
is plentiful and
sustaining.

Now I am friends with a hummingbird
who sits outside my room daily.
I bring feeders of nectar
but the heat is endless.
How can I help him?
Or is it me
who needs help
today,
now?

Let me be a forest ranger and
I will thread my way like a needle through the woods
in search of the elusive periwinkle plant or
a white-tailed deer.

At break time, I will spread
my cotton blanket across the forest floor and
take off my gumboots and
dine on Swiss cheese on sourdough bread and
drink ice water from a silver canteen.

Being a forest ranger would beat my current job.
I’d sure rather spend time in a cloud than a skyscraper and
I’d rather float in a lake than visit a storefront any day.

So let me be a forest ranger, please?

I first saw an orb
in Wales,
dancing along a vine-covered wall
on the side of the gravel road.

Now I see them often,
floating amid the darkening skies
or scooting across the flagstones
at home in California.

Some say they are spirits
of departed loved ones
and it’s tempting to believe
this is true.

Who are you, orb?
Can you tell me?
Which of my missing loved ones
do you represent?
And can I reach out to you now
and touch you?

One thing about the pandemic was
that I spent a lot of time with myself.
Too often over the decades, I realized,
I tried to fit in and
it didn’t work,
I didn’t fit,
and I felt I had failed.
Now I’m embracing the weird.
OK, I don’t fit!
I like animals more than people
I’d rather be on a nature trail than in the office
I don’t like parties and small talk and fashion.
I like writers and artists, art and writing.
And that’s OK.
I’ve decided to keep me.

Her name is Jayne and she has fled Chicago
to hide away in the high desert
It is temporary (or so she thinks)
to heal from a bad marriage and rocky career
but then her aunt who is helping her
is murdered
and her colleague, Gareth, is arrested (even though he is innocent)
so of course Jayne has to help Gareth and solve the murder and, in the meantime,
very very slowly…
she begins to fall in love
with her new community (Roadrunner Ridge)
and her new life and
question everything she has ever known…

The animals flourished as the humans shrank away.
Maybe some of the comebacks were exaggerated
– dolphins didn’t really swim in the Venice canals, did they? –
but the bears were free to roam in Yosemite,
species that had been declared extinct suddenly emerged again,
whales and dolphins could hear each other’s ocean songs.

At night the stars emerged brightly in a clear dark sky.

After all the sadness and sacrifice of the pandemic,
why do we hustle back to cruise lines and long commutes
when instead we ourselves could flourish
in a New Normal where
birds sing loudly with great joy and
we are there
to hear them.