The Poetry Marathon

“Look at this!”

She said grabbing a rock out of the riverbed.

My mouth drops open/

I sing its praises.

She finds another one.

And another.

One black.

One red.

One smooth.

Each rock is special,

Each rock must be worshipped and acknowledged. 

She gathers six or seven,

Her eyes darting underfoot,

Red hair flying high.

“Here, momma, for you!”

“For me?” I exclaim.

I shower her with gratitude,

And hold the rock to my breast.

She says, here, 

    Unloading a small pile of rocks into both my hands.

“Do I have to take them all home?” I ask.

    “Yes,” she states matter of factly.

I pour rocks in my pocket and we walk on.

At home, we will marvel over the miracle of rocks.

Prompt 24, Hour 24

The missing glasses case,

  The misplaced key.

The quarter just in hand,

It disappeared at one, then two, then three.

The new coffee cup sprung off the shelf and smashed,

A birthday gift, suddenly found in a buried stash.

The menacing troll, I won’t give a name,

Each night at twelve, its always the same.

Its funny, its clever, to everyone but me,

I wish he would go, disappear or flee.

The trap is set,

Time to boogie little man and jet.

He knows better, of course, and slips away,

See you again tomorrow, for more unwelcomed horseplay.

Post 23, Hour 23

A white feather,

 Alone 

Blowing through a Target parking lot,

  In the desert. 

A saucy Irishman once told me,

 He found them after his sister died.

They were stuck in grass,

Or doing cartwheels down the road,

 Snowflakes from an angel just beyond.

Her death was violent,

Her memory broken, 

Peace was offered in each discovery of another

White

Feather. 

Legend or myth,

Religion or faith,

The feather was shed from an unseen wing,

As an offering to rest the mind, and continue to love.

I peeled the white feather off my windshield,

And slid it inside my wallet.

A hand from the dead on my shoulder,

A whisper in my ear,

Peace,

  Peace be with you,

 Squeeze of my hand and release,

       See me through.

Who it was

  Is my secret to keep.

A smile, a wink,

  Go back to sleep.

Prompt 22, Hour 22

Late nights, sweating on a dance floor, saxophone and electric guitar.

   School children running a quarter of a mile for the momentum to fly into my arms.

Science experiments.

Love letters from seven year-old students on the back of their homework.

Dear Ms. Lusty….

(Honestly) trying.

(Honestly) crying.

(Honestly) forgiving.

The right answer.

Sweet coffee on the way to work.

Vegan burgers on the way home.

                 Pumpkin patches, Santa’s Village, David Bowie night.

Ritual. Stability. Growing up.

I want my life back.

Prompt 20, Hour 20

When you miss the state where you grew,

There is a candle just for you.

In the early Washington summer,

You smell spring rain,

Wet pine needles,

Fresh blackberries for your ice cream shakes,

And a blanket of wild flowers.

As I sit, middle aged, in the desert,

Dreaming of mountain rain,

A candle is on its way:

It promises the smell of my mother’s Earl Grey Tea,

Cedar and patchouli.

The vanilla and maple blood of trees,

Amber and rhododendron fighting for a shaft of brief sunshine through the trees.

The citrus of bergamot trees and the musk of the wild northwest.

The candle best serves my house late at night,

When a two year old might lose her way to the potty,

Or my teenage pit bull may need a sip of water.

It will light up my kitchen table with memories of my childhood,

While building more for my daughters.

When I open the front door,

Sandalwood from desert rainfall.

When I hold them close,

My vanilla body spray,

and coconut shampoo.

Each strand of scent, a wall to my home.

A construction of life, light and mom,

Never to be forgotten.

Prompt 20, Hour 20

A curtain of deadly tentacles

Roams the Indian Ocean.

Working together

Each holding on to their one job.

The greater good succeeds

The great individual.

As it grows and feeds down below,

We break apart on land.

We fragment.

We don’t think of the others.

We flutter as individual orbs,

High with self-importance.

The entity works in harmony,

And grows underwater.

Who will live to see the year 3000?

Who will live to see 2050?

Prompt 19, Hour 19

Christmas sucks.

I loved Christmas as a kid.

I was conditioned to hate it.

Angry men.

Possessive men.

Tantrums with blown out candles and spit on my car.

Joy only with permission.

I don’t want to remember the past.

Not at this hour.

Prompt 18. Hour 18.

I told the eight year-old to save the document using the square in the corner.

She asked, “The camera?”

I said no.

It was once called a floppy disk, but don’t worry about that now.

Now, it is just a square.

She asked again: the camera?

I said no.

The yellow rectangle up in the corner.

The camera?

No.

No.

You have no idea what it is, but it is a floppy disk.

Please trust me. I am a teacher.

Prompt 17. Hour 17.

He hurts me.

Every.

Single.

Day.

He hurts me.

I can’t stop forgiving him.

I tried for three years.

I can’t stop.

At the end of every day,

He is the one I want to talk to.

Prompt 16, Hour 16

I was 16, 

We were coming home from Germany.

Six weeks of milk from the cow on the corner,

Basketball with cute boys, 

And a Holocaust camp.

It was a long plane ride home.

I sat on my best friend’s lap,

And writhed on him,

For 10 delightful minutes.

It was the wrong thing to do.

The man next to us must have known.

No one said a word.

When we got home, I dated his best friend.

For three years.

It was our first relationship.

The last time he saw me, I was all grown up and he left me waiting in a car outside his house.

It was freezing. Snow was on the ground.

He had a girlfriend. She wasn’t home but would be jealous.

I let myself in and stuffed my used nylons in the bathroom waste basket.

Hour 15, Prompt 15