The Poetry Marathon

It was a long and grueling day
leaving some emotionally distraught
from exhaustion and memories
that subconsciously haunt
our lives with secret replays

Each one had his reason to stay
we aimed for what we sought
although we napped or ignored our bodily needs
it was our souls, our dreams that were caught
between the lines of literary play

I. Toddler Years

Slow to speak,
they checked my ears.
I had nothing important to say.

II.Visitors

People are scary.
They’d come at night in large groups,
small groups in the day.

Stay close to mom at all times.

III. Storms From 8 to 16

Game nights were the best
when rain storms
pounded the ground
knocked power lines out
lit up the sky with sparks
made by exploding transformers.
We’d light candles all around the house,
take out a deck of cards, and gamble the night away.

IV. Friendship

I couldn’t figure out
how to join in games
that I didn’t
understand the rules
Sometimes I’d be invited
over to their house
and I’d see there were lives
without eggshells
Easier to build walls
Keep them all at bay
I’d have to wait
until much later

V. Imagination

Hours went by as I brushed and styled Louise’s hair
or I stroked what was left of Lyon’s fur
or cradled Thumbelina 1, 2, and 3 as they wiggled in my arms
Imagination built in silence and set free
only through screams I’d call singing
and captured in bottles, labeled, and stored
safely until much later when
games night didn’t need a storm first
and I had something to say
about my need to stay close to mom at all times.

I remember when
reading maps was taught
and everyone learned
north, south, east, and west,
where you are, and where
you want to be.
When I’m in the woods
they’re still all attached
with their heads bent down
instead of ahead or
beside or above
scrolling and hunting
where the GPS tells them to be
and then they wander
off the paths, deeper still,
blindly following their
technology and
needing to be rescued
by teams wondering
exactly where these
people could have gone.

Climb the fire escape
to the roof of the building
and sit on the bench

No tree to give shade
Flowers and small plants in pots
Green peeks through the cracks

Go walk far enough
You might find grass and some trees
Serene man-made lake

Listen to the birds
Highways and planes drown them out
Construction trucks, too

Squirrels, rabbits, birds
Have no fear you when you approach
Just don’t get too close

Don’t pull all the weeds
Some are good for the bees and birds
A diet for us all.

Five steps maybe ten
Rubber replaces the sand
Cement stays in sight

Be happy with what you found

She’s doing it again,
sitting hour after hour
at her desk staring at the screen
pouring strange liquids
in green glass after green glass
eating crunchie foods I haven’t
smelled in months when she’d cry
over working what lay in front
of her eyes every single day.
But this time she seems to
enjoy what she is doing.
I knocked on her door.
She didn’t hear me at first.
I tried again and again
and she let me in.
I whispered “What are you doing?”
She stroked my back once,
twice, and spoke softly words
I’ve heard before but this time
no tears could be found in her voice.
I rubbed up on her leg
and lay down for a bit.
Duty called. I heard sister stirring
and the sun was not up.
I tiptoed out of the room
and climbed the stairs
and the other stairs
to sleep with my restless
human sister.

Portions of this poem are taken or inspired from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufroc” by T.S. Eliot

Blackness gives way to indigo
through the window I look up to see through
There will be time, there will be time
before the sun rises and shows its hues
While I wait for that sweet sunshine,
I let the words fall through my fingers
although the words are filled with in-
decision, needing revision upon
revision, which a minute will reverse
in the evenings, mornings, afternoons
I must continue to stay up with this moon
and listen to the birds sing as I grow old
This day, it was worth it to hear,
to listen, to taste the victory within,
the victory that builds me up inside
and fills the emptiness from living.

In response to “Too Brief” by Virginia Carraway Stark

Daylight is lacking,
moonlight as well,
in any given season.

We know this each year,
each season as well;
we always have a reason.

It’s never enough
heat as well cold
in nearly every region.

Let’s learn to accept
as well as respect
the sun and the moon’s

beauteous beacons.

Related to two of my poems: hour 2 prompt 2 “Witch’s Ignition” AND hour 18 prompt22 “Dear Grim Reaper”

Rock in my hand I
feel the attachment to
a young soul I met
long ago yet not
a soul who hugged me
and laughed genuinely
our connection’s strong
and oh so powerful
a soul who stirred in-
cantations of hope
brews filled with goodness
while all I could do
was crisscross the hedge
that lies between here
and there and gather ink
to create shapes
on the white page that
tried to heal myself
and ended up giving
the young witch hope
a new definition
attempted mother-
hood success or fail

You have been by my side
loyally throughout the years
At conception, there came
the ultimate question:
save me from what would be
or let me go gracefully.
Torn between wrong and wrong
I came and nearly killed
the only one who loved me.
I grew and I saw
I could speak with your friends.
I could converse easily
with those meeting their ends
even though words rarely fell
from my tongue or my lips.
The first I remember,
his name comes and goes,
but I see his apple trees
and hear his clarinet.
And then through the speakers
I spoke with Dr Church,
who was the first man I
ever kissed on the cheek
while I sat on his lap
comforted by his soul.
He gave me hope to live on.
He had died the night before.
My friend from school so young
never came back after summer.
You then took my dog
and then my other.
Eventually you even came
and took my brother.
Friends so hard for me to make
I lost so many to
suicides, depression,
car accidents, heart
attacks, and several strokes.
I knew one day you’d have to
take my father, mother.
And in between each of
these days and each of
these years you entered
my head and tried
to convince me to trade
my life to save theirs.
The cutting, the hurting,
the pain I’ve gone through,
all in attempts to stop
me from joining you.
I know how you play.
Now you use your power
against me with my daughter
and threaten to take her
using her own two hands.
You’ve made my life hell.
Why do that to her as well?

The flower is filled
with medicine we refuse

It tries and tries
but it can’t make us choose

In life it blooms yellow

Near death it turns white

Children’s wish maker
sends seeds to the heavens

In death it still lives