The Poetry Marathon

Maui dark is darker than most. It is all you see is sea dark.

3am Maui dark out of these new windows

is one white light on the horizon dark,

it’s even the pigs must be sleeping dark,

even the fish aren’t swimming dark,

even mynah have nothing to chatter about dark,

even the angriest people are resting dark,

even the most worried are calm dark… maybe.

I’ve known landlocked darks

mountain darks

suburb darks

rural darks

city (not so) darks.

They have a close your eyesness about them,

an it’s night time so do nighttime things about them.

They have a hidingness about them

and those are good darks I suppose for some

but this dark, this Maui dark

is putter around the house dark.

It is I don’t miss you this time of morning anymore dark.

It is no one will notice if I cry right now dark.

It is oceans away from anyone else dark.

There’s a lot of room to stub your toe

in this kind of dark

in this Maui kind of dark.

There’s even more room

to adjust your eyes, and see.

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 3am

Aloha Poets,

Well, I am winding down for the evening in preparation for an early bedtime. We here in Hawai’i begin the marathon at 3am tomorrow. I am so excited for this year… there is so much write about!

and, I think I am ready! I have sparkling waters in the fridgie, darkest chocolate chunks in the freezer, nuts and seeds and fruits ready, and protein drinks close at hand, pens, pencils, paper, this old gray laptop, books… and a list of topics and people and events handy when I need direction. I think I am ready. Hahaha! Who am I kidding aside from myself. Are we ever ready…? I don’t know… we’ll see!

What I do know is that at 2:30 tomorrow, I will wash my face, pour the first of uncountable cups of coffee, log in, and wait for the buzzer. I  know I will show up. and that’s the most important part.

I can hardly wait! I look forward to seeing all of you, and reading your poems.

We are marathoners!!!

Isn’t it a marvel…

Good luck, All!

Elizabeth

Aloha Poets!
I am so excited about our upcoming 2020 marathon! I have been working on lists of prompts and topics, as well as people for or about whom I would like to write a poem.
Funnily enough, iced water was a great comfort last year, so I have planned to pick up some good waters and crunchy, chewable ice, as well as great dark chocolate, popcorn, and strawberries and blueberries. That should hold me for snacks.

With so much going on in our world right now, this year should result in some phenomenal poetry. I look forward to pouring over all of yours!

Much aloha to all of you!

E.

Morning. My hands are cramped around this pen. My eyes are blurred and weary. I am tired and achy, but changed.

Dad came, Giraffe is here. I poured it all out. Thank you, Ernest. You taught me that… to pour it out, to leave nothing off the page, to leave no blood for the heart.

I did that.

I screamed. I cried. I sobbed. I had silent conversations with my mother. I had louder silent conversations with my daughter.

I grieved.

…and Cameron stayed with me through the whole journey, checking, and rechecking me, bringing water,  snacks, and tissues, rubbing my hands and wrists and fingers. He is my constant. He always will be.

Morning, and I am huddled with my core at Our Fire. I am safe, and I am loved. I will Run Along the Ecliptic, and call the night, to end this very, very long day.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have to understand. I just have to be.

Oh! What a beautiful surprise! Up all day and night, writing poems, feeling, processing, pouring, and from behind without a sound, Giraffe covers me, over my head, long out in front of me…. so unexpectedly.

“I have been here for fourteen months. Did you not know where to find me?” I asked him, burying my face into the comfort of his hollow.

“No, e. You forgot how  to find us, how to find you way back to us, how to see Our Fire. We waited and watched for you, Fox through The Sage, Elephant at The Door to the Room of Paintings, Chief in the half light of our glow, with The Dogs, and I, on The Rock Above Our Cave. Some Fish Who Have Decided to Stay jumped and squealed for you from The Shoreline, and also in The Channel, but your heart has been too broken to hear us, and your eyes blinded from fear. We waited so long, and you didn’t come, so we have come for you. We have come to take you home, to sleep a year’s worth of rest, and wake to stand on The Great Wall, to find your own voice again, snd Pearl into The Great White Wall of Nothingness. It is time to come home, to warm yourself, to thank The Fishes, to coo with Fox, and pour the last of this time out into The Sage, with Chief, Elephant, and The Dogs. It is time for you to finish Running Along The Ecliptic.

Come with me before the sun rises. You have never allowed yourself to be a child with us, never let us take care of you. Come. It is time now…”

He stays up with me. Can I rub your hands, Gramma? You are almost there.

Crows whispering in my ear, “Please don’t forget us when you go home… and don’t forget the trains out there in Wyoming. Remember how you loved the trains coming through every day, and the snow. Try to remember the snow, and our silhouettes across the fields.

We have cousins there where you call home, Jimmy, Jake, and Lilly. Try to go to the sanctuary up country to visit them. They will remember you. We crows know family, even if we haven’t met in person.

Please don’t forget us when you go home to Maui. Please come back this way soon. Wear the yellow ribbon, and that shiny, tinkling bobble we all love.

We’ll keep our eye out for you. Please, don’t be too long.”

The part of her that was your lover has nearly dissipated. The part of her that you could calm with a smile  or a wink, her sweetheart part, she buried along with you three years ago. She is raw and untamed, unflinchingly callous. She is bitter that she isn’t with you yet, and fearful that her god will let her down, and you won’t be hers when she gets there. This is where she should be though, angry, deeply,  roughly angry. Her pain is palpable, and her grief is sharp, and takes prisoners.

I hope it is just a phase in her grief, not simply a part of who she was before your love softened her heart, and made her the woman I knew before you left us. I hope it is. But, if is isn’t, maybe you could come over sometime, and out your arms around her while she sleeps in her chair next to yours, and remind her the she will always be your love, and that you will wait for her forever?

Dad, if you were still here, you would die all over again. Your body would implode, like mine is trying to do. It would simply crack apart, like mine is trying to do. We are so much alike, unable to turn on others to ease our  tragicnesses, unwilling to tear someone else’s hair out to sop up the blood pouring from our gapings.

You told me in that dream, we are not like them. I thought I understood what you meant, but now I really know. You and I  are not like them. We do not attack others to make ourselves forget that we are being carried away by wolves who wholly intend to rip us apart, and feed us to their own. We do mpt become the wolves to try and forget the smell of blood in the air is our own, our childrens’, our grandchildrens’, our great grandchildrens’.

I am trying, Dad. I tried, but they are all gone now. There was a gun. There were two shots. They are all gone now.

I wish you were still here.

I’m so glad you aren’t.