The Poetry Marathon

Take some months, maybe years and stir it up in a container larger than you think you’ll need. The ingredients will rise and fall, so don’t be alarmed.

Add some fights, to taste

Sprinkle in some disappointment

Maybe an infidelity or two

Add some tears, a tablespoon at a time

Set a timer, although the timer will always be wrong

It’ll be ready when everything is broken and there’s nothing left to save.

Although it may leave a bitter aftertaste, no amount of sugar will save it.

Walk away before you know it’s done. If you wait for it to be well done, it’ll always be charred along the edges.

Take some more time. Lick your wounds. Wash the dishes. Walk away.

The early morning fog
was like thin milk hanging over the cliffs
And the cold air
filled my lungs
like breathing
through a cloud.

I always liked the early morrning
stillness
like a gift
the world was giving
for the early birds

But that morning,
the quiet was interrupted by
the sound of deep breathing behind me
which awakened all every muscles in my body
and my skin tingled like it could hear

Fight or flight?
fight or flight?

I ran faster away from the sound
but saw the dark figure emerging from the fog
a creature so large
its breath filled my fear
with each breath.

Its beak looked large enough
to peck my eyes out
and though it was bigger than any bird
I’d ever seen in my life
we both stared at each other in relief

“Nevermore, Mr. Poe,”
I said
as I tipped my imaginary hat at him.

He just looked at me and laughed.