The Poetry Marathon

Something going on in the desert.

The boy slipped out to get a better look.

A bush on fire. Oh, okay. That happened sometimes; an errant lightning strike, probably.

He settled a few feet away to keep an eye on it, then became distracted by the immense swath of stars above him.

So. Many. Stars.

So. Far. Away.

They almost looked like a cup of milk someone had spilled across the sky.

He wondered if there was a name for what he was looking at.

He plucked his iPad from his satchel and fired it up. TikTok needed a picture of this.

That done, he looked back at the bush, still burning. In fact, it wasn’t anymore burned than it had been when he first saw it. Well, that was weird. He began videoing that, too, and provided narration about how strange it was.

Faintly, he heard his mother’s voice calling him in for the night. But wait – that wasn’t his mom. This voice was coming from the bush that was on fire, and it was saying his name.

Again and again.

Holy crapola.

Mouth suddenly dry, he almost answered the bush when he heard his mother’s unmistakable shout:

“Moses! Are you out there with your iPad again! You know it’s supposed to be turned off by nine o’clock! You better get your scrawny butt back here right now!”

He knew that tone.

He left that bush talking to itself.

To you who lived before me in this smallish dwelling place,

I hope you filled it up with love, with happiness and grace.

I hope your days were happy days, and all your ways were loving ways.

I hope that good health paced these halls and friendship hung on all the walls.

I hope it was a happy home; I hope that you could write a tome of all the happy memories you shared. And all the folks who really, truly cared.

I hope it’s not that other kind of room, permeated with a threat of doom from folks whose rage and pain are greater than they can control, who strike and then later grieve for their lives and hate themselves more than whatever they hated someone else for.

For the energy and spirit that we breathe into a place remains until it’s cleansed and clutters up the space.

So I hope the place you’re leaving and the place you’re moving to have the precious kind of spirit to protect and nurture you.

Gena Williams

In the dead of the night, in the full of the moon,

we meet at the juxtaposition of Never and Soon.

We enter in silence; we all feel the gloom;

sit on rough benches in an ice-carved room.

For what are we waiting? What is it we seek?

We hope for an audience or at least a quick peek

of the Leader who leads us, whose words we believe.

We need to see him, and then we can leave.

We’ve followed his teachings the best that we could.

There’s nothing we want more than we want to be good.

He never has joined us or shown us a sign

although we’ve been waiting since the year 109.

Now stomachs are growling; we’ve been here all day.

I’m guessing our Leader has nothing to say.

We’ll come back next full moon, for he says we should.

There’s nothing we want more than we want to be good.

Gena Williams

I sit and wait here.

I don’t know exactly why.

Someone told me to.

Gena Williams

The woman she was ten years ago was doing

what she thought she should.

The marriage was over;

she’d known that for awhile.

If he hadn’t been so mean, she might have stayed,

even with the infidelities and the money problems

and all the rest.

It surprised her a little now

that she’d acted so quickly once the blinders fell off,

once she stopped pretending that he wasn’t two people,

one for her and another for the rest of the world.

Once he stopped pretending he was a man she could love.

Once he started being himself at home.

Looking back, she had to admit

she was kind of proud of herself that she’d gotten away so clean;

oh, it was terrible the first couple of years,

and even now, an occasional sweet memory would surface,

or she’d see a couple in a restaurant that reminded her of them,

and a sudden wave of loss and sadness would wash over her,

and she would feel utterly bereft.

But only for a minute.

After a minute, she’d remind herself

of the peaceful, good life she’d found in a new place

with her best people, and she’d smile,

knowing that she was still doing

what she thought she should.

Gena Williams

Later than we meant to, we pulled into the campground,

the lights from the guard gate glowing,

bright yellow lines painted on the roadway guiding us.

At first we thought no one was there;

then he lifted his sleepy head, chagrined,

and signed us in.

Quietly as we could, we crept to space D17,

our usual space having been taken by an earlier arrival.

Right on the lake, just as promised.

Pitched our tent in the dark;

peed in the woods – the bathhouse was too far –

unrolled our sleeping bags and crawled in,

faces toward the open flaps.

At last.

We were sleeping under the stars again.

Gena Williams

We can no longer take for granted

the effortless gatherings we enjoyed pre-COVID.

We may never have that ease again;

truly, probably should not have that ease again.

How foolish we would be

to refuse to learn the lessons

taught by a disease that has claimed

so many of us so painfully and sorrowfully.

Things change.

Sometimes we don’t like the changes.

Let’s all just get over ourselves

and do what we can to keep ourselves and others healthy.

Just wear the mask when asked to.

My Brother Tree and I commune every day,

this wise and kindly sugar oak,

I receiving strength, peace, and courage from him.

I do not know what he receives from me.

I cannot fathom what I could offer such a being as a tree.

I only know that we exchange a kind of energy in those moments

and that my life is gladdened by his presence.

Did you know that if you stand beneath your favorite tree

and hold a spray of leaves against your face,

or pick up a good handful from the earth,

if you breathe in the almost magical scent of happy tree,

that the strength, peace, and courage of that tree

are infused into your body, your mind, and your heart?

Try it one day; it’s real,

but you have to be open to it.

You have to invite it.

Trees are gentlefolk; they do not enter unless invited.

All spring, all summer, the trees labor to make leaves,

flowers, oxygen

for the sustaining of life on this planet,

to make homes and food for birds, for squirrels,

for tiny spineless beings too myriad to count.

And in autumn they rest. They shed the parts of themselves

that are no longer useful,

no longer healthy,

no longer beneficial.

And they restore themselves,

readying themselves for next season’s tasks.

Would that we could attain the wisdom of the trees.

Campbell’s Tomato Soup.

That was my sick soup.

When the fever had broken

and I was hungry again

Mother fixed me a grilled cheese sandwich

and Campbell’s Tomato Soup

in a mug, not a bowl,

so I could drink it.

It almost made me think she loved me.

While walking in my yard today,

I smelled the trellised jasmine vine, so sweet.

The second-year asters standing tall and proud

Just making buds for this year’s exhibition

Are crowding out the fading pansy plants.

The sunflowers we planted for Ukraine

Are halfway up the fence and growing fast.

The garden phlox and purple echinacea

Are fighting it out for the title Best of Show.

I communed with bees and dragonflies

While walking in my yard today.

The sunflowers we planted for Ukraine

Are winning the war against the marigolds

Whose yellow/orange faces smile at me.

Of all the growing things that I can see,

The one who’s growing most of all is me.