The Poetry Marathon

If this is to be the end, my dears,
Then at least let it be beautiful

-h.e.m.

Sleep clung
To the edges of my eyelids
And the tips of my fingers,
Begging me to let it stay.
Thunder rocked the house
And lightning lit the room.
My nerves were fried,
My mind alert and on edge.
At 3 am, sleep left me
Did not come back.

8:00 am

We stand together,
Brothers and sisters
Sons and daughters,
Family,
Not just by our own blood
But by the blood of the One
Who died for us.

7:00
-h.e.m.

As I walked along the city streets I saw
a speck of green.
A few baby blades of grass
pushed up gently,
resiliently
through the cracks in the pavement.
Unbeknownst to most,
the little blades of grass
grew stronger,
pushing,
fighting.
Life finds a way.

-h.e.m.

First a fuzzy, wriggling puppy,
Now a proudly awkward dog.
With big eyes and a strong nose
She spends her time in her sandbox
Or excitedly asking for pets.

-h.e.m.

Rain falls steadily
In time with claps of thunder.
A summer rain storm

Dear Ones Who Raised Me,
In times of turmoil
You have held me,
Not asking for words
Or demanding answers,
But listening.
Just listening.
Sometimes that is enough.
For when words fail,
Love is there
To pick me up
And guide me.
I am not perfect
And neither are you,
But you have shown me the love
Of the One who is.
Now as I lie here
Wondering why I am awake at 1 am,
I can truly say that no matter what
I have been loved
Fully and unconditionally.
Thank you

When you make a wish,
Where does it go?
Does it fly far away
And come back as snow?
Does it live among the daffodils,
Daisies, and violets,
Or does it rest within you heart
And match its beat slow and silent?
Does it go to the forest
And soar through the leaves,
Or sleep in the river
and dance with the the breeze?
When you make a wish,
Where does it go?
Does it fly far away
Or come back as snow?

-h.e.m.

16

I am tired of worrying
About all of my worrying
For it leads to more worrying
About my habit of worrying.
I am tired of struggling
To maintain control.
I know it is time to surrender.

poem 15

First day of freshman year.
My heart slams in my chest and rattles my rib cage.
I hear my shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.
I glance at my phone.
Ten minutes until the bell rings.
My best bet is to hide out for a few minutes before I go to class.
I make a beeline for the bathroom.
It’s poorly lit and there are no paper towels
but at least, for a moment,
I am alone.
I wash my hands,
dry my wet fingers on my new jeans,
and head to the classroom.
The first to arrive,
but my teacher greets me with a smile that makes me feel welcome.
“Sit anywhere, honey.”
I try to comply.
The desks are arranged in groups of four,
pushed together like tables.
Picking one seems a staggering task.
I sit down, praying to catch a glimpse of a familiar face soon.
My prayers are answered.
My eighth grade friend is the second person to walk through the doorway.
We greet with relieved smiles.
We are in this together.
A nervous blonde girl asks to join us at our table.
She is friendly and makes a successful attempt at breaking the ice.
The three of us have the same second hour.
A sigh of relief.
Our teacher hands out a syllabus and explains the rules,
and we spend the remainder of the hour talking.
Conversation starts slowly, then flows.
We are equally nervous,
but somehow nerves feel better shared.
For the first time all day, my smile is real.
This is the first hour of my first day of my first year of high school.
Breathe.
It gets better.

-h.e.m.