The Poetry Marathon

The Flaming Piñata

I liked playing with matches– the spark, the dancing blue of the flame.

The sweet biting fragrance of sulfur seemed to whisper my name.

One afternoon, it stood, beckoning me from my childlike dream:

A piñata: bright, welcoming colors of red, yellow, blue, and green!

With skillful hands, I lit up the beast.

Flames burst like little Mexican candies exploding from its belly.

My seven year old attempts to put out the fire, all in vain.

Time to call upon the only creature worthy of the challenge: Mom.

She battled the fiery beast with buckets upon buckets of water.

Cremated remains of yellow, red, blue, and green tissue were hauled outside for a decent burial.

I knew I could always count on my mom to be by my side in any battle.

And each time I see a piñata at a party, I have an entirely different perspective of the red, yellow, blue, and green tissue paper.

Before Darkness

Not wanting to stab anyone in the neck, I dropped the knife.

You plotted

You schemed

You laughed thinking of me

How I’d be all alone

Later that night

How you would

Knock and bang

And give me a

Fright.

What you did not know

Is that I am strong

And not afraid;

My go-to weapon is a

sharpened

Blade.

After Dark

You three

Wanted to scare me

Thinking it would be fun

All laughs for everyone

In the stillness, in the dark

As you snuck through my yard,

Like thieves in the night

Thinking I wouldn’t put up a fight.

I was scared

As you knocked

As you banged

As you demanded,

“Let me in!”

With your flashlight beaming in my eyes

I was the one to give you a surprise

With one hand, I flung open the door

In the other, I gripped the knife.

Who then was scared for their life?

Not me.

Your snorts of laughter

Turned to gasps of fear,

Tasting your own disaster.

Feeling your end was near.

Not wanting to stab anyone in the neck,

I dropped the knife.

You learned a lesson that night:

Don’t be messin’

With a blond

And a butcher knife.

I Forget Where We Were

But I remember sneaking Camels from your mom’s purse

Grabbing matches from the front seat of my brother’s car

Thinking we were so cool

Sneaking off somewhere

I forget where

I remember that spark of the match

The sweet smell of sulfur

As I struck the match

The thrilling burn

On the tip of my finger and thumb

And then sucking in the filterless fiend

As you held the match

I remember the fire torching my insides

And not wanting to cough

Not wanting to spit out the avalanche

of nicotine and tar.

I forget where we were

But I remember feeling dizzy

You were so much cooler

Holding in the smoke like a pro

And blowing it out in rings

Standing with one hand on your hip

You didn’t cough

Or gag

Or make an icky face

You weren’t scared of getting caught.

I was all of those things.

I forgot where we were,

But I won’t forget that

you

were

my

friend.

I don’t miss Camels,

But I do miss you.

Summer’s End

The deerfoot stippler, washed, dryed, put away

Quinacridone Magenta frowns as her cap is tightened

Stuffed into her den between Naphthol Crimson and

Phthalo Green;

The easel creaks

as he is flattened,

placed beside the

crafting table.

Canvases mourn,

modeling paste grieves,

pallet knives lament.

A little wave goodbye to my ArtSherpa,

Creepy Trees,

and Thankful Art.

Table is cleared of pallet creativity;

the mind must focus on its new venture–

Creativity with the pen!

The artist’s pallet changes from paint and brushes to

powerpoints and Writer’s Notebooks.

The crafting room morphs into an office once again;

Soon pencils, highlighters, folders, essays line the table

Bags of homework to be graded

Late to bed, early to rise

School starts again.

This will be my second marathon. Last year’s marathon experience was phenomenal. By hour 24, I was a zombie poet, but I did it. After reviewing some of my poems from last year, I realized I really like them (at the time, not so much). The marathon re-invigorated me and my writing passion. I’ve been painting a lot this year, so I’m prepping for this year’s marathon by looking at my art and the stories behind each piece. Onward!

There once was a writer named Holly

Whose verses were normally jolly.

Until one day she went 24 hours without sleep;

And all her words made her weep.

With the last words she typed, “I’m going to bed, by golly!”

The woman was a writer

Her children, her husband, her friends

knew her only as

a mother, a wife, a friend.

Alone, as she wrote,

she came alive.

A Person, an Artist of Words.

She wrote with her tears,

her laughter, her spirit.

With each passage she wrote,

a little bit of her life

emptied onto the page;

She created masterpieces.

With her words,

the oceans came alive;

the trees moved to the music of orchestras;

and the wind breathed new life into the world.

But when her symphony ended,

nobody knew about

the oceans; the trees; or the wind.

White and wiggly

And full of goo

Maggots are baby flies

Feeding on rotting

Flesh pie

First on the scene

When an animal dies;

Breathes through the same hole

Where it poos

White and wiggly

And full of goo

Once way after midnight, my eyes were blurry.

I pondered about how weak and weary

I had become from A Poetry marathon.

Edgar, my dear literary friend, it’s well past the

Witching hour, and that’s all I got.

My starry, starry knight

Swirls of black

Swirls of blue

I thought he was my dream

come true.

Captured so long ago

By his smile, by his face

By his seeming endless grace

Now there’s no star

No light

No way to live my life

Only darkness

Only pain

Night after day of endless rain.

Where’s my castle

Where’s my pride

Where’s my carriage ride

to leave this life

flames of black

All Around

Faceless others without a sound

Burned by the light from beyond

Singing my lamenting song

Praying each night for a way

To make this my last day

Sadness in the morning light

To find I’m still . . .

Alive.