The Poetry Marathon

as a child, I liked to find

little places to hide

a shrub, I pretended was a jungle

a blackberry bush, where the neighborhood cat

joined me

and for a short time, my own closet

I’d bring in a book and a lamp

and for an hour or two

that closet would be a portal

to whatever I could imagine

she came to me from my parents

the little blue dog that hunted for clues.

but she was too curious

and I too careless

she found a can of olives on the Win-Dixie shelves

and thought it would make a good spot to rest

she was lost for some hours,

but my father brought her home

after an arduous search

from then on, I kept her close by

but proximity doesn’t always mean safe

like the time I spilled glue on one paw then

tore the seam on the other, and

I thought she was a goner

but my mother patched her up

and she was almost as good as new

after many a year, and many a move,

she still sits on my selves,

still a good spot to rest

but far away from olives, and glue,

and any other duress

Before we continue: I don’t know if

this was a memory or a dream.

Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s neither

Nevertheless, this meadow has been a part

of me since I was quite young.

A long stretch of green grass spotted

with honeysuckles, whose fragrance lingered on

my clothes long after I left

Mountains marked the edge of the meadow

boulders jutted through the grass like knives.

It scared me, just a little, to see something imposing

over the peace of the greenery.

But to this day, almost thirty years later,

I still see the meadow,

in my dreams, and

in my memories

a small herd of elk rummage

through a pile of sugar beets.

the buck stares out at the road,

protecting his own from cars

that swerve through unlit country roads

a bright light shines in his eyes, and

instinctively bugles. the herd runs off

into the dark depths of the northern prairie

the car continues on, headlights blinding

any that cross its path

hummingbirds hasten

to a nectar feast, bled dry

onward, little wings

marked and drawn

from on the mount eyes follow down

marked and drawn

they tarry forth and pray

a great cloud of dust

breaks the line from going on

marked and drawn

the once great captain surveyed

the remains of her crew.

ruffians, all of them, but loyal.

evening sunlight cast odd shadows

as they worked to maintain the Galya’s course

to the end of the world

six months of frustration,

the death of four crew members,

and the treason of one. the Galya rocked

to and fro, across the endless sea

as the evening sun faded, the captain stilled.

a great flash of moonlight, blanketed the vessel,

blinded all but the captain.

her crew stood dazed, but she ran towards the bow.

moonlight marked the edge, and it called to her,

beckoning her forward.

the sea fell way to the edge – to nothingness

and still it called. the captain looked back

to her crew and her ship, voiced an “I’m sorry,”

and jumped, but did not fall.

instead she floated above the ship and the sea,

and became one with the stars

final boxes are stacked in a van

an almost empty home stands

unaware that its inhabitants will leave

tomorrow. on a clouded, gray morning

gutters will fill with rain

no one will notice when leaves fall and clog,

and water leaks through the roof

and no one will notice that the token of this home,

a small flower picked by their child,

was forgotten. a small yellow thing,

that now lies, crumpled, on a bedroom floor

to care and love

with open hearts

to stay beside

with open minds

to love’s embrace

we beckon on

I was an ocean

A roiling, boiling ocean that swallowed the entire world

I wish I could say it was good, but it burned and scraped and choked

Monuments caught in my throat

Sickly rivers coated my stomach

A mess of disgust, but nonetheless I swallowed it down

Until nothing was left

And I was left, unsatisfied