The Poetry Marathon

My little brother, Sam, doesn’t think leprechauns are real – can you believe that
Green, lucky, rainbows, pots of gold
How can they not be real
After all, green is a color, rainbows shine in the sky, luck happens and gold can be put in pots
So they must be real if all those things are
Maybe, in reality, humans aren’t real
And leprechauns are
I mean, it seems like they’re dependable, showing up every March and on cereal boxes the rest of the year
People, on the other hand, can be unpredictable, cancel plans, and go absent for years on end
Leprechauns spread joy; people can spread hate
In fact, they can seem quite fake
So can you really say leprechauns are not real if people are fake
I don’t see how Sam thinks leprechauns aren’t real
I guess you just have to believe

Adapted from the book Three Ways to Trap a Leprechaun by Tara Lazar. p.1, line 1.
Prompt from 2020 Poetry marathon. Hour 12.

Fourteen rocks, purple orbs
Easily crushed by hand
Scooped and shaped, delicately formed
From a child’s box of sand
Hours of fun and memories made
With all the questions born
Were these rocks native to the moon
That came to earth airborne

Or were they formed beneath the waves
Upon the ocean floor
Did fish toss them while playing catch
Until they reached the shore
Maybe they snagged a boat or three
One cannot really say
But this much is well known to me
They made a child’s day

Fourteen pretty purple orbs
Easily crushed by hand
Fun memories left to absorb
Just as Mama had planned
Children stay small but awhile
Those moments all but rare
But, if sand rocks can make her smile
It’s time I’m glad to share

I still remember that Father’s Day, 14 years ago. You wore that special ruffled purple dress I loved. You looked beautiful walking down those stairs. It made me smile. When I shook your hand, later that day, and told you that you’d been a good daughter for twenty-seven years, I knew my health was tedious and moments left might be few. I did not know how few. I had no way of knowing, even if becoming sicker, that I had but a week. I had plans. I know you did too.

I’ve watched you go on to finish school, get married, and not only live a dream but also experience a miracle in delivering my only grandchild. Watching Emily, the baby you named when you were a kid, grow up is such a joy and I wish I were there to hug her in person. But, I’m there.

All those days, Emily sees me at the pool, I’m there. When she sees me in the clouds, I’m there. I do talk to her. I fly over to visit. I’m always there.

You’re still a good daughter but, more than that, you’re an equally good wife and absolutely the best mother. Thank you for keeping my memory alive. I love you.

She rook a somber stroll one day
In hopes to clear her mind
She came upon a rundown shack
The bleakest you could find
Its outer walls covered in vines
’twas dark and dusty too
And peering through its window pane
A storm began to brew

The storm and cabin fit her mood
The lady dressed in black
She made her way into the wood
With hope of bringing back
A memory of olden days
And love now long forgotten
But, ‘neath the sky’s increasing grays
More gloom was all she’d gotten

Until she looked upon the tree
Out on a tiny branch
A cardinal sat so happily
Amid the sky so blanch
She thought back to the olden days
Their birding days of yore
When through a tear, a smile displayed
As rain began to pour

Across the room, a relic stands
It has many a year
The tunes of generations’ bands
Heard by many an ear
Played by a man, up in his time
He’s seen and heard it all
Requests are grand, critiques are few
From open to last call

No one knows why he stays and plays
These songs that span the ages
And yet, he sits, days upon days
Without a workman’s wages
Is it merely the love of song
Or something deeper still
All we know is he’s going strong
And hope he always will

His dedication to the craft
Spans the years he has known
He’s signed many an autograph
As “Piano Man” alone
No one knows how he came to be
And still, it matters none
He plays each timeless memory
As if he were still young

Maybe this is why he does it
His own Fountain of Youth
Within the notes and lyrics
That speak a life of truth
I’m sure one day I’ll visit
And only hear the chords
Raining down on me from Heaven
As he plays before the Lord

For now, though, I’ll indulge him
Drink in each note that he plays
These moments are his legacy
To stay with me always
Music is as universal
As time is but a flash
And the gift the Old Man gives us
Is worth so much more than cash

His dedication and commitment
The yearning in his soul
Paints an everlasting portrait
Of a half that makes me whole
For music is the color
In a world of black and white
And the Old Man, like none other
Can still move my soul just right

My sunflower girl
You brighten all my days
My sunflower girl
You are in my heart always
Whenever I’m down
You can always bring a smile
My sunflower girl
Please stay here with me awhile

My sunflower girl
You are happy through the dim
My sunflower girl
You embrace my every whim
Whenever I’m cold
You adopt me in your warmth
My sunflower girl
Always helping me go forth

My sunflower girl
You are hope and you are joy
My sunflower girl
Giving all you can employ
Whenever I think
Of all the love in the world
My sunflower girl
You are there with arms unfurled

My sunflower girl
From the moment of your birth
My sunflower girl
You’re the sweetest soul on earth
Whenever I see
Every ray of bright sunshine
My sunflower girl
I’m so glad that you are mine

“Between the woods and frozen lake…” Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, line 7.

Between the woods and frozen lake
A figment in the snow
A foreign sign found at daybreak
What is it? I don’t know
I ponder should I take a look
Or simply leave it be
A mystery near the little brook
So near and dear to me

Alas, I muster courage
A strength from far beyond
To saunter down the path ahead
Beside the frozen pond
And gaze before this mystery
For any form of sign
Of origins or history
For this figment of mine

As I inched slowly nearer
I saw a speck of brown
An outline drawing clearer
Amid the snowy down
Alas, it was a bottle
With writing worn and faded
An older scrawl-like mottle
Obviously quite degraded

I wonder how it got here
And then I wonder more
It surely held a story
I would like to implore
And so, I grabbed the figment
Packed tightly in the snow
With its brownish amber pigment
To see what it may know

No notes nor scraps of paper
I find no signs at all
Except one odd bright blue marking
With a number to call
I quickly jot the number
And give the place a ring
Where a mid-aged man would answer
Explaining the whole thing

“Ten years, I lost my Mother
To that bottle in the snow
I wrote my number on it
So maybe one would know
Not only had she struggled
But alas, she also lived
And was loved by oh so many
With a lot more love to give.”

I hung up and leaned forward
This gift had been for me
I poured my bottle down the sink
And walked beyond the tree
Returning where the bottle’d been
And placed it where it was
So it was there, left to be seen
By one needing some cause

The figment changed my life that day
My world is better since
And when I see the snow, I pray
Then, through my tears, I wince
For there are many struggling still
I hope someday they’ll find
The courage or the sudden will
In that figment of mine

I took my baby to the beach
I walked her to the water
A million seashells in our reach
A day for Mom and daughter
A moment that had harkened back
To days spent in my youth
My Dad and I had quite the knack
Of finding hope and truth

How does one find but truth and hope
Within a simple shell
Well each one has the means to cope
Amid each ocean swell
A story that one can all but guess
That brought it here this day
But one I stand here to profess
Is profound in its way

Up against the ocean’s odds
The shell has bounced along
Its fate left only to the gods
Amid the currents’ strong
Yet here it stands within our hands
So perfect and pristine
Upon arrival to the lands
On water, crystalline

I took my daughter to the beach
A day of summer fun
Fond memories within my reach
Beneath the summer sun
For not just searching for the shells
But stopping to think too
Despite the many ocean swells
The seashell made it through

The day became a blessing
For my daughter to recall
The shell is but a lesson
Of survival for us all
A symbol of the will and might
We all hold deep inside
That carries us past every plight
To reach our shores in stride

Hi everyone! My name is Jill Halasz. This is my 6th or 7th poetry marathon and I am excited to get started again. If this is your first, it is a rush and so much fun. Whether you are planning a half marathon or a full, best of luck to each of you today. The important thing is to put something creative out into the world. Get it out now and you can always refine it later. 🙂

As I cross the bridge over the river, I know I’m almost home
The changing leaves, their colors bright as if to welcome me back
The two lane roads, the Amish buggies, the fields that span for miles
The air so crisp and clean, I’m blessed to be homeward again
I miss these moments far from life, far from the maddened crowds
Away from the bustle and the perils known as city life
Back home, things move a slower pace, a better pace for me
Where thoughts flow freely without fail, nothing to halt their voice
I miss the days of butter churning and apples bobbed for fun
I miss the times when life was free and I was very young
It was indeed a simpler time, but one that makes me glad
When I return and thus, reflect on the good times I had