The Poetry Marathon

Reaching, pulling..always

pushing myself to go farther, but never getting anywhere.

I am climbing this ladder, Continuously all night

The moon, so bold, it’s full tonight I cannot

Stop! I say to myself

But I can’t…Why am I doing this?

Is it for glory, this journey I am climbing?

Fame never interested

Someone like me, who always knew brains

Took you places and allowed you to

Meet people, that beauty never could

I am reaching over the debris of

Forgotten dreams and painful memories…

Though Panic grabs a hold of my legs

In the form of self-doubt and people

Telling me that I can’t do it

I won’t keep reaching

For the sky…

I’m pushing myself past my limits, working

My body, my mind, my spirit

Like I’ve never done before!

This fucking ladder, it won’t end, it’s

3 am and still I’m climbing I know I’m sleepin’

But I can’t stop reachin’, for the next bar, and the next

And the next…I can feel my heart

Pounding against my breastbone, I am

Not going to make it.

I looked down by accident, what the hell was I thinking?

I had broken free of the haters, conquered my

self-doubt..or so I thought.

And then, I looked down.

I can see the broken liquor bottles

On the sand by the Lake down below

I’ve come so far from where I started

And now, it frightens me

To see how far I’ve come.

Heights never bothered me before,

So I’m unsure why they are starting now

That it is my own past trials and tribulations

I stare down at that want to spark fear in me.

I look away from my down below, from my past and

Take a deep breath. I focus on what is

In front of me, I can smell the sweet rust of the iron

Nearly taste the bitter salty sea air

And feel the cold of the ladder

Under my numb hands…

I say the prayer that has gotten me through times

Worse than this, “The Lord is My Shepherd, I

Shall not want” and suddenly, my purpose becomes clear again.

I keep pulling, keep reaching, and suddenly…YES!

I’ve made it! My fingers touch thick leaves

I pull myself into a grove of trees

Filled with every fruit imaginable and

Some never before seen.

There is a golden light, I

Cannot see its source, but

It bathes me and every living creature around me

Butterflies settle on my nose and on my back

My grandmother waves to me from the pond side

Where she soaks her feet in the still water there.

I take one delectable-looking fruit from the tree nearest me,

Look at the God in heaven for permission first.

He nods His approval, and I take a bite.

No, it was not from the Tree of Knowledge

As I’ve never been here before so I am unsure what

Any of these trees are supposed to symbolize.

But later I find out that it’s from

The Tree of Triumph..He’s seen me struggle and overcome

And He is telling me

To rest easy. Now and Always.

I cried tears of joy I heard the news. I had prayed every day, had worked toward it to make it happen..every day.

Without You, dearest Lord, I would not have gotten the opportunity of a Lifetime. Not only did You

Give me an internship…but You also gave me something that You knew I was lacking.

You knew I had not forgiven my past tormentors. You knew that I was still..close-minded

Towards people with blue eyes and blond hair.

For my past experiences as a 10 year-old biracial female had left a few unhealed scars.

And so you placed me, dearest Lord, in an environment where I was forced to confront my fears. You helped me to see clearly, how it was I who still desperately wanted to fit in with a group of people who would never walk a mile in my shoes…and You used this as an opportunity to remind me that though as hard as I try to fit it, I was born to stand out.

Thank You Lord, for giving me this summer.

Sustenance and. Experience I will take with me wherever I go. And the lesson that I will catch more flies with honey than vinegar. I’ve learned the politics of the workplace, and I will never forget them.

Thank You God, for not letting me break. Though I never let them see my tears, I know that you counted every one, and you are my ears when no one else seems to hear me, not even myself.

Thank You God, for giving me this summer.

Home was a person with two sets of brown eyes

and a wrinkled face. She was

My heart, my rock, my caretaker, my everything…

Fuck you, Death! You took my home away!

She was my mother, my father, my grandmother, and grandfather.

She filled the role of three extra people

Who were either too sick to help themselves or too cowardly to care.

Without her..I have no home.

My grandmother, is my Home. And

No place, no person, will ever replace her.

This love we have is

Beautiful, warm, inviting, solid.

We’ve been through so much, you and I

We’ve journeyed to

Be together. You’ve been

My rock when I needed it the most

I lay my head on your chest

And listen to your heartbeat.

This is home. You are home for me.

You’ve protected me

From dangers seen and unseen

You’ve sheltered my secrets.

And safeguarded a love solely meant for you.

I lay my head on your chest.

And listen to your heartbeat.

I can rest easily, for I know that

No matter how terrible and ugly and chaotic and destructive

This world can be…you won’t break.

My chest begins to hurt

When I feel the love I have for you

You’re like the shelter from the storm, I am safe.

I feel light-hearted, worry-free, and genuinely at peace

When we are together.

Making love is not really what I think of, just the cuddle part

For I know that if we grow old together,

And you cannot get it up anymore and I can no longer get wet

Cuddling is all that we will do…

For this love we have is unconditional, suspended in time, and a breath of fresh air

It is the rest after a long day, it is a drink of water in the hot sun

It is a peace amidst a world of chaos…

It is a gentle shelter I call Home.

It may sound weird, but I like to fold clothes
Perhaps it’s the methodical, soothing, under and over
Feeling of cloth beneath my fingertips
Pants, shirts, dresses, it doesn’t matter; i like to fold.

Perhaps it’s the methodical, soothing, under and over
Requires no thought, no creativity, no critique of my work
Pants, shirts, dresses, it doesn’t matter; i like to fold.
The best part I think, is the smell of freshly washed linen and

Folding Clothes requires no thought, no creativity, no critique of my work
It’s may sound unusual, but I like to fold clothes
The best part I think, is the smell of freshly washed linen and
Feeling of cloth beneath my fingertips

A. Alive, I feel alive. I feel alive, in this moment and in this poem. I am alive. I am everything I’ve dreamed of, anything at all, I can be. I am the moon, controlling the tides, I am the tides, washing ashore, I am the sun, heating the sand, I am the wind, carrying my words near and far…I am the trees, waiting to bear fruit, I am the soil, giving small creatures a home, I am Alive..

N. Namaste, dear friends. My morning coffee cup sits beside me, the light from the kitchen illuminates the golden paint off of the wall. I see the God in you, so do not fret if we do not see eye to eye. Peace, always, because in 10 years, our tranquility will be the only thing worth salvaging.

G. Gratitude, I am so thankful for this moment. Because I knew poverty and sadness, I began to count my blessings and became rich with happiness. I give thanks for the food in my ‘fridge, the air in my lungs, the roof over my head, and the love in my heart. I am most Grateful that I have 10 fingers, so that I can sit here and type this.

S. Strength, I am strong. My favorite word to describe myself, for I must remind myself at least 10 times a week that I will not break. Fuerte, Soy fuerte, one of the first phrases I learned in Spanish. For me, there is no creativity, no words, no inspiration, no passion without strength from adversity. Every day, I (try to remember) to say these words. And when I do, I am the ruler of my universe.

T. Transformation, I am always evolving. Time passes and I move with it, riding the waves of life and carving my way into caves of shelter…I rest there, and I transform. From caterpillar to butterfly, from girl to woman, I am always transforming. Growth is essential, it is okay to not have all of the answers, and I continually transform so that I can meet life head-on with whatever it throws at me.

I was once in a coma for about 2 years. I had many dreams during this time, but the one I remember most clearly went something like this:

I was walking down the street, and

a box was blocking my path. It was no bigger than the size of a watermelon, but

It was there.

Every one else seemed to

Walk around it. as if unconsciously avoiding it.

I asked a passerby, “do you see that box??”

“what box?”

I pointed in front of me. “that box! the one right there”

He looked at the box and back at me, as if

I were crazy.

Clearly he couldn’t see it.

I asked 3 more people. A young couple with tightly clasped hands

And an old woman with a dog in her purse.

.

All of them said they saw no box. The old woman offered to call an ambulance for me.

so I picked up the box, this box meant for me. And I opened it.

Magic leapt into

My hands.

And then I woke up.

If it were

Not for Technology

People from all 7 continents

Would not be here right now.

Likewise,

if it were not for Technology

7 in 10 youths

Would not be victims of cyber bullying.

Lena saw the old man come out of the 24-hour convenience store, and then she jumped him. She quickly wrestled him into the nearest alleyway, robbed him of all his money, and ran off without a backward glance. First she stopped by the 24-hour grocery store up the street from her house. Then she went home and fed her two little brothers, Reese and Eddy. She fed them the food she’d picked up, read them a short bedtime story, and then shut the bedroom door on her mother, who was passed out with a syringe in her arm. Finally, she started doing her math homework until she passed out too. Curiously, she was in such a hurry to leave the old man that she didn’t realize that the only picture she carried in her back pocket had fell through one of the holes in her baggy sweats. It reminded her of happier times, before her mom had relapsed again and their life had gone to shit. A pocket-sized photo of her from the 8th grade read on the back, “Congrats on Graduating! Love Mommy.” It was dated 5/2009. The old man picked up the photo, but couldn’t see in the dimly lit alleyway. After he got settled into his lonely townhouse and took some Tylenol for the pain, he picked up the photo again. This time, he gasped in shock. The young girl resembled something of a carbon copy of his daughter, Lisa, at about the age of 12.

Before darkness, I am lazy. Motivation eludes me and creativity dwindles Into an abyss of uncontrolled wanderings, that I am ashamed telling you. Why am I fighting the lies, why can’t I just show the best of me, like everyone else? Because when the light comes out, I lose my will, my independence, my ability, to think for myself. The sun has come out, the rain no longer holds me prisoner in the confines of my house, the depression is at bay. So I do not hold myself to my standards anymore and I either forget or pretend to forget to write a poem a day..a short story a day. A chapter a day no longer is my goal, my goal is just to exist, to soak up the sun, to chill with people who aren’t that important, to forget who I am as a writer, a person bound by the creativity engrained within her mind and her heart. To create is to exist on the highest form of my conscienceness. I am half a person when i do not create every day, several times a day, and still, I am complacent.

This condition called complacency afflicts many human beings, and I am no different. Do I call myself a statistic? Isn’t it bad enough that as a biracial female living in America means that I must be 10 times better than my Caucasian counterparts in order to succeed? Whether I see the stars wink at me in the moonlight or the clouds drift by in the sunlight, I know my reality. It took 30+ years for the first African-American or Latina female to win the Olympics. It took 2 centuries for the first African-American President to become a reality. I was one out of two people of color who interned in corporate america this past summer out of an intern group of 25 participants. And still, it is not enough.

That’s what I tell myself whenever people congratulate me on my accomplishments. It’s not enough.

That’s why I sometimes feel slightly ashamed that I do not do that one poem/short story a day like I promised myself.

As a biracial female, I will never be enough for this world. This is my reality, before and after darkness.