The Poetry Marathon

Jesus Wept

Just when I thought things were falling into place, stars collided.

Everything changed. Things began to spin in directions they weren’t

supposed to, orbiting new planets, around the sky, around

us, in a way that wasn’t meant to be. But nothing ever

seemed different when prayers were wailed at the sky.

Whenever I see the new stars bright in the night, I hope

everything will again align. My souls yearns and waits

patiently for my constellations to form and for long-lost

tears to well back in my eyes and unbreak my heart.

My car crashed through the concrete

went falling through the ground

to a deep dark hole filled with broken

rocks and worms slithering around

My car dropped through the concrete

and jolted me inside. I hit the window

with a thud and dared to hold on tight

My car tumbled through the concrete

and when I crawled outside, I saw

the sunset glowing, reflecting in my eyes

Lullaby

Hush, hush, go to sleep, let the fog

roll over you. Close your eyes, sleep

tight, let dreams drift away.

As the sun breaks at dawn and shines

down from the sky, hear the birds

in the trees whistling softly.

As you wake, see my eyes looking

into yours, bright as day. I whisper

hums of songs, perfect melodies.

Constellations

The dust on my phone looks like stars in the sky.

And every time my screen locks, I see planets

circling around and around the earth,

stars so hot, they’re about to burst,

vacuums, space sucking in and in, hope.

With every glimpse, my heart starts to twirl.

Kids at the zoo come to see

Dolphins, zebras, lions,

Monkeys flinging from the trees.

But they never see the men

All in white, scooping up trash,

Putting cherries in their cones.

When they go home, it’s never alone.

Praying and Blessing

Up on the cabinet of my preschool room, is a box

full of books, waiting to be read. My teacher took

them down and sorted: keep, toss, donate. I wanted

Praying and Blessing but she threw them in the donate

pile, placed them at the glass front door, hoping

someone would grab, but dusting when they didn’t.

My Poetry

My poetry is a fastball, sailing

through the wind, 93 miles per hour, slicing

the air like a child’s paper plane.

It flies until it hits the batter’s mouth,

causing blood to seep out of teeth’s new holes,

gushing to the ground, the way I bleed poetry.

My poetry is the ambulance rushing

through the crowds, racing to save the one.

As the bandage is placed, and all is healed,

he forgets the scab that used to be, fears

the one that is to come. He soaks in a bath,

peels it off his skin, embraces my words.

Similis Papilioni

I see my reflection on my computer screen. I’m covered

with a bouquet of flowers, roses, berries, purple buds waiting

to bloom. The bouquet sits above butterflies resting

on top oranges, feasting on its juice, long tongues snaking

into the pulp. My screen darkens the image and I pop

through. My face is hidden by blossoms, my body by wings.

But if I move my head, tilt it to the side, I see my eyes poking

out. It reminds me of what I’m told to be: beautiful,

gentle, still, before I burst through my delicate shell and fly.

Keepsakes

I kept my Pope Francis coin stashed
away in my lunchbox. Front pocket,
protected by a zipper no one
thought worked. I forgot I put
it there so many months ago,
but it never did rust, no matter
how much I spilled or what
leaked from inside. I found
it yesterday, rejoiced, and placed
it on the kitchen table next
to baseball cards and colored-pencil
pictures, hoping it won’t get buried.

The Way Celery Grows

Rip apart the package and take

out the full-grown stalk. Cut

off the base, two inches thick,

discard the rest. Fill a crystal-

clear bowl with water and drown

it in the coolness. Wait

a week and then you’ll start

to see the center rise

like a volcano forming

from rocks and mud. Day after

day, it grows closer to the sky.

A month goes by. Leaves soon

appear, taking over the three

skinny stalks tall as your hand,

like fingernails left untrimmed,

waving with each breath blowing

through the house. The water will grow

green with syrupy slime that attacks

what’s left of the base, rotting

it away into brown sludge.

I don’t know how long it takes

until it’s ready to eat.

All I know is how it grows,

taller and taller each day

until it covers the windowsill

with shade, my own little tree.