The Poetry Marathon

Phases

It always happens when writing

poetry, the words in my mind

go in cycles of how they form,

my pen trying to echo words

that change form. Lines are short, long,

short, long; stanzas are small bursts,

fireworks with a bang or swell

words sweeping like the flowing waves;

words are succinct, little soldiers

giving commands, and blooming

flowers reaching towards the light.

Things may change, but words never

do, holding my heart tight and still.

Old Calendars

Do you ever have a hard time throwing

away old calendars, afraid of losing

the places you’ve been, the memories

made so you stash them away, hoarding

them like precious gems, coins in a treasure

chest, stack growing ‘til it reaches the sky?

Codes

Away from the storefronts and skyscrapers, the forest ranger waits

for his bread to bake – sourdough twists, a hint of lemon, a taste

that brings him back to life. He rubs the night from his eyes, tucks his green

shirt in his pants, puts on one worn boot after the other. His belt

buckle glimmers, a Kentucky horse racing in the small sliver

of light from his curtains’ crack. He hears the birds playing, preying,

mating, wishing he had one of his own. He shakes the thought and slinks

out the door, down his stairs, walks to his shed and puts in the code.

With a chirp, the door sparks open, his Jeep a deep forest color

waiting for him to ride, the beating drum he’s born to play. He spits

on his sleeve and rubs off some dirt. He hops in, locks the door, forgetting

his enemies only have paws. With his head in the clouds, as his past

girls would say, he zooms off into the day, helping, saving, rescuing

furry lives and the only hearts that promised him they’d always stay.

Don’t delete me when I’m gone

when my heart rests and I cease to be, will you still

hang out photos on your bulletin board wall, save

the messages we shared on your phone and keep

me with you wherever you go? Or will you delete

the memories of us, throw us away in fear

just like you did before, not wanting to see

all that we were and could have been, lovers, best friends,

afraid that you’ll hold on too long after I’m gone.

Similarities

The chill of DayQuil down a sore throat

is the same as the coolness of alcohol

sprayed on healthy skin is the same

as putting a mint between teeth

and chewing is the same as you

when we kiss in a Covid-filled world.

Praying for a (Marathon) Miracle

The summertime flu comes around once

a year, always when you need it least.

But it’s that slow ache brings you back

to life. Stuffy head and heavy heart

broken reminders of things loved

and missed, required when you lack.

It signals that you have a mind

creative, a heart still beating, slowly

and then quick, a push and pull of strength

you didn’t know you had. You resist

the temptation of medicine calling

from the cabinet not wanting the numb

that comes. But it’s the ideas you crave,

the hallucinations that ensue,

the spin of the world going

dizzy and sideways – just for you.

How Birds Weather the Storm

Two by two, inspired by Noah,

called by God to perch on gutters

flooding with rain, huddled and waiting

for their olive branch to appear.

Our basement is flooding

If you look by the gate, there’s a rock

that split. And that’s where the rain’s

coming in. Daddy was a whisper

above sirens, tornados in the air

and dancing in our heads. We’ll just dig

a trench. Dig down 12 feet, 18 inches.

Find some gold. The wailing quieted,

seemed to cease, failing to take the rain

away with it. Hearts now calming,

but not long before Eddie runs down

the stairs: Hey, Dad! We got some more!

Picture

She holds her arms to her head, fingers

poised to click, her maroon dress blowing

with the wind as each breath shaking

her chest, each time pushing the bridge

out of focus, ‘til it’s out of reach.

She wishes she had someone to take

a picture of her as she stands facing

the sun that rises as it sets, still

billowing in each breeze, a moment

to keep, ‘til she blurs just the same.

Brown Banana

Cast to side, replaced.

Yellow ones hanging above.

Which one will you eat?