The Poetry Marathon

The spiders
weave their mandalas 
between plants and trees and 
blades of grass. Their 
magic visible only when 
touched by the sun.

My mother's mashed potatoes were perfect.
Smooth, creamy with just the 
right ratio of milk and butter to potato. She
also had the perfect 
potato masher. The smashing part 
was metal with a red wooden 
handle that just
fit your hand. 

When I furnished my first kitchen, I tried using 
a blender. No good. I found a smaller 
version of my mother's
masher, which worked but gave 
out eventually. 

My mother died and I inherited 
the red handled masher.
For years I was able to make perfect mashed 
potatoes. A combination of age and too much time
in dishwater loosened the handle
and off it came. 

My husband bought a new one, black plastic
with holes to smash the 
potatoes through. Disappointment.

I looked in his work area to find the parts
of the masher for this poem. I found
it glued back together! If it's as strong as
it seems, mashed potatoes for dinner tomorrow!

She stood on the green grass at 
the edge of the world,
one step backwards from the icy 
precipice.

The world moves slowly through 
time on the back of a turtle. That is
why we call it Turtle Island. 
Some say four elephants stand
on the turtle's back and old up the world.
I have never seen them, just the turtles.

Wrinkled necks, tough skin, flippered
feet, they swim through the 
ocean of space. Always
moving around the
sun. All of them, one beneath
the other, beneath the
other.

My man Elk had 'Blue Bayou' on repeat all
day. Grabbing my jacket I 
headed out to pull some beets for
dinner. It was too late to
pickle them, but I thought
a stick of cinnamon in the pot would
spice it up, maybe add a red pepper too.

I felt the tremor, grabbed the bucket and 
started to run, towards the house. I 
stumbled and fell as
the ground began to roll. In a
minute, all was still. Must have
hit my elbow because it ached
like anything.

When I got to the house, Elk was
standing in the carport looking at the
ruins of the house. He held a light
bulb in one hand. In the other, 
he held his phone. 
It was still playing 
"Blue Bayou".

Sitting wrapped up on the deck under 
a sky of stars.
Northern lights pulsating green.
Sun setting into the ocean, rising 
from the river.
The solar eclipse made crescents on the car, 
the driveway, the street.
A cold, red lunar eclipse.
Full moon shinning through bare winter branches,
barely visible through the summer leaves.
The pink/yellow sky after a storm.
Clouds so low I could almost touch them.

Twirling round and round,
clouds overhead. Swinging
higher and higher,flying.

Arms out, head back,
twirling round and round
until the sandy yard comes up to meet me.

I hold the laughing baby,
dancing through the house
twirling round and round.

To the police he told
a rambling story of having
been out drinking with a
woman and
how, in putting
on her hat, she 
accidentally jabbed him
with the pin.

At the post mortem examination
at the hospital yesterday after
noon it was found that
the broken point of the
hat pin was
imbedded four and three-
quarters inches in the man's 
heart, thus precluding all
possibility of the stabbing  having been
accidental.

Thomas Woods, the husband of the 
woman who was accused 
of being intimate with the dead
man, knew very little about the affair. He said
that Mrs. Montgomery had told
him of her suspicious and
when he asked his
wife, she admitted that Montgomery
had made some advances, but
that
she had done
nothing wrong and he intended going to the 
Montgomery home to have an understanding, 
on the 
night of the 
trouble, but did not.
He said he
visited the 
hospital in Detroit and found
Montgomery there. The latter asked
Woods not to tell his
relatives where he was.

Every member of the Montgomery family
is very
reticent in discussing the case
and they all absolutely refuse to say anything
that might
incriminate the wife of
Fred Montgomery. They profess
to be in ignorance of her present 
whereabouts.

Mrs. Watkins, who lives next
door to Montgomery home,
informed detectives that suspected 
woman told her she jabbed
him with a
hat pin and that it
broke off.

None of the witnesses felt
disposed to give Mrs. Montgomery
undue blame, and
from testimony it was clearly
shown that Montgomery was quarreling with
his wife and that he
administered
a severe whipping, as she was bruised about
the face and
body after her husband had left
the house.

Mrs. William Watkins was the star
witness of the 
evening and she told her story
in a placid, self-satisfied way that greatly
impressed every person
in the town hall. She
said that on the night of the
row, she heard a woman's screams and
going to the door of her own home she
discovered the dead
man and his wife scuffling on the lawn.
She
called and asked what
they were doing. Montgomery left his wife
and jumping over the fence,
started down the
road, calling back
as he went.  "Good-bye, I'm going to
jump in the river." Mrs.
Montgomery followed
hera
husband.

The two women had a conversion about
the fight, and when asked if 
she was hurt Mrs.
Montgomery is alleged to have 
said: "Yes, but he is hurt too."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Watkins.
"Why I stabbed him with a hat pin and 
broke it
off in 
him." was the cool rejoinder.

The verdict of the coroner's jury
last night was
to the effect that Mrs. Josephine
Montgomery stabbed her husband with a 
hat pin from the effect of which he died.
But she is fully exonerated from
any criminal charge as the jury believed that
she aced merely in self defense.

This poem was compiled from various news stories in the Windsor Star, July 1905

Chained by time and
choice, they move forward
slower now, but still

together.

The air clung to my skin, a wet washrag waiting to be wrung out.
Grabbing a hand full, I squeezed until liquid filled my bucket,
smelling sweetly of new mown hay. It ran down my
arms and pooled around my feet.
"Ern's Better'n Nair'n, Kris" my granny would say long ago when I
complained about lack of something. How to account for too much
of a good thing? 
Water covered the yard. Making it hard to breath deeply.

This poem covers the page in messy writing, impossible to
transfer to the page. Full of aulasy, I fight on.
Water and words covering me, the page still empty.
Ahead, I see nothing but more nothing, but I plunge
squeezing words into the bucket with a rapidity that startles even me.

Pero, ¿a quién le importa?
The bucket, tired and full walks off stage, splashing overflow into the
already flooded yard.

A vivid image? I will be lucky to complete with a limp image, let's try though.
The air smells blue overhead. The sun, a round ball of yellow fire, begins
to dry the yard. the wet dishrag I didn't have, I toss after
the fleeing bucket, making a SPLISH, SPLASH.