The Poetry Marathon

Slowly, he pokes his head around the door
Gathering as much courage as he can,
Until enveloped in safety,
He inches closer to the opening
crawling on his belly
nosing his way forward
inch by anxious inch.
until his nose, on his paws
hang over the threshold like a pregnant pause.
He waits
unable,
unwilling
soundlessly whimpering
refusing to do move any further
yet
eagerly
anticipating a way
to solve the mystery
of the basement

Shared love and burdens
are scattered
embracing all who enter.

Separate thoughts and cares
change perspectives
connect all who enter.

Shared hopes and visions
shape our future
form all who enter.

Separate ideals and values
value-added dreams
build our home.

The meandering rivulets forming the stream of my consciousness
belies the constraints of time
“Turn in your quiz!”
The smooth feel of the purple printed paper
scented with the toxins
and addictive taste of the ditto copy machine,
clicking each paper that steals my time.
The headiness of the scent linger, coating my sinuses as I breathe it into my lungs.
Carl T.Johnson is both a name and a place.
Did you know?
Breathe, I have as much time as there is time.
An analog timekeeper is not a referee, is he?
You’ve got this, just use your superpower.
Stand like you are using your superpower.
Stand up.
Stand.
The sharp blade of the pen duals
The silver embossed edging of the paper slices easily through the moonlight room
floating under the writer as she hovers in concentration
Bloody Ass closes her eyes
gathers wisps of knowledge and coherent thought
She has finished within the time frame.

New Year’s party
Taking shots
Liquor gliding smoothly
Through a tunnel of clear ice
In a gym
Where 70 year old Marta
Learned to do pull ups
And lift 150
A time when
Deep wounds
Left scars
And clouds of uncertainty
Of middle age
Nebulous relationships
Last forever
No matter
How hard
How hurtful
How different
Store clerks and dead fisheyes
Stabbing Pollyanna
Until she becomes
Less
Happy
And
Whole
More
Hope
And
Jade

Do we
Can we
Drop our past
Let it drop
Like a cloak
Silkenly
Silently
To the ground
Shed our skin
To be reborn
cracking out
Of our dry and dusty
Layers
Do we
Can we
Become new
By ridding ourselves
Of old.

Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Laurie McKay and my pronouns are she/her/hers. I am a retired school administrator, a wife, mother, grandmother, daughter, aunt, auntie, cousin, sister, and dog owner. I travel, have retirement projects, work on behalf of a couple of non-profits, garden, go on walks in the woods, swim when I get the chance, and mostly sit in my garden and dream.

Poetry allows me to play with my dreams and craft perceptions, illusions, thoughts, feelings and connections into tangible offerings.

This year, I will begin the poetry marathon while volunteering at the Cadillac Area YMCA festival of races in Cadillac, MI. Ironically, there is not a Marathon in the festival. Also, I am not a runner.

A few years ago, I made the conscience decision to withdraw from social media in its entirety. This decision is one I have never regretted, although it does mean that I won’t partake in the Facebook chats and frivolity with you wonderful group of talented and inspiring writers. Around 3 in the morning, please post a picture of a penis bug for me!

Enjoy the poetry marathon. I look forward to getting to know you and reading – what I am sure to be – incredibly talented works of art.

Is there anything better than a group of artists uniting in their art, nurturing and supporting each other and their lovely words of poetic beauty?

The 2021 Poetry Marathon brings new hope and creativity. This is my 6th (maybe?) Marathon. Last year’s Marathon saved me from Covid isolation and depression. I will be eternally grateful for the experience of examining my emotional and mental well-being through art the Marathon gave me.

Since then, I’ve cut ties with the sirens of social media. I don’t miss it at all, at least I haven’t until I think about missing the late night messages of poets from around the world. My claim to fame was posting a video of a Penis Bug. I’m sure some brave soul will fill the void of foolishness my absence may bring. Still, I will miss getting to know all of you in this uniquely sleep deprived way.

In real life, I am a daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, niece, mother, wife and grandmother- always and in that order. I have a daughter and two stepsons, all adults and married. I have two granddaughters, four step-grandsons and one grandchild on the way. Wanting more time with my 95 year old mother and my beautiful grandchildren led me away from a 34 year career as an educator, in which I worked as a substitute para educator, substitute teacher, para educator, teacher, behavioral consultant, and supervisor. The vast majority of my career was in Special Education.

At the end of the Poetry Marathon, I will be married 29 years – our wedding anniversary is June 27th. My love, my husband, retired last October. We’re learning how to adjust to having time and space together while we are remodeling our kitchen and getting work done on our old fixer-upper of a house. In between times, we work together – surprisingly harmoniously – in the micro farm garden that is our backyard. We make our home most days in Cadillac, Michigan, USA.

I am ready and excitedly waiting for the Marathon to begin. I have planned and prioritized the Marathon, but then again, what is life without obstacles and new wrinkles? These obstacles, collectively, are referred to as The June McKay Memorial Picnic, a casual family reunion dedicated to my late mother-in-law. “Fortunately,” I tell myself, “I have a notebook and the Word Press app on my phone. I can poet anywhere!”

Good luck Marathoners! I’ll read you at the finish line!

When she was just two 
almost three, 
Grace helped Grandpa John
In the garden,
as happy as can be.

Near the carrots,
Oh, they weren’t nearly as grown,
Grace found a gift
She could keep as her very own.

She unearthed a marble,
buried long ago, 
by some a child or squirrel 
long forgotten 
Its origins unknown.

Solid red was the marble
and as shiny as if it were new. 
She carried it carefully into the house 
And introduced it to all she knew.

Often she would carry it
from room to room to room.
And explain the house to the marble
as only a two and a half year old can do.

Her other favorite thing to do
Was to to pinch it between finger and thumb.
Inevitably it would pop out of her grasp
and roll to parts unknown. 

The game continued, all of us helped,
in searching for her gift
Until one time no one saw
which way the marble went

It’s in our house somewhere,
Of that I am sure.
I hope some day it’s found again 
with a child’s love so pure.

At this hour of the day,
when the morn’ is new and sunny,
thinking of my favorite cat,
is really rather funny.

There’s Vinnie, the Calico
and Chester lives next door. 
Oh, and there’s also Ollie;
Just one of many I adore. 

I know and love several cats
This much is true
the one I want to tell you about
is named ‘Cat Sank,’ also known as Yeux.

Cat Sank is a French feline.
she is smudge pot black; cute as can be, 
with a wide white stripe on her backside,
for all the world to see.

Cat Sank wears a beret
And is funny, bright and full of spunk, 
She really has only one small flaw:
She’s in love with a skunk. 

I want to hold her in my arms
but outside she must stay 
Because of her love of Pepe LePew
And his awful malodorous spray.

A glimpse of the other side
gives way to full view.
An interloper can observe
with circular arguments
and telescopic focus
the secret garden
on the other side.
(There is always another side.)
Nothing left to the imagination.
Perhaps they are rabbit holes.

Are they holes at all? 
Perhaps they are more
openings than holes. 
It’s late and 
I don’t want to get into 
knotholes that are not holes,
unless there are not knots
in them. 
(The opening was there and
I took it.)

Our minds look for what isn’t,
until we train ourselves to be grateful
for what we have.
Until then, we waste our time,
wanting what isn’t there, 
Realizing it is only a wall.
(This makes me think of 
The Beatles.)
(I love to turn you on.*)

*”A Day in the Life,” Lennon-McCarthy, 1967.