The Poetry Marathon

Fin

I’ll make this one count.

I just want to be finished.

who’s to judge me right?

Sweet Dreams of Ice Cream

You can’t possibly cry

when you eat ice cream

I’ll tell you why

Ice cream is a lullaby–

melts you into sweet dreams

that do more than satisfy.

West Coast Sunset (“it starts by dimming the light”)

Everyone has to see it

(even if after it starts)

time ticks slowly by

at first, then sky is dimming

and colors blur into the

horizon, long after the sun looses light.

everything rhymes with orange

red ocean waves

blue sun rays

purple sandboxes

and cyan berry pie

green valentines

rose pumpkins

black ice cream

and pink parsley

turquoise daisies

yellow rain puddles

lavender footballs

and white box theaters

Fact or Fiction

throughout one year you

all will eat eight spiders each

good luck with your sleep

Mus-e-ic (a sonnet)

Long blonde hair, bound by a band,

pleated pants and dressy polyester blends.

Holding sheet music in one hand,

and that drink she recommends.

Setting up as the crowd murmurs

sweating, shifting, settling in his seat.

Silence yields from the observers,

but he’s trembling for a beat.

Ivory and black blurs betwixt his palms,

until he sees a glimpse of her,

gallantly glimmering, she calms

him from afar, drinking her coffee liqueur,

she listens as he lulls, forgotten the fear

from prior to her being near.

Inside a Squirrel

Struck still on the sidewalk,

pedestrians pass by

oblivious, even to the

fluttering

butterfly that’s caught my eye.

Unfreezing my stature,

I flee left and prance right

running

toward the next branch in sight.

I come to a trunk,

I jump from my paws,

gripping,

the bark with the might of my claws.

Reaching the top,

my tail swishing and

swaying,

relieved I escaped

with minimal spraying

from the guard dog’s

slobbering.

How Mermaids Were Made

Mother Earth gave birth to a daughter.

She didn’t listen to what her Mother taught her.

She played with wind and fire,

denying, she became a liar.

So Mother sentenced her daughter to live under water.

Halfway Through

this has to make do

I’m already far behind

enjoy this haiku.

The Pink Playroom

Girls under eight years old, dressing up in

pearls borrowed from mom’s precious jewels.

Frills, sequins, purples, and pinks leading to high pitched

shrills when the eldest takes the pretty princess

lace. This I remember, an incredible

place, cluttered with castles, a kitchen, and countless

Halloween costumes. All stored here until our

tweens, when angst set fire and mom had to

rearrange to accommodate teenage

change, which turned the room we once

knew into my own bedroom. And although I

grew, I still hold onto the memory of the pink playroom.