The Poetry Marathon

When we stand together
our collective voice roars.
Enough.
We will grow into something
bigger to tackle those who
prey on the vulnerable.
How can the clock
be ticking back?

Children, to them, are sacred
until they leave the womb.
Put down the arms, and
hold the babes tight.
All that has ever been true
is motive to control.

Now is our time to be loud,
fierce, and brave.
Our future is ours.

Humour touches the essence of humanity.
As the world grows dreary, one simple joke,
action, or musing can bring the sun back
before those smiling. So bright that words sting

and the belly aches. Tears shed (happy
one’s, I promise). All can be united by
the simple action of experiencing the joy

that has been given, and releasing
these blessings back into the world
for others to grasp, and send through

their limbs. A calming, brightening ritual,
no matter the socially constructed divisions.

All can smile hard with one another.

My parents told me to find a better job.
I chose to nod then ignore. I’m happy,
can’t they see? There is purpose found
within the neat confines of my work.

“Make a difference in the world”
is typed below my senior year
photo. Kept it vague on purpose.

Nothing remains in place
but for the joy found
when looking at the world
and stating, “I strive to
make you better”.

Isolation keeps the soul hungry
and marching through
the snowy plans. All can be found

on this walk of solitude.
Earth begins to make
sense when taken in raw.

As the midnight sun rises
I am grateful for silence.

I am home.

I’ve grown numb to beauty
preaching it’s worth from the shallows.

Making a neat fist I shatter
my vanity mirror, watching
the shards fall into non-existence.

Perhaps I’ll start a revolt against
all the mirrors so eager

to define our worth from
one puny reflection given.

Society’s afraid of me telling girls that
I’ve grown numb to beauty.

Perhaps I’ll start a revolt against
my alter ego. Will happily lock
the box myself as I

rise to the sun where I belong,
beautiful in my imperfect skin.

I had two cats, Bliss and Marvin,
both are now deceased.

Bliss always went missing. Probably
escaping from Marvin, whom she
usually disliked.

One night Bliss was found,
reluctantly allowing a neighbour
to carry her home.

She quickly scurried inside,
finding her throne at the landing
of the carpeted staircase.

Marvin approached with caution,
knowing the wraith within Bliss.

He calmly inched forward to sniff
the world he was too timid to be
trusted in.

No resistance was given.

Perhaps the old girl was
too sleepy to stay fierce.

I like to think, deep down,
there was some love
for her little brother.

My grandmother didn’t have enough time
to float down the gentle riverbed.
Society threw stones her way for the crime
of having a unique mind.
I hear stories of when she was “well”,
and rich in joy for life.

My grandfather didn’t have enough time
to float down the gentle riverbed.
His faithful, loving heart turned against
him one bitter February.
I hear stories of when his heart was
alive and radiated to all.

My parents met later on, bonded over
their shared trauma of losing a parent
at such a tender age. Only commonality
between them. All that was needed.

The back garden has always been my safe haven.
Deep within the pages of a brilliant book I pause
between chapters, taking a sip of my cuppa, and
reflecting upon the simple pleasures within this

treasured space:

A gentle sunflower sprouts up, the first of the
season and eager to kiss the sun.

The grass would not appease the bylaw officers,
dancing with the gentle breeze.

No pavement in sight, as it should be, I reach
the worn out deck

where memories have stomped on its surface.
At the BBQ I requested

extra cheddar cheese on my burger, always
granted to keep my belly full.

The ashtrays are now absent, certainly best, I can
remember them full.

Lastly, I spot the mighty oak in the far left corner,
always a constant.

Eventually I get back to my book, but never
hesitate to allow my senses to wander around.

Glanced upon the death certificate
of a great-great-grandmother.
A time capsule on a tiny screen
she could have never imagined.

Cause of death: Bacterial Pneumonia
(after a bout of Spanish Flu).

Wish that classic saying
about history wasn’t true.
These cycles grow in intensity,
spinning out all that makes life
a worthwhile endeavour.
We are the creators of our own

destruction.

trees grew on the mountain,
perched in the centre of a
place forever in my heart:
my grandparent’s beautiful
property in the Canadian bush.

built with caring hands hard at
work to be immersed with the
Earth. a purposeful place with
wondrous memories of play.
I will never forget the day

I lost my way back to the cabin
while out on an odyssey of
escape from those boring
grown-ups, sitting in the
smoke-filled gazebo, beers
at hand. yawn. could never

understand their ways of
remaining in place, but for
a brief moment as I was out
too long and sought to know
where my feet had planted
on the seabed of trees all alike.

only for a single moment had I
wished for a single tree on that
property to guide my way back
to shelter. all would be clear,
packed up in a neat box, sealed.

the destruction to get there ignored,
only the beauty of the single tree
visible. reality is always different.
my solution: walk straight back.
for a while I questioned, eager
to believe doom was my fate.

as expected, I made it back.
no one worried, despite all the
trees. I suppose they kept
me company. maybe those
million trees are preferable
to standing in an open plain.