The Poetry Marathon

Grandma took the hand auger,
chose just the right bit,
cut a piece of green garden hose,
just the right length,
got a pail and went to work;
she drilled a hole in the maple tree
in the back yard, careful to only
pierce through bark to tree meat,
tapped that piece of water hose
in the hole she made,
hung the bucket on the hose
and waited…
I don’t remember how many days it took,
but sap came seeping out of that tree
and she gathered her catch,
took the bucket and made something
with the sticky glob she carefully collected.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2016

bitter is what I remember,
growing stoutly against the leaning barn,
broad green leaves with
familiar red stalks,
a row of healthy fruit
that Grandma would sweeten
and make pies for Sunday dinner.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

back home again,
at the trailer,
and it seems that I can see –
the gleaming street light,
still shining bright,
by the curb for me,
the fresh cut grass,
sends out it’s fragrance,
on the streets I used to roam,
when I think about the
street light on the corner,
then I long for my Aluminum Home.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/16/2016

on our place on Old 31 in Franklin,
we had a three compartment garage –
the left side is where Grandpa kept the
old red riding lawn mower that he kept
sharp to keep a beautiful lawn;
it was a Wheel Horse and it’s dank home
smelled of petrol and cold dirt;
He was good with all our equipment,
a smart man who was so quiet you would
never guess he harbored so much knowledge;
He bought the lawnmower very used, but
in his vast brain he just knew inherently how
to fix it. He was smart like that.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

Cold so bitter that a long draw
of air would pull the cilia inside your lungs;
grab a handful of these tiny hairs and pull
until the breath of air turned into a deep cough;
the snow,
so high, the clothes line was under our feet;
a state of emergency called and my Grandfather,
a policeman,
grabbed shovels and we all began digging him
out of a driveway with drifts way above our heads;

we dug tunnels in the mounds,
not even thinking that they could collapse;
out of school several days,
we played hours on freezing weather and
using socks as gloves.

I can still feel the sting inside my bones
when I think about that blizzard
of a lifetime;
I was eleven and loved every cold,
blustery day…

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

she was a tractor,
and Alice Chalmers,
a restored red/orange piece of history
that Grandpa poured sweat into,
bringing us an easier way to break the ground;

Ol’ Alice was a beloved family member,
parked near the lonely cherry tree my
Grandmother planted before Alice
became part of the family;
we loved her,
she turned the black soil
and made perfect furrows for
rows of sweet corn to be planted;
we patted her chassis,
as if she could waggle her tail and bark.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

nothin’ smells better than
Indiana dirt,
bein’ turned with a pitchfork,
tines sharp enough to pierce
clean through
anything that is in it’s path;

taters exposed for the first time
to the summer sun,
warmin’ the rich soil and
dryin’ out the tan skins
of new taters that will soon
make the supper table;

we stoop over to sift through
black dirt to confiscate the prize
fruits of back breaking labor;
a family affair.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

It takes just the right tree
to build the proper tree house;
we had just that tree –
the sprawled red apple tree
made just that house,
complete with a proper ladder
and sturdy old board floor,
built lovingly by my Grandparents,
and we played happily for hours,
eating unripened apples,
puckery and tangy –
working the glands in our jaws,
stomach ache snacks;
the ledge, our shelves,
lined with empty tin cans
we used as dishes as we
pretended the hours away
on a summer’s day.
Michellia D. Wilson
8/13/2016

We had an abundance of trees
to slice the horizon into a beautiful half circle;
blessed with two knobby apple trees
that guaranteed apple butter to spice up
our fall dinner table;
Nothing wasted as my pioneer Grandmother
picked up every apple,
one tree red,
one tree green,
she carved around the bug nips,
sliced perfect slices for whatever
apple treat she was preparing,
the house smelling sweet
like cinnamon and brown sugar.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016

you never saw such a wretched tree,
standing in the middle of a beautiful, full ivy patch;
the tree was dead,
but had eerie life nesting inside it’s hollow;
quiet during the day in it’s spooky stance,
inside hangs dozens of sleeping fruit bats.

Dusk changed the dynamic and sleepy bats
turned into a plethora of squeaking, hovering
winged creatures that scared my sisters and me,
my older sister told me that if a bat pooped
on my head, I would go bald,
she had me terrified as I ran around
in the darkness, dodging potential hair loss.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016